Easter seemed long in coming. I was excited when on Palm Sunday I left Westminster Palace for Windsor.
I loved Windsor on sight and have done so ever since. I was thrilled as we came through the park and forest and up the long walk on either side of which grew stately elms. I was thinking of Henry and wondering how long we should stay in this beautiful spot.
I hoped the people of the north had settled down and that his subjects were prepared to give him what he wanted. Then I thought that, if they did, soon his army would be off to make fresh conquests. What conquests? Had he not subdued France? Bedford would act as his deputy there. I wondered if I could persuade him that it was his duty to remain in England. The idea was ludicrous. It would amuse him, though. I could imagine his laughing at me.
There was so much to occupy me at Windsor. I loved to roam through those stately rooms; I loved to walk outside, to stroll around the castle, to touch those gray stone walls. When I heard that Edward III had started to rebuild certain parts of the castle and Richard had finished it, that seemed to bring Isabelle close to me. I was sure she had stood where I was standing, for Richard would have brought her here; he would have shown her the mews which he had built for his falcons.
Each day I looked for Henry. Good Friday came…a day spent in prayer and meditation; then Easter Day and he still did not come.
“The King must be here soon,” I said to Margaret, Duchess of Clarence.
“Yes, in time,” she answered. “It is always so with kings. One can never be sure. Something may have happened…something which needs his attention.”
“Something more pressing than his desire to be with me,” I said a trifle bitterly.
“You married a soldier, my lady,” she replied.
It was during the period while I was waiting for Henry to come to Windsor that I met Margaret’s daughter, Jane. I had noticed this lovely young girl about the Court and had wondered who she was; and I was particularly pleased when Margaret presented her to me.
I congratulated her on having such a beautiful daughter. She saw that I was puzzled because I knew she had not been married long enough to Clarence to have a daughter of such an age.
She explained to me: “Her father was John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset. He was my first husband.”
She talked to me then about her sons Henry, John and Edmund; but it was Jane on whom she doted. I supposed that a mother in her position saw little of her sons, who were always taken away from their own home to be brought up in the household of some nobleman where they would learn the chivalric arts. I had always thought that was sad and that my brothers, sisters and I could have had a far happier childhood if we had not been born royal; but the same applied to all noble houses.
I discovered that Margaret’s first husband had been the eldest son of John of Gaunt by Katherine Swyford; so there was royal blood in the veins of her children.
I wondered a great deal about Margaret. Was she happy with the Duke of Clarence? He had seemed to me a charming man when I had met him—but very briefly, of course.
It was pleasant to get to know Margaret. It helped to pass the time while I was waiting for Henry to come as he had promised.
Easter had passed when a message came from him.
He could not come to Windsor, but I was to leave at once and go to Leicester, where he would join me.
Overjoyed, I prepared to leave.
It was wonderful to be with him again. I forgot all my resentment that he had not kept his promise to come to Windsor.
I was happy, but when he explained to me that I was to take part in his journey through the country, I understood why I had been summoned.
“You see, Kate,” he said frankly, “you are important in this. I am asking them for money. I need money. I have to keep an army in France. I have to prepare to take the crown when the time comes.”
He paused and looked at me uncertainly, realizing I knew that he was talking to me about the death of my father, which must take place before the crown was his.
“Forgive me, Kate. I have the manners of a rough soldier. I should know better.”
There was something endearing about him in such a mood. It was characteristic that he could see faults in himself and did not hesitate to admit them. If he were wrong, he never pretended to be right. He was like that with his men. It was one of the reasons why he had their complete loyalty.
He put his hand over mine and I clung to his.
“You understand me, Kate. I know your fondness for your father. Poor man. His is a sad fate. He will never be wholly sane, I fear; and I do not think he values his life greatly.”
“That is true,” I said. “In his frenzies he called for those about him to kill him.”
“On his passing I shall be crowned King of France and that has to come, Kate. Well, I want the people to realize the achievement of our armies. I want them to understand that we have become mighty and will be mightier still. I want them to see you beside me.”
“As part of the spoils you have brought home from France,” I murmured.
He laughed and swung me up in his arms. “There is no booty which has delighted me more.”
So there I was beside him, through those triumphant rides, listening to him as he talked to the people, eloquently rousing them to patriotism…making them see that it was imperative that they pay for the glory which was theirs.
It was wonderful to see the effect he had on them.
We visited every church on the route where he thanked God for His help in the past and reminded Him that it must not be withheld in the future.
Henry was deeply religious. He was indefatigable in his condemnation of the religious sect who called themselves the Lollards.
“Lollards?” I said. “What a strange name.”
“It comes from the German Lollen, I once heard,” he told me, “which means, ‘to sing.’ I suppose they earned their name because they are always singing hymns. John Wycliffe started it off. Writing…preaching heresies. There could have been a serious rising against us. Fortunately we discovered this in time.” He was silent, his brow furrowed. “A man I knew well at one time,” he went on after a pause, “it was in the days of my youth. John Oldcastle…he was the head of it. He was the last man I would have believed would have turned to religion. He changed. Men change. A crown changed me and these heresies changed him. And what we were, we are not today. But…it is in the past. But I am moved when I think of John Oldcastle. He was hung up and burned alive.”
I caught my breath in horror.
Henry nodded slowly and sat very quietly, staring into nothing.
Then he roused himself and said: “A man one has once been merry with…we drank together, laughed together…sported together…but we could not see into the future then. No…I cannot believe this of old John Oldcastle.” He stood up abruptly. “Life goes on,” he said. “I’ll pray for the old fellow tomorrow. Pray with me, Kate.”
I would indeed, I said: and I fancied all that evening he went on thinking of his onetime friend who had turned traitor through religion.
I could not forget the man. He had once been Henry’s friend and yet he had come to a terrible end. Henry had been fond of him once. How could he have allowed that to happen?
He might have been a traitor, yes, but surely he could have had a less horrific death? Henry could have stopped it—and he had not done so. He was ruthless. I had known that. He pursued his ends with unswerving determination. How else could he have achieved so much?
Into my love for him there crept that night a little fear. Our courtship had been brief. I had been enchanted by the genial conqueror. But how much did I know of Henry? He was a man who could allow an old close friend to die in such a terrible manner.
I knew that we must soon be parted. I had learned that would be the pattern of our lives. I must therefore give myself up to the pleasure of his company while it was there for me to enjoy, for how could I know, from day to day, from hour to hour, when it would be snatched away from me?