But now there is no solution for me. Madness strips away all solutions. Death cancels all loyalties. I know I must free Owen to live his own life without the burden of my slow disintegration. There is no going back for me this time.

And yet, when the litter arrives at the door, for a moment still I hesitate. Will this be the greatest mistake of my life? I feel well, strong, in control of my actions. Perhaps I am misled after all. I should dismiss the litter and wait at the door to welcome him home, take his hands and kiss his dear face.

How will you tolerate the pity in his eyes? How will you tolerate it when passion dies and he cares for you out of duty? When he sits beside your bed, rather than carrying you to his own, when you no longer even recognise him and he turns from you in grief that is too great to bear?

I dress as a widow in sombre state, my still golden hair hidden, my still beautiful face veiled. I leave no written note. What to say? He will know. We said all that was needed without words when his body loved mine and my responses were of my own volition. I will remember that final moment until I can remember no more.

One final task. I visit the nursery and kiss my children: Edmund and Jasper and Owen. They do not understand. I hold them close and kiss them.

‘Be good. Be brave and strong. Obey your father and remember your mother.’

I touch Alice’s hand. She is weeping.

I am ready.

I leave my ring and the dragon brooch on the coffer beside his bed. The ring he gave me when we flouted all law and decency and wed, the brooch I took when I first loved him. I leave them for him, and I step into my litter.

I stand at the door of the great Abbey at Bermondsey. How cold my hands are. The door swings open because they expect me—I have sent word. They will take me in for my own sake with as much compassion as my money can buy for me. I will bear Owen’s final child here, in the care of the nuns.

I take one step forward.

If I go in, I will never step back into the world.

No, I cannot! Owen, my love, my love.

His promise, made to me in the chapel at Windsor, slams into my mind. I will never allow us to be parted, this side of the grave.

But it cannot be. My heart is breaking, my face is wet with tears that I cannot stop. Almost I step back, to be with him until I have no more breath in my body. Then my father stands before me. The capering halfwit, the vague, gibbering remnant of the king he had once been. The pain sets up a flutter in my head, behind my eyes. I know that soon it will become intense.

Goodbye, Owen. Goodbye. God keep you. Always know that I love you. Know that I have given you your freedom because I love you too much to tie you to a mindless ghost.

I take a breath.

One day I know that Owen and I will be reunited, in God’s grace. There will be no more grief, no more tears to overshadow our love. It will last for all eternity.

I step over the threshold.

EPILOGUE

The day is here.

I am well and lucid but I know it will not last. I know it, with every breath.

‘We are pleased to see you restored, my lady,’ my new steward says, the man who replaced Owen as Master of my much-reduced household. ‘We have been concerned.’

My steward is perhaps less careful with his words than he might be, for no one else speaks of it, as if to ignore it will deny its existence, but I am grateful for his well-wishing. It reminds me that I am becoming an object of interest to those around me, and I vow that I will not be a burden. I will not be an embarrassment. I will not drag Owen to the depths of despair, where he cannot reach me, and I cannot reach him. It is time for me to take the step I have had in my mind for some months.

Owen reads it in my mind.

‘Don’t leave me, Katherine,’ he whispers against my throat when we lie together on that final morning as the sun rises, as if he can read my intent. ‘We have had so little time together. Six years out of a whole lifetime.’

‘My love.’ I kiss his lips. ‘Enough time for me to bear you three fine sons.’

I catch my breath as I do not speak Tacinda’s name. She died, leaving us within the first year of her fragile life. It is a pain in my heart that cannot be healed, but with my lover’s arms around me I smile, my face turned into his hair. How handsome he is. How I love him. This man who has taught me what love can be like between a man and a woman who trust each other infinitely.

I run my hands softly over the fine bones of his face, smoothing the dark brows, combing my fingers through his magnificent hair. I trace the well-moulded lips, the flare of his straight nose; I press my mouth against his. I need to fix his beloved features in my mind so that they will not fade.

‘Stay, Katherine. I will be with you.’

There is more urgency in his voice now, and his arms band tighter round me. So he knows.

‘I am afraid,’ I say.

‘No need. I love you more than life. I’ll let no harm come to you.’

‘But you cannot stop it. How can you stand before the approaching storm and will it to disperse, my dear love? How can you scatter the winds that will destroy all we have together?’

‘Stay with me,’ he insists, lips warm and persuasive. ‘With our children.’

And I allow myself, for that one brief day, to be persuaded. His love is as potent as strong wine. Of course he will keep me safe.

‘I will stay,’ I promise.

His mouth demands, his body possesses with all the old energy and he enfolds me in love.

‘We will live for ever, Katherine. We will grow old and see our children grow strong and wed.’ And then the softest of whispers. ‘I cannot live without you.’

I hear the desperation in his voice.

‘Or I you,’ I reply. How will I exist without him?

Next morning he is gone, on some weighty errand of business, and my thoughts run clear again.

‘I will return by noon,’ he says, his hand on mine. ‘I will return as soon as I can.’

‘Yes,’ I reply. I fashion a smile and return his clasp.

As soon as he is gone, my eyes blind with tears, I order up my litter. I will need no belongings so I pack nothing. While I have my wits, I will determine my future: I will impose no unnecessary grief on those I love. My mind skitters back to that terrible time when I took the decision to set Owen free because I could not contemplate the anguish of his death, only to return to him when we found a way out together, a solution that our minds could fathom and apply.

But now there is no solution for me. Madness strips away all solutions. Death cancels all loyalties. I know I must free Owen to live his own life without the burden of my slow disintegration. There is no going back for me this time.

And yet, when the litter arrives at the door, for a moment still I hesitate. Will this be the greatest mistake of my life? I feel well, strong, in control of my actions. Perhaps I am misled after all. I should dismiss the litter and wait at the door to welcome him home, take his hands and kiss his dear face.

How will you tolerate the pity in his eyes? How will you tolerate it when passion dies and he cares for you out of duty? When he sits beside your bed, rather than carrying you to his own, when you no longer even recognise him and he turns from you in grief that is too great to bear?

I dress as a widow in sombre state, my still golden hair hidden, my still beautiful face veiled. I leave no written note. What to say? He will know. We said all that was needed without words when his body loved mine and my responses were of my own volition. I will remember that final moment until I can remember no more.

One final task. I visit the nursery and kiss my children: Edmund and Jasper and Owen. They do not understand. I hold them close and kiss them.

‘Be good. Be brave and strong. Obey your father and remember your mother.’

I touch Alice’s hand. She is weeping.

I am ready.

I leave my ring and the dragon brooch on the coffer beside his bed. The ring he gave me when we flouted all law and decency and wed, the brooch I took when I first loved him. I leave them for him, and I step into my litter.

I stand at the door of the great Abbey at Bermondsey. How cold my hands are. The door swings open because they expect me—I have sent word. They will take me in for my own sake with as much compassion as my money can buy for me. I will bear Owen’s final child here, in the care of the nuns.

I take one step forward.

If I go in, I will never step back into the world.

No, I cannot! Owen, my love, my love.

His promise, made to me in the chapel at Windsor, slams into my mind. I will never allow us to be parted, this side of the grave.

But it cannot be. My heart is breaking, my face is wet with tears that I cannot stop. Almost I step back, to be with him until I have no more breath in my body. Then my father stands before me. The capering halfwit, the vague, gibbering remnant of the king he had once been. The pain sets up a flutter in my head, behind my eyes. I know that soon it will become intense.

Goodbye, Owen. Goodbye. God keep you. Always know that I love you. Know that I have given you your freedom because I love you too much to tie you to a mindless ghost.

I take a breath.

One day I know that Owen and I will be reunited, in God’s grace. There will be no more grief, no more tears to overshadow our love. It will last for all eternity.

I step over the threshold.




AUTHOR NOTE

Katherine de Valois is an enigma.

History books make little comment on her, the underlying thought being that there is very little to say, other than that she was daughter of Charles VI of France, wife of Henry V and died at a comparatively early age, perhaps afflicted by the instability that affected her father. As Queen of England and Queen-Dowager, she played no role in English government and in fact very little in the raising of her son. The same could be said, of course, for many medieval women from aristocratic or royal families. Their main importance was as a marriageable commodity for the transference of property—’an animated title deed’ in effect. Thus Henry’s desire to marry Katherine.

Katherine de Valois merely fits into this pattern of medieval land transference, as a woman silent and generally unimpressive.

Nor have historians been complimentary to Katherine. We receive the notion of a young woman who was beautiful and gracious but lacking in more than basic intelligence and with a very limited education. The archetypal ‘dumb blonde’ in fact, who had little to say and no opinion to give.

Was this all that could be said for Katherine?

Solid evidence for much of her life is lacking, but what it lacks in hard fact, it gains in rumour, myth and legend, particularly in her falling in love with Owen Tudor. The blatant romance of it has been open to wide speculation.

In writing The Forbidden Queen I have made use of the outline of Katherine’s history as far as we know it. I have placed her firmly in the centre of English politics, as she undoubtedly was, making sense of what is not recorded. As for the romantic myths, I have made use of them, and make no excuses for doing so.

By the time I wrote my final sentence, I had decided that Katherine, rather than a rather dim but lovely creature, must have been a remarkable woman.

I am always delighted to keep in touch with my readers who are interested in my writing, both the process and the content. I enjoy receiving feedback and readers’ thoughts and insights into my heroines.

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I also have my own blog where I write about history in general and what I am investigating in particular. Or anything historical that takes my interest…

http://www.anneobrienbooks.com/blog/2012/11/katherine-swynford/




AUTHOR NOTE

Katherine de Valois is an enigma.

History books make little comment on her, the underlying thought being that there is very little to say, other than that she was daughter of Charles VI of France, wife of Henry V and died at a comparatively early age, perhaps afflicted by the instability that affected her father. As Queen of England and Queen-Dowager, she played no role in English government and in fact very little in the raising of her son. The same could be said, of course, for many medieval women from aristocratic or royal families. Their main importance was as a marriageable commodity for the transference of property—’an animated title deed’ in effect. Thus Henry’s desire to marry Katherine.