Canterbury Castle, Spring 1430
Canterbury Castle, Spring
THE LITTLE KING looks appalled at the huge ceremony that my lord has arranged to celebrate his departure from England for his coronation in France.
He looks as if he is going to cry, his dark eyes huge in his pale face, his long legs and arms as gangling as one of the monkeys in the garden at Le Quesnoy.
The crown wobbles on his unsteady head, his neck too slim to support the weight.
‘He’ll die of fright before they get him to Paris,’ I whisper to my husband, and I am rewarded with his sly smile.
In all the departure speeches and prayers, the boy looks for only three people among the crowds of well-wishers.
He looks from his mother’s pale face to his stern governor, and then he looks to Owen ap Maredudd.
It is as if these three are the only people he can trust, and my lord has cruelly ruled that he must leave two of them behind: his mother and her servant.
He is painfully shy and frightened by crowds.
It would have been kinder to send his mother with him to France – but, advised by me, my lord was very clear with the privy council that as a French princess, sister to our enemy the dauphin, she would be an embarrassment in France, a suspect in the English train, and an unnecessary risk.
The little king’s great favourite – as a Welshman – is not worthy of consideration.
I don’t want her leading the procession in France, welcomed in her home country.
I want her lonely, in England, separated from her son, as every day he reveals that he is unfit for his great calling.
Mother and son have never been parted for so long before.
The king will have to stay in France for more than a year, without his mother.
She is going to retire to a house in Hertfordshire; no doubt she will set up her loom and make great progress with her tapestry.
I shall visit her. I am the third royal woman in England – in the absence of the old dowagers, Queen Joan and Queen Catherine, I will lead the way and be first in all the processions as wife of the duke, now named regent, and drawing rich fees as the little king is absent from his kingdom.
My husband is as good as a king, and I am as good as a queen.
I don’t see Owen ap Maredudd again until the king has set sail and we are travelling through Kent on our way back to London.
Here we separate: the queen to her retirement, me to take her place.
We say goodbye on the steps of Canterbury Castle, while Owen is in the courtyard, supervising the queen’s horse and her mounted guard.
My eyes slide past her to him, and he glances up and catches me looking at him.
He gives a low bow and a little smile. He looks cautious, as if he is wondering if I am still angry with him.
I like that look – as if he is afraid of me.
He makes a little movement as if he would come up the steps to see me, and then he holds himself back.
I have never known him uncertain before, and I feel a deep sense of satisfaction to know that he has lost his confidence and does not know if he should come forward to greet me or stay hidden in the role of her servant, holding her horse like a squire.
I let him stand there, not knowing what he should do. My face is completely calm when I turn from him to Queen Catherine. ‘I will come and visit you in the summer,’ I tell her. ‘And you must come and visit Bella Court.’
‘I shall not be visiting,’ she says quickly.
‘Nor receiving visitors. I am going to spend my time in prayer and meditation at the bishop’s palace at Much Hadham.
Bishop William Grey is my spiritual advisor.
This is a great change in my life, the growing up and coronation of my son the king.
I shall be quite alone. I shall make a spiritual retreat.
But I will be pleased to visit you when I have completed my spiritual work. ’
‘As you wish.’ I smile sympathetically, but inside I am laughing at the thought of this mournful beauty grieving the absence of her son, all on her own in the desolate countryside, with no chance of marrying and no chance of another child.
‘I shall pray for you in your retreat,’ I say courteously.
‘I wish you the joy of holy enlightenment.’
I kiss her cheek and step back and drop her the smallest curtsey. She may still be the king’s mother, but if she is going into retirement, she barely counts at all.