“You left it until it was too late to venture out?”
I nodded. Then I was contrite. I put my arms about him and wept. “I am sorry, Henry. I am sorry. It was my fault. I should have gone before…I wanted to…I really did. But it was some compulsion.”
He stroked my hair and kissed me tenderly on the brow.
“Fret not, Kate,” he said. “You cannot go against what is to be.”
“I should have, Henry. I could have …”
“Let us forget it.”
“But you were so determined. It has spoiled your joy in our son.”
“It does not do to be fanciful. All will be well with our son…and with me.”
“You will make it so,” I said. “You are brave and strong; and nothing can ever succeed against you.”
“Except God’s will,” he reminded me. And then he added: “We can do no good by speaking of it. So forget it. It has to be. And we have been apart so long. I have thought of you constantly, and now you are here …”
I felt an immense relief sweep over me. I was forgiven. Indeed it seemed as though there was no question or need of forgiveness. If he believed the prophecy and that fate had decided it should come to pass, there was nothing anyone could have done to change it. On the other hand…if it were fanciful nonsense, why bother with it?
So…we would forget it. No harm could come to any of us while we had Henry to guard us.
I gave myself up to the pleasure of being with him again after our long separation.
It was Whitsun Eve when, beside Henry, I rode into Paris. How moving it was to ride through my native city. My mind slipped back, as it must do once again, to those days of poverty in the Hôtel de St.-Paul, and I marveled afresh at the strangeness of fate which had brought me back to ride side by side with the conqueror.
I did wonder what the people thought as they watched me—their own princess—now the wife of the victor.
They lined the streets all the way to the Louvre, shouting their loyal greetings.
My parents were not riding with us. That would have been too humiliating for my father, so he and my mother had gone by a different route to the Hôtel de St.-Paul.
I was richly clad with a crown on my head, to remind these people that I was their future Queen as well as the Queen of England.
It seemed disloyal when their real queen was with my father on the way to the dreary Hôtel de St.-Paul.
We rested that night at the Louvre.
Henry was very understanding and had noticed how quiet I had become.
When we were alone in our apartment, he took my chin in his hand and looked earnestly into my face. “This is a strange day for you, Kate,” he said.
“It is certain to make me feel a little bewildered to be back here in the city of my childhood.”
“All that is behind you,” he insisted. “We are here and this is how it should be. Think of this, Kate. I can do more for France than your father could.”
“If he had never lost his senses …”
“Enough of these ifs. Life is made up of them. Come. We are together. The people of Paris are glad to see peace. You are their Queen…you who were their Princess. They will accept me, Kate, because I am your husband.”
“Let there be peace and I shall be happy,” I said fervently. “Then we can go home to …”
“To our child,” he finished. “How is England for you, Kate, then?”
“Home is where my son is…where you are.”
“Then it is in two places at this time.”
“I would it were in one.”
“It will be so ere long, Kate. I promise you.”
The next day was Whit Sunday, and a great feast was held in the Palace of the Louvre.
“It is an important occasion,” said Henry. “The people will want to see us.”
“They were always allowed into the palace on Whit Sundays…to watch the King at table.”
“Then they shall do so on this day.”
I was carefully dressed and a crown was placed on my head. Henry looked equally splendid. We sat on the dais and about us were all the highest nobles of France and England.
The banquet was served and the people crowded into the palace to watch, just as they had when my parents occupied the places where Henry and I now sat.
I noticed that many eyes were fixed on me.
I wanted to say to them: I do not forget you. I am still French. I married the King of England who is soon to be King of France, but it was all done in the name of peace.
I knew that at the Hôtel de St.-Paul my parents would be sitting in lonely state this Whitsun. How did it feel, I wondered, to know that people had flocked to the Louvre to pay their homage to those who, on the death of my father, would be King and Queen of France? I felt ashamed that I might be seen as a daughter waiting to take the crown from her mother when my husband took that of my father.
I longed for the peace of the nursery, where all such matters seemed of little importance because little Henry had begun to crow with pleasure.
Henry sat beside me, quiet and dignified. Glancing sideways at him, I thought he seemed tired and I knew that, but for his suntanned skin, he would be looking a little pale.
I was longing for the feast to be over. I, too, was tired. I thought, soon we shall depart and the remains of the food will be distributed among the poor who have crowded in here to watch us.
After what seemed a very long period, that time came.
We left and I heard later that the people were sent away without the food which it had been the custom to distribute, that there had been a great deal of complaint and the crowd had at one time threatened to become quite ugly.
“Where is the food?” they had demanded. “Are we to be robbed of our rights as well as our true King and Queen …?”
Joanna Courcy, who had accompanied me to France, said: “I cannot imagine why it was done. I hear it has always been the custom. I heard it was on the King’s orders.”
I spoke to Henry about it later.
“It has always been the custom,” I said. “The people have always had the food that was left over from the banquet. That is why they come.”
“It is not my custom,” replied Henry.
“But…they expect it.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I did not promise to follow their customs.”
“But the people…seeing us eat all that food when some of them must be in need …”
I should have seen that he was exhausted. But I did wonder why he had given such an order. Surely it could not have mattered to him? Was it just to be different; to show them that in all but name he was their King and the old customs of French kings should be dispensed with?
He did not answer. He sat on the bed, looking more tired than I had ever seen him.
I should have dropped the subject, but something prompted me to say: “It is simple matters such as that which cause revolts.”
“Have done!” he said sharply. “The people will have to grow accustomed to my rule. When I say something is to be…it will be and that is an end of the matter.”
I looked at him in astonishment. It was the first time he had spoken harshly to me.
I was worried about him, and I longed more than ever to be back at Windsor with my beloved child.
Henry slept heavily that night. He had not risen when I awoke. I was accustomed to finding him gone and I sat up in bed and looked down at him anxiously. He looked ill and I was overcome with tenderness, for in his sleep he reminded me of my son. There was a vulnerability about him which I had never noticed before.
“Oh, Henry,” I murmured, “what are you doing? How can you endure these perpetual battles …?”
He opened his eyes and saw me studying him.
“Well,” he said, attempting to smile. “Do you like what you see?”
“No,” I said boldly. “I think you are unwell.”