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 SIX
I wrote to Henry, taking the matter into my own hand with a direction that shook me.
Spring had arrived. Travellers began to people the roads, groups of merchants and pilgrims about their business, travelling together for safety. The market in Windsor was thronged with townsfolk glad to emerge after the winter. I watched them from the walls, listening to the cries and music that spoke so eloquently of life going on outside the castle, and with them had come that urgency, to lodge in my mind like a burr under a saddle.
My letter received a reply, and smartly, delivered by Lord John. Yes! Henry would give me leave to join him at last. I tore open the single sheet, scattering the wax in my joyful haste.
