‘A great lady,’ she had informed me, sighing gustily, ousting Alice from her favourite seat and lowering her weight onto it on that day of her arrival. ‘Dead too young. And Lord Henry not yet eight years old.’ She fixed her eye, which brooked no dissent, on me. ‘I expect that you will be a great lady one day.’

And Mistress Waring had brought with her a package.

‘Can’t have the heir born without this, now, can we?’ She pulled at the ties and cloth with surprisingly nimble fingers for a lady of her bulk and years. ‘It was Lord Henry’s, of course. He was such a lovely boy. I always knew he would be a great king. See? When he was old enough to pull himself up?’

There were faint teeth marks in one of the little birds’ heads.

I touched it with my fingertip so that the little wooden box rocked gently on its two falcon-headed supports. I could not imagine Henry so small, so helpless that he would fit into this crib. It swung smoothly against my hand, as my baby would be swung to sleep here. I could not recall if I had had a cradle. Neither did I recall a nurse who had held me in such affection as Mistress Waring had held Henry. And as I was now Henry’s wife, Mistress Waring took me in her briskly solicitous hand and laid down the law.

‘She’s nought but an old besom,’ Beatrice sneered down her narrow nose. ‘She has instructed me to ensure that all windows are kept tightly closed in your chamber, my lady, to allow no foul air to permeate.’

‘Is that not a good thing?’ I asked, quick to pour oil on potentially troubled waters.

‘I don’t see why I should do it. It is the work of a servant.’

‘But she is favoured by the King,’ I replied.

That was enough to restore peace to my dovecote. I was, to my pride, gradually learning to manage my disparate household. Beatrice might have little respect for my opinions, but Henry’s word was law. The windows were kept tightly shut. But as for Windsor, now that I had decided, I would not be put off. Not even by Henry’s officious nurse.

‘Why ever should I not go?’ I asked.

‘Lord Henry will not like it,’ Mistress Waring stated.

‘Lord Henry is not here with frozen feet,’ I replied sharply, rubbing my toes through my fur slippers. I had chilblains.

‘I can heal your chilblains with pennyroyal, my lady,’ Mistress Waring admonished.

‘Then you can heal them in Windsor.’

I left the room, but Mistress Waring followed me to my bedchamber where I directed Beatrice and Meg to select the clothes I would need. Henry’s nurse stood at my shoulder, where she could lecture me without being overheard.

‘What is it, Mistress Waring?’ I asked wearily.

‘My lady, it must not be.’

‘Mistress Waring—my child will thrive at Windsor because I will be more content.’ She folded her lips. I eyed her. ‘What? I can always come back to Westminster when Henry returns from France, if that’s your concern.’ It had crossed my mind. Indeed, he need never know I had defied him. I really could not see the importance of where I bore this child.

But when Mistress Waring made the sign of the evil eye, I looked aghast, a chill brushing my skin that had nothing to do with the draught whistling round the open door or the grey mist, like an unpleasant miasma, that had blanketed the Thames.

‘It’s the old prophecy, my lady,’ she whispered.

‘A prophecy?’ I whispered back.

‘Made when Lord Henry was born. Come with me.’ I followed, out of my chamber and into my private chapel. ‘I’ll tell you here, because it does not do to speak of some things except in the sight of God.’ She lowered herself awkwardly to her knees before the altar, and I did likewise.

‘Lord Henry was a delicate child—there were fears for his life. An old wisewoman gave a prophecy to his mother, the Lady Mary, to reassure her that the child would not die.’

Mistress Waring made the sign of the cross on her ample bosom.

‘But this has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, puzzled.

‘It might have to do with your child.’

‘And this wisewoman’s sayings will stop me going to Windsor? I think this is nonsense,’ I remarked.

‘It made the Lady Mary weep,’ she asserted.

I would have none of this. I stood and walked from the chapel, back to my chamber where the packing went on apace. By the window, a little ruffled by the strange incident, I let my hand fall to stroke the head of the nearest little falcon on the supports of the cradle. They must have looked over the child that Henry had been, I thought fancifully, keeping watch. Who was keeping watch over him now?

My thoughts winged their way, imagining him in full armour, his battle helm in place, facing my brother’s army. Who would keep him safe? Some wisewoman’s mutterings would have no influence over him, of that I was certain. I offered up a silent prayer, my hand spread wide on my belly.

Holy Mother, keep him safe. Bring him home to me and this child.

Then smiled, a little sadly. His own confidence and his talent in the battlefield would keep him safe. But there was Mistress Waring, her large bulk again looming at my side.

‘The prophecy,’ she hissed.

So I would humour her. ‘What exactly did the prophecy say?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. But the Lady Mary said that Windsor was not the place for the heir to be born.’

‘I cannot believe that my child will suffer for being born in one place or another. I’m sure the Lady Mary had more sense than to give credence to it. If you are so anxious we will say a rosary to the Virgin to ask for her protection.’ I was beyond being dissuaded. I would not be swayed by anything less than good sense.

Mistress Waring drew in a breath. ‘Queen Dowager Joanna knows the truth.’

‘I have never met her.’ Queen Dowager Joanna, Henry’s reclusive stepmother. I recalled her absence at my coronation, and our paths had not crossed since, for which I was probably remiss. I had meant to ask him, and had forgotten.

‘Nor would you,’ Mistress Waring advised bleakly. ‘She is a prisoner.’

‘A prisoner?’ I thought I had misunderstood the word.

‘She is kept in confinement.’

It made no sense to me. ‘Does Henry know?’

‘Of course. It is by his order. She is accused of witchcraft. Against the King himself.’

I could think of nothing to say. Henry had led me to believe that it had been her choice to live a secluded life, not that she had been incarcerated for so terrible a crime. And I could prise no more information from Mistress Waring other than a reiteration that Madam Joanna would know all about the prophecy. And that I must on no account go to Windsor.

‘You must ask the Duke of Bedford for permission, my lady.’ Lord John was still in England, thus a final throw of Mistress Waring’s dice. ‘I wager he will not give it.’

Alice approached to enquire if she should organise the transport of the cradle that still sat, rocking gently, under my hand. Lord John was out of London, visiting the north. Madam Joanna’s predicament was something I must consider at more leisure. As for Windsor as my destination—why should I not make my own decision?

‘Pack it,’ I said.

I was packed up and gone to Windsor long before Lord John returned.

My lord.

I am well. Mistress Waring expects our child to be born early in December.

What more could I write? Nothing I did here at Windsor could possibly interest Henry. Windsor was everything I had remembered and anticipated from my brief visit on my first arriving in England, a place of seductive comfort and royal extravagance, nicely balanced. Painted and tapestried, the rooms that looked out over the River Thames closed around me like a blessing.

Four were put aside for my own use, apart from my bedchamber. One was hung entirely with mirrors, a room that I avoided as my girth grew and I became more clumsy, so I commandeered the Rose Chamber, glorious with paint and gilding, instead. One chamber was for dancing, constructed by Edward III for his wife, Philippa. There was no dancing for my little household, but perhaps at Christmas there would be celebrations. Perhaps Henry would be there to see his firstborn child.

Fat and indolent, I withdrew and settled into Windsor like a bird into her nest, in a world from which all men were barred as my time drew closer. My chilblains responded to the pennyroyal ointment. Alice and Mistress Waring clucked around me. Even my damsels regarded me with smiles of approval and a willingness to entertain me with music and song as the arrival of the heir approached. It amused me that everyone presumed the child would be a son. I hoped so, I prayed so, for a son would assuredly win me Henry’s approval.

Occasionally my thoughts turned to Madam Joanna, shut away from the world much as I was, but for necromancy. Necromancy! The use of the Dark Arts. What had she done? And why had Henry remained so determinedly silent about it? When my child was born, I decided, I would make it in my way to visit this intriguing Queen Dowager.

I wrote to Henry. I felt a need to tell him, to remind him of my existence, yet found it strangely difficult to write. My skills were limited, and I struggled with the words as well as the sentiments.

I pray for your safety, and that of the coming child. I trust that you are well and in good heart. I look to the day when you return to England in victory, as do all your loyal subjects.

It was deplorably stilted, but all I could do. I did not know where in France he was at that moment but thought him still to be tied down at the siege of Meaux, where my brother’s forces were holding out against Henry’s assault. And how to finish this worthless little note?

Your loyal and loving wife,

Katherine

I sent it by courier and set myself to stitching for the child that moved restlessly under my hand. Perhaps Henry would even find time to reply. And when he did, I opened the letter enthusiastically, scattering wax on my skirts as the royal seal broke.

To my wife Katherine,

I rejoice to hear of your good health and trust the arrival of the child will be soon and not too difficult for you to support. I will order a Mass to be said for your strength.

The writing was uneven, the uprights less forceful than I thought I remembered, not that I had seen Henry write often. Well, I considered. He would not be free to sit and write at leisure. And, no, for he continued:

I am at Meaux but we are hampered by heavy rains that have caused the river to flood. We are troubled by dysentery. I will return to Westminster when affairs permit.

Henry.

The tail on the y slid abruptly away with a blot and a smear.

I rubbed my thumb over the smudged letters of his name. Not much here. I frowned at it. Then at Alice, who had delivered it from the courier who had remained shut out beyond my closed doors.

‘Was the King in good health? Did the courier say?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Good. Do we know anything about the King of Scotland?’

For James, restless at the endless curtailment of his freedom, had begged to be allowed to accompany Henry to France. Henry had finally agreed, and given consent to James’s release from captivity. Within three months of Henry’s return to England, and presuming that the Scottish forces had fought well in England’s name, James would be restored to Scotland, if hostages were given for his loyalty.

And providing that James agreed to wed my damsel Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset and niece to Bishop Henry, it was a neat way of keeping an independent James loyal to English interests. Not that that bothered him particularly. James thought Joan Beaufort to be a remarkably pretty girl.

‘Yes, my lady. Lord James sent a poem for the Lady Joan.’ With a sly smile Alice removed from her sleeve a folded and sealed square of parchment. ‘I have it here.’

‘How very thoughtful of him.’

I beckoned Joan, who had been watching, anticipating my every move. A solemn girl in a yellow gown, she was marked by the distinctive Beaufort features of heavily hooded eyes and softly russet hair. One day she would make a lovely bride.

And I smiled, my heart a little sore, as she fell on the dog-eared parchment as if it would save her life, instantly engrossed as she read and re-read with flushed cheeks. I wished that Henry had sent me something rather than a mere half-dozen lines, written about dysentery and flooding.

‘“Now was there maid fast by the wall,”’ Joan read aloud so that we might all admire.

‘“A garden faire, and in the corners set a herbery green.