Henry stuffed the corner of the embroidered coverlet into his mouth.
I had not needed to write to inform Henry of this blessed event. The news had been official, carried fast by one of the heralds in full panoply of tabard and staff of office, and here was the reply, even before we were to celebrate the Birth of the Holy Child.
‘Where is he?’ I asked, noting that Henry’s writing had returned to its usual force.
‘Still at Meaux, my lady,’ Alice reported. ‘They are dug in for a siege. A lengthy business.’
So there was no suggestion that Henry would return soon, but I had not expected it. The festivities were almost upon us.
‘Was the King in good heart? Did the courier say?’ I asked automatically. If he was engaged in a siege, he must be.
‘Yes, my lady. The siege goes well. But…’
My eyes snapped to Alice’s face at the hesitation. ‘But?’
‘Nothing, my lady.’
‘What would you have said?’
‘I think—from what was said—that the King had been unwell, my lady.’
‘Unwell?’ A little jolt to my heart. I could not imagine Henry unwell. His strength had always been prodigious.
‘The courier may have been mistaken, my lady.’ Alice nodded reassuringly. ‘I think they all lack a good night’s sleep and the food leaves much to be desired. His Majesty was well in command.’
I leaned on her reassurance. So no cause for concern, just the usual strains of a long campaign when the body was worn down by the need for constant vigilance. Henry was stronger than any man I knew. I hoped he would come home. I wanted him to smile on the infant Henry and on me.
I lifted the baby from his cradle, holding him so that I could look into his face.
‘You are Henry,’ I informed him. ‘Your father wishes it to be so. His heart is filled with gladness at the news of your birth.’ He seemed to be too small to be Henry. ‘I think I will have to call you Young Henry,’ I informed him.
The baby squirmed and fussed in his wrappings, so I placed him on my lap. I could see nothing of Henry’s face or of Valois in his features, which were still soft and blurred, his eyes the palest of blues and his hair a fair fluff of down. His head was heavy and warm where it rested on my arm, and there was the faintest frown on his brow as if he could not quite see who held him. He began to whimper.
‘I’ll take him, my lady.’ Mistress Waring hovered anxiously, conscious of my lack of experience, but I shook my head and drew the child close to my breast. ‘It is not fitting that you nurse him.’
‘No. Not yet.’
The whimper became a snuffle and the baby fell asleep. Two weeks old—he was so small—and I felt my heart shiver with protectiveness.
‘You are mine,’ I whispered as Mistress Waring moved away. ‘Today you are mine.’
And I knew that my ownership would be a thing of a temporary nature. Soon, even within the coming year, he would have a household of his own with nurses and servants to answer his every need, perhaps even far from me in his own royal castle if that was what Henry wished. It was not unknown.
He would be educated and trained to be the heir, his father’s son, in reading and writing and military pursuits. Henry would buy him a little suit of armour and a small sword and he would learn to ride a horse.
I smiled at the prospect, but my smile was quick to fade. I would lose him fast enough, but for now he was mine, dependent on me, my son quite as much as he was Henry’s, and love for this small being suffused my whole body. I thought he would never be as precious as he was to me at that moment before life stepped between us. Born at Windsor he may have been, but I could see nothing but a glorious future for him.
‘You will never be hungry or afraid or neglected,’ I informed my son.
I kissed his forehead where his fair brows met, and remembered that Henry had not asked after my health at all.
We held the Mass as instructed in the magnificence of St George’s Chapel. The Court celebrated the birth of the Christ Child and the start of the New Year and then the riotous junketings of Twelfth Night without either the King or Queen in attendance.
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.
