In the secrecy of our royal nursery I said to Guillemote: “Perhaps we should be grateful to Gloucester.”
She looked at me with an expression in her eyes which told me she was cautioning me.
“I know, I know,” I said. “He is undermining England’s cause. But let us be frank with each other, dear Guillemote: but for that, they might be turning their attention to us.”
She admitted that was so.
“I dread the day when they make their plans. They will take him from me, Guillemote. I could not bear that.”
She put her arms about me and patted my back, as she used to in the old days when I myself was little more than a baby. “There,” she said. “It has not come to that yet. Let us hope it does not…for a long time.”
“It will, though, Guillemote. Royal children are never left to be happy with their mothers.”
“This will be different.”
I smiled sadly at her, shaking my head.
“You are with him now. Just forget what may come. Be happy in the moment.”
I realized the wisdom of her words and I determined to try to do as she said. For the time being Henry was with me, and Duke Humphrey was pursuing his wildly ambitious plans. They would all be too concerned with him to think very much about Henry.
So I wanted to make each day last as long as I could. But every morning when I awoke I could not help thinking that this might be the day. Then I would dismiss the fear. Not yet…not yet. Why, it might be a year before they took some action.
That was my mood during that time. Perhaps that was why I behaved in a rather reckless fashion now and then. I certainly did when I appointed Owen Tudor as Clerk of the Wardrobe, which was a post which would keep him close to me.
“He is very handsome and not much older than you are,” said Guillemote, who, over the years, and because she had known me more or less as a baby, often spoke more familiarly to me than the others did.
“What of that?” I said.
She lifted her shoulders and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You are the Queen,” she said.
Was she implying that Owen Tudor was too young and attractive to live so close to the Queen who was perhaps only a little younger than he was?
I laughed at her. Yes, I was indeed reckless. I think it was because I missed Henry. Perhaps I regretted those times when we had been separated while he had pursued a war which had in the end taken him from me altogether. Perhaps it was because I lived in fear of the desolation which would come upon me when they—as they undoubtedly would—brought certain highly born ladies into the nursery to take charge of my son and decided that caring for him was not a suitable occupation for a queen.
Owen’s coming into my household brightened my days. He was very sympathetic and understood my anxieties. Young Henry had grown fond of him.
He was now entirely my child. He recognized me as his mother; and I believe there is a special bond between a child and its mother, in spite of early separation. Even with my own mother, whom I hated, there was a certain link. I liked to think that I was especially loved by my son.
He was now taking notice, babbling a few words which Guillemote pretended were “Maman” and “Gee Gee”—for herself, of course—but I am not sure whether others recognized them as such.
I would walk in the gardens and wish that Henry could have been with me playing under the trees, as any normal child might have done with his mother; but although I was left in peace with him at this time, it must never be forgotten that he was the King and he could never be allowed to go out without his guards.
But at least in the nursery he was living the life of a normal child.
I found myself often looking for my Clerk of the Wardrobe and detaining him that I might chat with him. The strange manner in which he spoke attracted me. He was different from the others about me. I supposed it was because he was not English. Henry had liked him, too. He had rewarded him for his bravery at Agincourt by making him an Esquire of the Body.
I would not admit even to myself that the memory of Henry was fading a little. He had been a good husband; we had lived intimately together; I believed we had loved each other. Yet always for me there had been reservations which I had not recognized at the time, and I was beginning to be aware of them now. Henry had been unreal to me in a way…remote…a hero…someone not quite human, in spite of his earthy conversation and manners—the manners, as he had often said, of a soldier.
He had been a hero—the most loved king the English had ever known. Many had said so and many would in the years to come. He had been dedicated to his kingship, and the fact that this great king had emerged from a rather disreputable youth made him something of a mystic figure. I had idealized him with the rest. I had been proud of him. But was that love?
My thoughts were now occupied…not with my loss of him but with my fears that my son would be taken away from me.
I felt I did not know myself and that Owen Tudor in his way was helping me to find the person I was.
Sometimes we would sit together and talk. He had a small room in the apartments where he kept his accounts.
One day I went to this room and found him alone. He immediately rose and bowed as I entered.
I said: “Sit down, Owen Tudor.” And I sat too so that we faced each other.
“Tell me truly,” I said, “how does it feel for a brave warrior to be thus engaged, on boring accounts?”
“My lady, I am happy to be here,” he said.
“Perhaps you are…as I am…tired of war?”
“They were great days under the King.”
“They brought about the humiliation of my country.”
“But the triumph of the King’s armies.”
“One country’s victory must be another’s defeat.”
“That is so, my lady.”
“Are you sure you do not want to return to fight?”
“I have had my fill of fighting. The King is dead. Having served with the greatest, I would not wish to do so with any less.”
“So you will stay here. Perhaps one day you will guard the King and be beside him as you were beside his father.”
“Who can say, my lady?”
“I think it would be what my husband, the King, would have wanted. He thought highly of you.”
“He was gracious enough to do so.”
“Did you not fight bravely with him at Agincourt?”
“It was a great honor to be close to him in that battle.”
“He mentioned your name to me. I remember it well.”
“And rewarded me, too. Being Esquire of his Body was the greatest honor I had known at that time. There were some who complained that I was too young for the post, but the King said that there were qualities which were of more importance than years. He was a great king, my lady. There was never one like him before, nor ever will be after. That I know. I shall never forget the day he saved his brother’s life.”
“His brother’s life? I did not know of this. Which brother?”
“The Duke of Gloucester, my lady. I was nearby and saw it all. It could have been the end of the Duke. The Duke of Alençon was in command of the enemy, and I saw him strike down the Duke of Gloucester with his own hand. The Duke lay on the ground for a few seconds. He would have been killed, but the King was at hand. He dashed forward and knocked the sword out of Alençon’s hands. He saved his brother’s life then.”
“The Duke must have been thankful to him.”
Owen was silent and I went on: “Was he not?”
“It is difficult for a proud man to acknowledge a debt.”
“But for a life!”
“That would make him feel even more indebted.”
I wanted to pursue the point, but Owen would not be drawn into it. He was wise really…wiser than I was. He taught me discretion.