It was about this time that I made a wonderful discovery. I believed that I was with child, and that drove all other speculations, doubts and fears from my mind.
I had meant to wait until I was certain before I told Henry, but I could not keep the news to myself.
I had never seen him so delighted. I laughed and exulted to see his joy.
“I believe,” I said, “that something can be more important to you than a victorious battle.”
“Battles are won…or lost, but this is our child. Yours and mine, Kate…and England’s. Our little king. We shall call him Henry. Yes, he must be Henry after his father and grandfather. King Henry VI of England.”
“Henry, please do not be so sure that it will be a boy.”
“But of course it will be a boy. You do not think my firstborn could be anything else!”
“He’s mine too.”
He laughed out loud. “You were meant to be a mother of sons. And suppose…just suppose that this one is not a boy. The next will be…and the next…and the next …”
“Please, let there be one at a time. I am not even absolutely sure. I did not mean to tell you until I was …”
He lifted me up and danced around the apartment with me. Then suddenly he stopped, remembering the precious burden I carried within me. He put me down rather gingerly. “We must take care of our son, Kate,” he said gravely, “the utmost care.”
I often saw him watching me with a tender smile on his face. He was even more pleased with our marriage. I knew he was thinking what a big part it had played in his plans for France, and now it was successful in that all-important way. We had been married quite a short time and had not been together a great deal, but there were already signs of fruitfulness.
He was a very happy man.
We were in Yorkshire and Henry planned to go farther north. The going had been rough and I had seen him on one or two occasions cast anxious looks in my direction.
When we retired for the night, he was very serious. “You are tired, Kate,” he said.
“Not more than usual after a long day’s journey.”
“We must think of the child. I have to go on to the north, but you shall not come with me. We will find a suitable spot and there you will stay and rest for a while.”
“But, Henry, I want to be with you.”
“God bless you, Kate, and do you think I do not wish that too? But you are going to await my return. The way may be rough and I’ll not have you taking risks with the child. You will stay comfortable while I continue the journey. It will only be for a week or so. Then I shall return and find you refreshed and ready for the journey south.”
I felt a little melancholy. It was only for a week or so, he said, but I knew Henry. Something could happen which needed his presence…and it could be a long time before I saw him again.
I tried to protest, but he was adamant. In fact, he was so accustomed to having his orders obeyed without question that it did not occur to him to take my objections seriously. I knew it was no use protesting; and I was not yet entirely certain that I was going to have a child.
The next morning we set out.
“We are not far from my castle of Pontefract,” said Henry. “You shall stay there and wait for me.”
Pontefract! It was a castle I had heard spoken of with dread by my sister Isabelle.
When I saw it, I thought it was as I had imagined it when I had heard of Richard’s last days there.
As we rode toward it, I thought it was like a prison; but perhaps that was because I was thinking of Richard’s meeting his miserable and mysterious death within its walls.
It looked formidable—a fortress built on a rock. The walls were high and flanked by seven towers. There was a moat with a drawbridge which was lowered as we approached.
The castellan was waiting to pay homage to the King.
Food was prepared for us, and while we feasted in the great hall Henry explained to the castellan and his wife that I should be staying there for a short while and the utmost care must be taken of me. I was in a delicate state and in need of rest. It was for this reason that I was not continuing with the King on his journey.
The place filled me with revulsion. I kept seeing Isabelle’s sad face when she had told me of the last days of her husband. And here I was…within those very walls. I wanted to get away.
I knew it was no use talking to Henry. His mind was made up, and in his thoughts he was already on his way, calling people to his side, assuring them how necessary it was, for the honor of England, to meet the heavy taxes that were essential to the success of his operations.
When I lay in my room, I fancied I could hear the cries of those who had suffered in this grim place. It was more than twenty years ago that Richard had died…and Isabelle herself was dead now.
I must not be fanciful. I must, as Henry said, try to rest here. There was the child to think of.
I was glad to have Guillemote with me, and Margaret and her daughter Jane were among my attendants. I found their presence particularly comforting; but I could not shake off this heavy pall of melancholy which seemed to be a part of this dismal castle.
I longed to be away. I was sure it would be far better for me to be riding through the countryside, perhaps a little exhausted at the end of the day, than here where sad memories were coming to me.
Yet the place had a fascination for me. Isabelle seemed to be with me; and when, on my first day, I learned that her second husband, the Duke of Orléans, was actually in Pontefract, she seemed nearer to me than ever. I knew that Orléans had been captured at Agincourt, but Henry had not mentioned, when he had told me I was to go to Pontefract, that Orléans was a prisoner there. Perhaps he had forgotten.
However, it was a shock for me to discover that we were under the same roof, and I felt that fate was playing some sinister trick, to bring Isabelle’s second husband to the very place where the first had died.
I used to wake in the night and put out a hand to touch Henry. Then I would remember that he had gone and where I was…in Pontefract Castle…and a certain terror would creep over me. I remember sitting up in bed and looking around the strange apartment for a few seconds before remembering. Then it came to me that somewhere not far away Richard had been incarcerated…a prisoner…and waking as I had, listening for a step close by, wondering if an assassin was lurking in a dark corner…And what had happened? Had his end been like that?
There were ghosts in this place. I knew it. I could sense that terrible things had happened here.
I could hear Isabelle’s voice: “I do not know what happened at Pontefract. Some say he was murdered…slashed to death by Bolingbroke’s men; some say they starved him to death; others that he starved himself. How can I know, Katherine? Perhaps one day I will.”
And somewhere here in this castle was Orléans, the husband who had made Isabelle happy as she had thought she would never be after the tragedy of her first marriage.
It was small wonder that I could not rest happily in Pontefract. I should have told Henry that I would be unhappy here. Would he have understood? No. He was too practical perhaps. And in any case he would be thinking ahead to his next project: money to get to France. Rebels to subdue. There would always be rebels in a conquered country. I kept thinking of his old friend John Oldcastle…hanging over the fire. And he had been an old friend. Henry could have stopped it. But the man was a heretic; he had planned rebellion. Did Henry never think of those old days? This John Oldcastle must have been one of those who had accompanied him on his tavern adventures. I wondered what those adventures had involved. I believed that on one occasion Henry had become caught up with the law.