I sent it by courier and set myself to stitching for the child that moved restlessly under my hand. Perhaps Henry would even find time to reply. And when he did, I opened the letter enthusiastically, scattering wax on my skirts as the royal seal broke.
The writing was uneven, the uprights less forceful than I thought I remembered, not that I had seen Henry write often. Well, I considered. He would not be free to sit and write at leisure. And, no, for he continued:
The tail on the
I rubbed my thumb over the smudged letters of his name. Not much here. I frowned at it. Then at Alice, who had delivered it from the courier who had remained shut out beyond my closed doors.
‘Was the King in good health? Did the courier say?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Good. Do we know anything about the King of Scotland?’
For James, restless at the endless curtailment of his freedom, had begged to be allowed to accompany Henry to France. Henry had finally agreed, and given consent to James’s release from captivity. Within three months of Henry’s return to England, and presuming that the Scottish forces had fought well in England’s name, James would be restored to Scotland, if hostages were given for his loyalty.
And providing that James agreed to wed my damsel Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset and niece to Bishop Henry, it was a neat way of keeping an independent James loyal to English interests. Not that that bothered him particularly. James thought Joan Beaufort to be a remarkably pretty girl.
‘Yes, my lady. Lord James sent a poem for the Lady Joan.’ With a sly smile Alice removed from her sleeve a folded and sealed square of parchment. ‘I have it here.’
‘How very thoughtful of him.’
I beckoned Joan, who had been watching, anticipating my every move. A solemn girl in a yellow gown, she was marked by the distinctive Beaufort features of heavily hooded eyes and softly russet hair. One day she would make a lovely bride.
And I smiled, my heart a little sore, as she fell on the dog-eared parchment as if it would save her life, instantly engrossed as she read and re-read with flushed cheeks. I wished that Henry had sent me something rather than a mere half-dozen lines, written about dysentery and flooding.
James’s poetry was not good, he would never threaten the reputations of the troubadours, but if nothing else it proclaimed the direction of his heart.
Should I read aloud from Henry’s note to me? I thought sourly. But I was instantly regretful of the jealousy that nipped at my thoughts. They were both young, and no doubt the love that bound them together was a fine thing.
Whatever the state of the chilly rift between us, Henry would be far too busy to mend it, and neither had I made any effort with intimate thoughts in my writings to him. How could I? The campaign took precedence over everything: I must understand that and not be a burden on him. Yet I felt moved to leave the room as Joan launched into the third verse. I could not bear to listen to the passion of a lord yearning for his lady, however badly written the sentiments.
The baby kicked and blinked myopically in his cradle—Henry’s cradle—at my knee on which Henry’s letter lay open.
The heir, a boy, born on the sixth day of December at four hours after noon, sneezed.
Henry snuffled and waved his tiny hands.
