Henry was still pinned down by my brother at Meaux, while I kept to my chambers for I had yet to be churched before emerging into the world again. Baby Henry thrived. Alice cared for me, and Mistress Waring waxed tiresomely eloquent in her comparisons between father and son, how Henry had learned to sing and dance as a child with such grace. I regretted that I had never seen Henry sing or dance. But there was time. Young Henry’s birth had blessed me with a new sense of optimism.
I planned my churching with care and an anticipation of my release, and I wrote to Henry.
I did not quite beg, but I thought it plain enough. So was the reply.
I read no more, for there was not much to read before the signature.
‘What is he doing?’ I asked, unable to hide my chagrin.
‘Besieging that thrice-damned fortress of Meaux, so the courier says,’ Alice informed me. ‘A nest of Dauphinist vipers if ever there was one. It’s proving to be a thorn in English flesh. As well as losing Avranches and regaining it. It’s all a bit busy.’
And my family was causing Henry much annoyance. I could imagine the line digging deep between his brows, even at this distance. So I was churched without much of festivity, and gave candles for the Virgin’s own altar. The prayers were duly said and I expect the alms were given to the poor. Henry was always efficient.
After my release from confinement I remained at Windsor and I wrote.
And did I receive a reply? I did not. Whilst I told Henry of the daily minutiae of his son’s life, Henry sent me not one word. I understood his needs, the ambition that drove him on, the pressure of war on his every waking moment. Of course I understood. I would not expect him to expend too much energy in considering my state when he knew that I was safe, and that both I and the child were healthy. I was not selfish.
But it had been almost a year since we had been in each other’s company. Our relationship was so fragile, based on so little time together, how could it survive such absence? Neither was there any indication of when we would be reunited. I accepted that Henry did not love me, but he did not know me. Neither did I know him.
Were we destined to exist like two separate streams, running in tandem but never to meet? Sometimes I wept that we were such strangers to each other.
Desolation throbbed in my blood. Frustration kept me restless. My foolish attempts to send my thoughts to Henry, as if I might find some echo of him, make some ephemeral consummation of the mind with him, failed utterly. But of course, I admonished myself, both parties would need to be open to the conversation. Henry would not be thinking about me.
How long could I wait?
CHAPTER FIVE
He was back. Henry was in London. I knew of his approach to the city even before the cloud of dust from his retinue came in sight of the guards at the gates, since couriers had been arriving for the whole of the previous week, issuing a summons in the King’s name for a Parliament to meet to ratify the Treaty of Troyes. I knew of his arrival at Westminster, where I had already taken up residence, knew of the unpacking and dispersal of his entourage, Henry’s own progress to his private rooms. What I could not hear and deduce from my windows, I ordered Thomas, my page, to discover for me. The King was once more in residence in his capital.
I had a need to speak with him.
‘How did he look?’ I asked, hoping my urgency would extract some specific detail.
‘He was clad in armour and a surcoat with leopards on it,’ Thomas reported with single-minded attention to the accoutrements of his hero, ‘and he wore a jewelled coronet on his helm and a sword at his side.’
‘Is he in good health?’ I asked patiently.
He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, my lady. His horse is very fine too.’
