This was happiness, thought Katherine. Everything that had gone before was worth while to have come to this.
She had drawn up her horse and Owen had brought his to wait beside her.
She turned to him and smiled. He understood. It was often thus and there were occasions when they did not feel the need of words.
They would ride back to the house where the smells of roasting meat would tempt their appetites and they would go to the nursery and play awhile with the children and listen to the accounts of nursery drama and comedy. How young Edmund had astonished his tutor with his grasp of reading; how Jasper had written his own name; how young Owen had thrown his fish and eggs onto the floor; how baby Jacina had walked three steps unaided.
All these matters seemed of such moment. Katherine loved the significance of little things. The household affairs seemed to her to be far more important than all those struggles she remembered from her childhood: feuds between noble houses and the ascendancies of the Burgundians over the Armagnacs, her father’s incapabilities and her mother’s lovers.
‘I shall never, never forget,’ she told Owen. ‘And I shall never cease to compare Now with Then.’
He understood as he always did.
‘My love,’ he said, ‘I shall do all in my power to make that so until the end of our days.’
‘Let us go together, Owen,’ she said in sudden fear. ‘That’s what I ask of the saints. Let us stay like this until the time comes and then go together.’
That was what she said that day in the bluebell wood.
She had something important to tell him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Again. Another little one. Not for some time. I only knew for certain yesterday.’
‘The child will be as welcome as the others were,’ he said.
‘I sometimes think our children are the luckiest in the world,’ she answered.
A cloud crossed his face then. ‘Katherine … love,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tempt the fates.’
She laughed aloud. Oh she was happy then. So sure of happiness.
When they returned to the Manor a messenger had arrived.
The King was on his way.
They embraced warmly. This was an informal visit, as far as anything Henry did could be informal at this time. He was now fifteen years old; he was leaving boyhood behind him; and the days when he had lived in that sheltered nursery presided over by Joan, Alice and his mother seemed very far away, although he still remembered them with a loving nostalgia.
Katherine was delighted to see him – although he had grown away from her and now seemed remote compared with the importance in her life of the little Tudors.
‘I would come to see you more often,’ Henry told her, ‘but they are always wanting me to be in different places and I am often in Westminster because I have to attend the Parliament and the meetings of the Council.’
‘You must be becoming very learned in matters of State.’
Henry lifted his shoulders. ‘I am still scolded when my attention strays … as it does often. They talk so much, dear lady. Sometimes they all but send me to sleep.’
Katherine laughed and with every minute in her company Henry seemed to become a boy again.
His stay could be only for one day, he told her. He would leave on the next.
‘You are welcome, my son,’ said Katherine. ‘But you must forgive us if we do not accommodate you as you are accustomed. We are not used to entertaining royalty here at Hadham.’
‘I come as your son, dear Mother, not as the King.’
‘Oh, then,’ said Katherine gaily, ‘mayhap we can manage.’
In the kitchens they were preparing a special banquet. ‘I doubt not,’ said the cook, ‘we shall have the King here often now that he is growing up and can please himself more.’
It was a good sign, was the general opinion. The King visited them and that surely meant that he accepted his mother’s union. The members of the household were understandably a little disturbed because of all the secrecy that had to be practised and although as time passed that had been considerably relaxed, the marriage of the Queen and Owen Tudor had not been officially acknowledged.
Henry, however, until this time had not been aware of the nature of his mother’s relationship with Owen. His visits were so rare and so brief and when he came he was invariably in the company of some powerful and notable men.
This time he was with a very small band of friends and Katherine soon learned the reason for this. Henry himself told her.
‘Warwick is going to France. He has been appointed Regent following the death of my Uncle Bedford.’
‘Ah, that was a tragic matter. I liked your Uncle Bedford …’
She was going to say better than his brother Gloucester, but Owen had warned her to be careful what she said in the presence of the King. It was not that Henry would mean to harm her; he was a devoted son; but he was only a boy and if she said something indiscreet, it might slip from him. ‘You cannot be too careful,’ Owen had added.
‘He was a great man,’ said Henry. ‘But he never was the same since they burned Joan of Arc.’
‘That is long ago.’
‘No … no … dear Mother. It is only five years … but it is something not easy to forget.’ He wrinkled his brow suddenly. ‘I saw her … briefly. They showed her to me in her cell. She did not see me for I looked through an aperture. Just for a short time … yet I remember.’
‘It was a very strange affair,’ said the Queen. ‘You were telling me that the Earl of Warwick is going to France. You will miss him.’
Henry nodded. ‘He was very stern. So different from you and Alice and Joan, but I grew fond of him. He is a very great man I believe and he had to try to make me worthy of my crown,’
Katherine drew him to her and kissed him suddenly. He seemed in that moment her little boy.
She laughed – that rather childish laughter which had echoed through his childhood and which he did not realise until now that he had missed so much.
Katherine drew herself away from him though still holding him by the shoulders. ‘I am forgetting,’ she said. ‘This is our King … not my own little son any more.’
His royalty dropped from him; he put his arms about her. ‘Dear Mother,’ he said, ‘I like it well when I am just your little son.’
She was wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘You must forgive me, my dear little lord,’ she said, ‘it is my nature. Owen says I am too easily moved to tears and to laughter …’
‘Owen?’ he said. ‘Ah, Owen. He is here still?’
‘You liked him, didn’t you. I am glad, Henry. I am so glad because …’
‘Yes, dear Mother?’
‘Later,’ she said. ‘Later.’
But she could not keep it to herself. She was so happy. Why should they not – here in this safe refuge – all be together like one happy family?
‘Henry,’ she said, ‘did you ever wonder why I was so contented living here alone?’
He shook his head. He did not say that he had been so busily occupied in learning to be a King that he had had no time to wonder about her.
‘I have been so happy, Henry. I am so happy. And why do you think? Why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘You always liked Owen Tudor, did you not?’
‘Owen. Oh yes indeed. I loved Owen.’
‘That delights me. So did I, Henry. So do I.’
He looked at her in disbelief, and she went on: ‘Owen is my husband. It is because of that I have been so content all these years.’
Henry broke into a wide smile.
‘Oh … my dear lady mother … what an intriguant you are.’
She caught his arm. ‘Henry, you are not displeased?’