“My child…this is a happy day for me. Oh, what a happy day! My dear, dear daughter, the Queen of England. There are not many happy days for me now, daughter.”
“You have no…friends now?”
“People are so fickle. I am old now…old and alone.”
“In the old days you had so many friends.”
She brushed the implication aside. “Your brother was never a good son to me.”
“And you a good mother to him?”
She did not see the irony. She had not changed. Her own affairs had always been so important to her that she did not see beyond them.
“Children are so ungrateful,” she said. “Charles is the tool of that woman.”
“You mean his wife?”
“His wife! My dear child, you are ignorant of affairs here. His wife is a little fool. I mean his mother-in-law…Yolande of Aragon.”
“Yes, I had heard that she influenced him…but for the good, people say. She is a strong and clever woman.”
“Clever, I suppose, in seeking what is best for oneself. As for being strong—one does not have to be strong to govern Charles. What she has done is turn him against his own mother. And now he calls himself the King of France.”
“There are some who would say he has a right to the title.”
“It is our dear little Henry who is King of France now. How happy I shall be when the crown is where it should be—on his blessed head.”
“You can talk like this! Charles is your son!”
“My son!” She snapped her fingers. “Is not Henry my grandson? Are you not…his dear mother…my precious daughter? Katherine, you were always my favorite child.”
I did not know whether I hid the disgust I felt. Did she really deceive herself? Did she believe what she said? I could imagine her working out what stand she should take. In spite of the recent victories inspired by Joan of Arc, she still believed in the final victory of the English and therefore she would side with them against her own son.
I felt sickened.
She said: “How I should love to see him crowned!”
She would not be invited to the coronation, I supposed. I wondered what the people of Paris would say if she put in an appearance. I believed she was universally hated. But as I listened to her, I felt a certain pity. She had had so much. I thought of her coming to France at the age of fourteen, of my father’s adoration of her. The chances she might have had to make a different life for herself…for him…and for us all. Was I wrong to blame the misfortunes of France on her? If I was, I was only doing what so many had before me.
“If I could but see my grandson before I die …” She was looking at me appealingly.
I said: “That will be for the Duke of Bedford to decide. He and Cardinal Beaufort make all the arrangements for my son…not I.”
She nodded.
“He is a beautiful boy, I know. I should be so proud …” She wiped her eyes.
I repeated: “It is not for me to make such decisions …”
And after a while I left. Having done my duty, I was greatly relieved that the task was over.
Henry did go to see her a few days before his coronation. I did not ask him what he thought of her. He did not know of her lurid past, I was sure, and I wondered if anyone would tell him. There was so much to occupy him. He was such a sensitive boy, and he had been crowned once in a country which had come to him as his rightful inheritance. That was very different from the ceremony when the crown had been taken in conquest. Being the boy he was, this would surely occur to him.
He was still recovering from the effects of the trial and death of Joan of Arc which had affected him so strongly, and I could not help feeling anxious as to whether he was ready, not only physically but mentally, to endure that which was being thrust upon him.
On the tenth of the month Cardinal Beaufort crowned him in Notre Dame. The ceremony was conducted with all the expected pomp, and it appeared that the Parisians, at least, accepted Henry as their King.
It was only afterward that there were complaints because the English had not observed the custom of distributing largesse to the hangers-on, who had cheered and expressed their loyalty solely for the purpose of receiving this favor. In addition, there were no pardons for those prisoners whose families had been expecting to see them freed after they had offered such expressions of loyalty to the King. The old French customs had been flouted by the English, and there were loud protestations of anger.
I guessed that Bedford needed all the money he could find to keep his armies intact, and as for freeing prisoners who might become a menace, that would be sheer folly.
However, the French were displeased, and the mood of rejoicing which had been so evident during the first days after the coronation was becoming one of discontent.
Bedford acted promptly.
It was time the King returned to England, he said; and we made preparations to leave Paris for Rouen.
I felt a terrible sense of foreboding when we entered the city, and fears beset me that we should never escape from it. It was besmirched with the blood of the martyr Joan, and her spirit seemed to be still alive in the town. To drive past the square where she had been burned alive could not do anything but fill one with melancholy. While we were in Rouen, we should never be able to forget her.
Bedford’s aim now was to get the King out of France as quickly as possible. The purpose had been accomplished, long drawn out though it had been; and Henry was now crowned King of France.
And so…before January was out, we arrived at Calais. I could scarcely wait to board that ship, and then came that moment when I was there on deck. There were tears in my eyes as I watched the approaching white cliffs of Dover.
A VISIT FROM THE KING
How beautiful the countryside was! I saw with a deep pleasure the frost on the bare branches of the trees, the layer of ice on the pond, the pale wintry sunshine; I felt the cold tang in the air, making my skin glow. What a joy it was to be home!
Owen was beside me and I knew he was feeling exactly as I did. It was marvelous to share everything with him. We did not speak, but each of us knew what was in the other’s mind, for there was a wonderful communion between us.
I could not help thinking of my poor sad mother whose scheming adventures had brought her nothing of real value. I had my husband, my family…the happy, simple life we could share if only we could go on as we were now. If we could, I would ask nothing more of life.
We had sent a messenger to Hatfield to tell them of our imminent arrival.
And there it was at last. Hatfield, where we had known so much happiness, and would know more, I promised myself.
They were waiting to greet us. I looked for Guillemote, but she and the children were not there. I was alarmed and disappointed. Then I was scolding myself. Of course she was not there. I had forgotten the need to keep up the pretense. Most of the household could be trusted, but we still had to remember the danger which could be lurking in the most unexpected places.
I embraced the Joannas and Agnes. Their looks soothed my anxieties. They were signaling me that all was well. They could not have looked so happy if it had not been so. And as soon as possible Owen and I would make our way to the nurseries.
What a happy moment that was! There was Guillemote, holding a child by each hand.
We stood for a second looking at them. I felt a pang of sadness because Edmund did not recognize me, but he looked at me with interest, so I guessed that Guillemote had told him that his mother was coming. The little one, the child I had left when he was a baby in arms, could not be expected to know me.
I ran to them and knelt before them. I put my arms around them and held them close to me. They studied my face intently. I looked up at Guillemote and there were tears in her eyes.