Then there was Henry. No longer a baby, he was an adorable child—now five years old and a somewhat serious little boy. Already he was aware that he was apart from the other boys in his household. He was quite fond of Dame Alice Butler and he dearly loved Joan Astley; but he never forgot that I was his mother, and it was a great joy to me to see his pleasure when I visited him.
This I was able to do fairly frequently. I must not interfere, of course, with their methods of upbringing, but I had long realized this and made no attempt to do so. He loved me as his mother; he had Dame Alice and Joan Astley, and there was Owen to comfort me when I felt sad, as I sometimes did after visiting my son.
He was a strange child. He could change quickly. Sometimes he would seem a normal, fun-loving boy and then suddenly he would become serious, a little puzzled, perhaps faintly worried. When he rode out, I would sometimes be with him, for it was natural that as his mother I should be, and it satisfied the people to see us together. The people clearly loved him. He was very much aware of them. I had seen him touch the miniature crown on his head rather nervously now and then. I think it must have been a symbol to him. It was something of which at times he was proud and could at others fill him with apprehension.
There were times when we were together and I would hold him to me. He would cling to me. Then he was like the baby I had known. He liked to hear stories of his early days. He would sit listening intently, holding my hand or sometimes clutching at my skirts as if he feared I would leave him. Then he was indeed like my little one. But when he was quiet and seemed a little anxious, I knew he was remembering he was the King.
Dame Alice told me that he was good at his books but he did not excel as he should at outdoor games. She believed that he had little fancy for them.
“It is well,” she said, “that there are boys of his age here. He can watch them. Some of them are very skillful…riding…archery and such like. But the King always prefers his books. It is a pity. He should have enthusiasm for both.”
“We are all different,” I said, “and it is very important that he should do well at his lessons.”
“A king must excel in all ways,” she said with a touch of severity.
I used to talk to him about his father—the greatest warrior the world had ever known. He listened with a kind of awed anxiety.
I said to him: “But there are better things than war, Henry. It is better for countries to live in peace with each other than go to war…killing…maiming each other. There are wonderful things in the world…books…music…pictures.”
He was pleased with that. I knew that those about him constantly talked to him of Agincourt and Harfleur.
He liked to hear about his ancestors, and the Earl of Warwick had given instructions to his tutors that he must be fully cognizant of the history of his country.
I thought sometimes that they were forcing him out of his childhood too soon. It was true he was the King, but could they not let him forget that for a few years? Apparently not.
I wondered what effect coming face-to-face with the people had on him. He certainly liked their applause and responded to it in a manner which delighted them; and youth is so appealing, particularly when it wears a crown.
He said to me once: “They like me, do they not?”
“It is clear that they do,” I replied.
“Yes, but Dame Alice says it is the crown they are cheering, not me.”
“Dame Alice may be right.”
“Then why do they not carry the crown through the streets? Why do I have to be under it?”
“The crown needs someone to wear it and it is the possession of the King.”
“Then it must be the King they cheer as well as the crown.”
I could see that my son was developing a logical mind.
It brought home to me the fact that he was growing up, and I feared for him. I could not shut out of my mind the thought of Gloucester’s ambitious face.
A message came that I might spend Christmas and the New Year with Henry at Eltham Palace. I was delighted. I would travel there with my household, and that would include Owen, so I could enjoy the festivities in the company of both my son and my lover.
Henry had, that Whitsun, been knighted by his Uncle Bedford. It had been a solemn occasion, for after the ceremony he himself had knighted a few of his young companions.
He had described the occasion to me at some length and I had been saddened a little because I felt more strongly than ever that they were forcing him to grow up before his time. How I wished that he could have enjoyed a little more of his childhood more simply with me and Guillemote…and Owen too.
I was very pleased to see that Henry had quite a liking for Owen, who had taken great pains not to put himself forward. In view of the nature of our relationship, Owen felt a little embarrassed. I think he felt himself to be in the position of stepfather to the little King.
It was in a state of happy expectation that we arrived at Eltham. I could not restrain my excitement as we came through the magnificent avenue of trees and saw the stone walls and lofty archways of the palace. We passed into a cobbled courtyard.
Henry was waiting to greet us.
I wanted to pick him up in my arms, but I must remember that, although he was my little son, he was also the King. He smiled at me happily, so the formal greeting was not important. We should have an opportunity to be alone, when we would cast off convention and revert to the old easygoing relationship which was more natural to us.
How happy I was to be with him! He told me what had been happening to him—how he had to ride every day and practice archery. He wished it was not quite so often, but he was very fond of his horse. Best of all he loved his books. The Earl of Warwick, though, said he must not neglect sports or the study of arms for them.
“The Earl of Warwick will know best,” I said.
He accepted that rather dubiously; but I think on the whole he was a docile pupil.
He was very interested in the Christmas festivities. He had been allowed to take a hand in decorating the great hall and had helped bring in the yule log.
He had a present for me, he told me. It turned out to be a pair of gloves. He watched me unwrap them and put them on, studying me to see whether I was pleased with them.
I kissed him. I told him they were perfect. How had he known that I had always wanted such a pair of gloves?
“Dame Alice helped me to choose them,” he said modestly. “But I really wanted that pair for you.”
“They are the best gloves in the world,” I told him, “and I shall always treasure them.”
I was speaking the truth. I have them to this day. I often unwrap them and think of the time he gave them to me.
He told me that Jack Travail and his band of merry men were coming to amuse us and there would be mummers. He and his little companions would play all sorts of games. It was going to be a wonderful Christmas. “And,” he added, “you are here with me.” A remark which touched me deeply.
Among his Christmas gifts were some coral beads. He was delighted with them, and he told me that Dame Alice had said that they had belonged to King Edward.
“But,” he said, “there were three Edwards and she was not sure to which one they had belonged. I wish I knew. Do you know about the kings named Edward? One of them was a great warrior…like my father, but not so great of course. There were battles called Poitiers and Crécy—though they were not like Agincourt. He did not win the whole of France, though he did quite well. Then there was one who was always fighting in Scotland. But she didn’t tell me much about the second one. When I pressed her, she said, ‘You will know one day. But that time is not yet. It will depend on your tutor.’ He was the second Edward, and he is the one I should like to know about.”