Gloucester Castle, Winter 1437
Gloucester Castle, Winter
NOW THAT THE dowager queen Joan has followed her daughter-in-law Queen Catherine to the grave, and little Dowager Duchess Jacquetta diminished to a mere Lady Woodville, living off love and day-old bread in the country, I am the unrivalled first lady of England, wife to the heir to the throne, with no woman ahead of me in precedence.
At the Christmas feast at Gloucester Castle, the king takes me by the hand, and I sit beside him, my husband on his other side.
In the list of gifts from him, my name is at the top and I have the most valuable gift.
I am like a mother to the king; I dance with him and talk to him and comfort him for his loss.
He grieves for his mother; he hopes that his stepfather has found peace at his home in Wales.
He expects a message and a Christmas gift, and has sent a purse of gold.
He does not know that Owen never got to Wales.
I smile and advise him and steer him as the Bella Court council of scholars advise.
John Somerset, the king’s tutor, reports every week on the king’s bodily health and his unsteady mind.
Abbot Wheathampstead writes a secret report on how a king of England can be legally removed from the throne.
Margery Jourdemayne gives me herbs to keep the young man peaceful: St John’s wort for his sadness, skullcap to prevent fainting in fits.
I will keep him calm until I need him to break out.
The weather is very cold this year; the Thames freezes so hard that they talk of having a frost fair in London – a market and entertainments on the frozen river.
I make the court merry with entertainments and dancing, and every time I look out of the windows of Gloucester Castle, over the undulating drifts of white snow, I think how killingly cold it must be in Newgate, where Owen Tudor’s bed is nothing more than straw on a stone floor, and his Christmas fare no more than rye bread and small ale.
He must die this year; nobody, however strong, could survive this.
At last, I find happiness and true peace of mind.
At last, I am soothed. The jealous envy of my childhood is healed now that Catherine is dead and my lover is dying.
I am the greatest woman in England. Nobody will ever look down on me again; nobody will pack me off to a nunnery, nobody can refuse me.
I control my own life; I am free. The king will not marry without my consent, and I will never consent to a pretty fertile girl.
I do not long for a baby. My sleep is not disturbed by wistful dreams of an infant in my arms. I do not care that much for Plantagenets nor the safety of their throne.
I do not love Humphrey enough to want a dozen little Humphreys.
I want my own greatness, not to found a line. I want to be a queen; not a matriarch.
Finally, I am free of anger and grief. My murderous resentment drains from me as Owen Tudor’s strength drains from him.
He is sleeping on cold stone, eating worse than the beggars at Gloucester Castle door, every day a little weaker, every day more in despair.
As he falls, unseen and unmourned, my happiness rises like the hard glare of a winter sun.
Some days, I hardly think of him at all: nights go by without me dreaming of him.
At last, in a long life of longing, I no longer want for anything.
I have found satisfaction. I am at peace.