He shook his head. ‘No danger. No.’ It was as if he shook his reactions back into life, to re-engage his senses. Bread and meat forgotten, he clenched his hand round the cup at his elbow and gulped the last of his ale.
‘Is it bad news, then?’ For however much he might struggle to maintain it, something had unexpectedly shattered his impassivity.
Stiff-limbed, Henry stood. ‘We are expected to attend the mummers and official welcome this morning.’ As if I did not already know. ‘Be ready at eleven of the clock.’
He walked from the room with no further comment or explanation, my astonished gaze following him. And the day passed as so many before, with Henry the ultimate monarch, charmingly attentive to his loyal subjects, delighting them with his attention to their preparations but completely devoid of emotion. Noah’s ark might have sunk without trace and the animals met a watery death for all the enjoyment he had in it.
‘Henry.’ I tried as we sat side by side to sample the meats and puddings at the formal banquet. ‘Has something happened to disturb you?’
I could not imagine what it might be. The obvious answer was a reversal in English interests in France, but that would have prompted a council of war, not a withdrawal into oyster-like silence. Was it rebellion in England? If so, we would not be sitting here calmly eating the beef and toasting the health of our hosts, who still wore the costumes of their lively play. So not rebellion.
‘Not a thing,’ Henry replied,
I gave up.
Henry did not honour me with his attentions that night. I had hoped he might. Could I not persuade him to tell me what was in his heart? But he did not come.
Next morning, when we were to attend Mass, as I made my way to the private chapel we had used on previous mornings, I was informed by one of Henry’s squires that Mass would be celebrated in the body of the church with a full congregation from the town.
Escorted there, I found Henry already kneeling. Conscious of my tardiness, I knelt at his side without comment. He acknowledged me with an inclination of his head, no more than a glance, but there was time for nothing more as the polyphony began and the bishop took his place before the altar. A quiet stillness settled in me as the familiar words and gestures of the priest wrapped round me and my mind was overwhelmed by the intense colours from the great east window. The blue of lapis and cobalt, the blood red of rubies and garnets. Everything was as it should be. Of course nothing was amiss. Would Henry not have said?
There—there were the prayers for Henry and England, for me his Queen and—
My breath caught on an inhalation as the bishop’s less than sonorous tones rolled out.
‘We pray for the departed soul of Thomas, the Duke of Clarence.’
Thomas, Duke of Clarence. Henry’s brother. Dead! When had this happened? Hands gripped tight, I glanced across at Henry, but his gaze was fixed on the altar.
‘… cruelly done to death in France. We thank God for his courageous life and pray for his departed soul.’
Henry’s brother was dead. So that was the news that had arrived. He had known since the previous morning and had said nothing to me. I might have no experience of family relations with my brothers except for suspicion and hostility, but Henry had a keen closeness with his brothers. How could he show so little grief? If Michelle were dead, would I not grieve? I would not be silent. I would weep, howling out my hurt for all to hear. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, my emotions all awry: my sorrow was for Henry, but why had he not told me the truth?
The Mass proceeded to its end, and as we walked side by side from the vast arch of the church into the sunlit warmth of the churchyard, I stopped, caught hold of the fullness of Henry’s tunic and faced him.
‘You have known of this since yesterday,’ I stated. ‘Since the letter arrived.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it a battle?’
‘Yes. At Bauge.’ He was silent for a long moment, looking back towards the precise carving of leaves and flowers, interspersed with grinning stone faces, that rioted around the doorway, but I did not think he saw them. His mind was in France, on a battlefield where English pride had been trampled in the dust and a royal brother done to death, and behind his implacable mask I saw his sorrow. Would I actually have to ask if it was an English defeat?
‘Was it…?’
‘It was a rout,’ he remarked impassively, gaze snapping back to my face. ‘Your inestimable brother the Dauphin all but destroyed my army and killed my brother. Thomas rode against superior forces and was cut down in the thick of it. He was one of the first to die. Bad tactics, I warrant you—he always had more courage than sense and to wear a jewelled coronet on his helmet was downright foolhardy. But still. My army was beaten and my brother slain.’
