“He did not wish to deprive my father of his crown during his lifetime.”
“Such gestures, while noble, often lead to confusion. However, we intend to right that as soon as possible. Our King Henry, young as he is, must go to France as soon as it is convenient to do so, that we may put the crown of France on his head. But as he has not yet been crowned King of England, we propose to do that at once, and it would be meet and fitting for his mother to be present on that occasion.”
“You mean for the crowning here …”
“I mean for both. It will be advisable for you to go to the ceremony in Westminster, but necessary, I think, to that which follows in France.”
I was filled with dismay. Go to France! Leave my babies? Leave Owen!
He went on: “The first ceremony will take place next month. I doubt not that you will need a little time to prepare.”
Next month! I hoped I did not betray my consternation. Next month it would be impossible to hide my condition.
And to go to France …
I was on the point of crying out: I cannot. It is quite impossible. But I restrained myself. The last thing I must do was betray the true state of affairs to this astute man.
“I thought I should come in person,” he went on, “to stress the importance of this. But of course you will realize that and how necessary it is for you to be present. The King is young. And at such a time he will wish to be with his mother.”
I wanted to shout at him: yet you took him away from me. You gave him to Alice Butler and Joan Astley!
“And,” went on the Cardinal, “your presence in France will be a great help. Especially now…when there is a sign of rebellion amongst the French. It will remind the people that the King’s mother is their late King’s daughter. So I have come to ask you to come to Court within the next week or two.”
I could not go to London. That was certain. But what excuse could I give? I must have turned pale, for the Cardinal was a little concerned.
“I trust I have not tired you,” he said.
“I…er…I must apologize for being in such a low state.”
“It was good of you to receive me.”
“Then goodbye, Cardinal. Thank you for your visit. They will send my women to me…immediately.”
He bowed himself out and no sooner was he gone than Guillemote and the others burst in.
“You look shocked,” said Guillemote.
“So will you be…when you know what he came for.”
“Pray tell us and do not keep us in suspense,” begged Agnes.
“They are going to crown Henry, and the Cardinal thinks I should be present at the ceremony.”
“When?” cried Guillemote.
“Next month.”
There was a shocked silence.
“You cannot go,” said Joanna Troutbeck.
“That is certain,” I agreed.
“It is simple,” said Guillemote. “You will just be ill. What else can you do? It is well that you have set the stage. We will start right away. I shall get you to bed. Before the Cardinal leaves, it shall be known that you are less well than you were when he arrived, and your faithful servants, appalled by your condition—which has nothing to do with his visit, as they were aware you were more ill than you allowed it to be assumed—are getting you to your bed without delay.”
My son Henry was crowned at Westminster on the sixth day of November of that year 1429 in the presence of Parliament. His mother was not present. She was at that time somewhat unwieldy, keeping to her apartments and taking good care not to be seen by any but those whom she could trust—the birth of her child being expected in a matter of weeks.
Poor Henry! I was sad that I could not be with him. I wondered what he was feeling. At eight years old he was too young to have a crown placed on his head. He had always been a solemn child. I guessed he had become more so. He would need to be.
I wondered if he missed me. I felt a deep grudge against those who had taken him away from me. Was he thinking of me at this time? Did he ever think of me…or was I just part of that early childhood which must have become like a hazy dream to him.
I wanted to hear all I could about the ceremony.
Owen thought it was not only because they wished to take him to France and crown him King of that country that they had hastened his coronation in England; for when he was crowned, Gloucester would lose his post of Protector, and Owen imagined that it was the need to thrust Gloucester out of that important role which had been the deciding factor in this rather hasty coronation.
“Surely they will not expect my son to govern?” I said.
“No. But it is a way of getting rid of the present Protector. You are not the only one, my love, who sees him as a menace.”
“I know the Cardinal does, for one.”
“Others too, I’ll swear.”
We heard reports of that ceremony in Westminster Abbey. Warwick had led Henry in. He looked splendid, they said, in his rich coronation robes; and the people loved him for his youth. He was solemn and serious, looking rather sad and wise, as though he fully understood the significance of the ceremony and was already aware of the burdens of kingship which were being set on his young shoulders.
If I were not actually at Westminster, my thoughts were with him. I would write to him and tell him how sad I was that I could not be present at such a time. But that was not strictly true. I was carrying his little half-brother or -sister and that was a fact which made me rejoice.
But how I hated this web of deceit which I had been forced to weave about myself. I did not care so much that I must lie to Gloucester and the Cardinal; but I wished I did not have to do so to my son.
I had a letter from him which I treasured. In it he expressed his sorrow at my illness, and he was deeply distressed because I had not been present to see him crowned.
A splendid banquet had followed the ceremony in the Abbey, and during it a proclamation was made that in the New Year the King would be leaving for his French dominions.
During the weeks that followed, to the exclusion of all else, I was absorbed in preparations for my child’s arrival. The same methods of secrecy which had been the order at the time of Edmund’s birth were put into practice.
“We are getting accustomed to it,” said Guillemote.
It appeared to be satisfactory for everything went smoothly. I often thought how lucky I was to have such loyal servants. I marveled at this, for there was not one of them who did not know that what they were doing would be construed as a crime against the state and, if it were discovered, could result in imprisonment for them…perhaps even death.
The days were short now, and darkness was already creeping into the palace before four o’clock in the afternoon. The snow was falling heavily.
“That is good,” said Joanna Troutbeck. “It means we cannot have visitors catching us unawares.”
At last the time came. They were all around me and I felt safe with them.
My ordeal was not a long one. It was easier than it had been with Edmund; and when I heard the cry of my newly born child, I forgot the need for secrecy and all my fears in my joy.
“The child is a boy,” Guillemote whispered to me. “A bonny, healthy boy. A brother for little Edmund.”
I saw Owen at my bedside, the child in his arms.
“Here he is,” he said. “Just look at him. He’s perfect. Are you not proud of yourself to have produced such a child?”
“He is yours, too, Owen,” I said.
And I felt: everything…just everything is worthwhile for this moment.
We decided to call him Jasper. “Jasper of Hatfield,” I said. “Brother to Edmund.”
Edmund was brought to view his new brother. He looked with wonder at the small creature in the cradle.
“He is your brother,” I said. “You will always look after him, will you not?”