I stepped into the small room. It looked dark and eerie.

“So this is where he lived…and died. Did you see him?”

“I was young then. It wasn’t talked of in the castle. You see this pillar here…from the floor to the roof? You see these notches in it? I heard it said that these were made by the axes of his murderers as he fled around it. But who’s to say whether that be true?”

“Did you believe it?”

He was cautious. He was doubtless remembering that I was the King’s wife and that the King was the son of that man who had taken the crown from Richard.

“There’s some said that he starved himself to death,” he said. “Who’s to know? Others said he was starved by them. Some say he escaped from Pomfret.”

Pomfret? I was puzzled for the moment; then I remembered that Pomfret was another name for Pontefract. I had heard that the man who had built it had named it after Pomfret, a town in Normandy which the place resembled.

“Escaped?” I said.

“Some said he reached Scotland and was befriended by the Scots King and lived in Scotland for many years.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked.

“No, my lady. He died in this room.”

“Murdered?”

“Hacked or starved to death. “Tis murder, every way you look at it.”

“You feel it here…do you?” I asked, and then wished that I had not expressed such a fanciful thought.

But the man nodded.

I had another experience while I was at Pontefract. I talked with the Duke of Orléans.

I said that he was my brother-in-law and I wished to see him. Our hosts were unsure whether my wish should be granted. But they remembered that I was Queen of England, and if Henry had not wished me to see Orléans, either he would not have brought me to Pontefract or he would have given orders that I was not to see him.

So here was another sad reminder of Isabelle.

Charles of Orléans looked older than when I had last seen him. Captivity was not as irksome to him as it might have been to some people. He was a poet rather than a warrior and I had always fancied that he would rather have lived in peaceful obscurity than in the blaze of one near the throne.

I was taken to his apartments in the castle. They were very comfortable, and it was obvious that he was treated in accordance with his rank. He was a prisoner only in the fact that he was not able to leave the castle without guards.

He embraced me warmly.

“I hear what goes on now and then,” he said. “Our poor country is in a sorry state. We have been ignobly defeated, and because of that…I am here, and you also.”

“Yes. The war has had a great effect on our lives. Tell me, Charles, are you treated well?”

“I do not complain.”

“What do you do here?”

“I am allowed to walk. Sometimes I ride, if there are enough guards available to accompany me. I write …”

“Your poetry, of course.”

“It satisfies me. You understand, Katherine?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I brood a great deal. I pray for forgiveness.”

“For the death of Burgundy?”

“I never wanted that, Katherine.”

“I know.”

“All this strife within. It was certain to lead to ruin. I remember those days with Isabelle. They were the happiest of my life.”

“She was happy with you, Charles.”

“I know. That makes it all the more sad. If only she had lived …”

“Then you would not have married again.”

“I did not want to. Armagnac decided…and it had to be. My life ever after has been like something out of a nightmare…until I was captured at Agincourt. Sometimes I wished I had gone the way of so many others.”

“No, Charles, you must not say that.”

“And then…Isabelle is dead…if only she had lived!”

“She would be mourning now…separated from you as she would be. At least she did not have to suffer that.”

We talked of Isabelle. He read some of his poetry to me and when he did so his face was transfigured with a certain contentment; and I believed that he was happier in his prison than he had been as the tool of the ambitious Armagnacs.

It was long since Isabelle had died, but I felt her close to me during those days in tragic Pontefract.

I was relieved and delighted when Henry came riding into the castle.

He kissed me fondly. I was now sure that I was pregnant and I told him this, to his great delight.

“Did the people respond as you wished to your plans for taxes?” I asked.

“To a man…and woman,” he replied jubilantly.

“Does that mean you will soon be leaving England again?”

“Nay,” he cried. “I would not want you to travel. I shall stay in England until my son is born.”

I was happy. I was going to forget all my misgivings. Henry loved me and I loved him. I would not ask myself so many questions. I would stop wondering how deep his affection for me went. I must learn one of the great lessons of life which was that people were as they were, and to attempt to change them could prove fatal to any relationship.

So a few weeks passed. We were in June, and June is a beautiful month. My baby was due in December. It was a long time to wait, but I looked forward to the waiting months because Henry would be with me.

He was looking forward with great excitement to the birth. What if the child should prove to be a girl? But even if it were, we should love it, and the fact that I had become pregnant so quickly augured well. I knew that Henry was looking to a happy future when his family would be as numerous as that in which he had grown up…or perhaps he visualized more children, as everything Henry did must be better than others.

I might have known that such happiness could not last.

I remember the day well—a hot June day. I had awakened to a feeling of intense happiness. I was feeling very well, no longer experiencing those early inconveniences which sometimes are the lot of pregnant women. The days were full of contentment. I was growing fonder of Henry, and our love for each other was a great joy; we played our harps together as we lived, in harmony.

Thoughts of the coming child absorbed us both. We talked of the event continuously.

It was in the early afternoon when messengers came riding to Westminster. I knew from their demeanor that something terrible had happened. I was with Henry when he received them. There were two of them and they both knelt before the King; I could see that they were desperately afraid to give him the news.

“It was at Beaugé,” they said.

“Yes, yes,” cried Henry impatiently. “Tell me the worst. Our forces have been defeated?”

The men were silent for a few seconds. Henry roared out: “Speak! For the love of God, tell me!”

“It is the Duke, my lord…the Duke of Clarence.”

“They have taken him …”

That terrible silence again and then: “He was slain, Sire.”

I watched the emotion in Henry’s face. This was his brother…his best-loved brother. Slain! I thought of Margaret…a widow once more. Oh, the tragedy of war! Why did men have to make it? How much happier we should all be without it!

Henry began questioning the men. They stammered out what had happened.

I could not bear to see the misery on Henry’s face. He loved all his brothers, but Clarence was the one closest to him. It was more than that. I knew that he was thinking that the line of victories had been broken. This was defeat. The French had beaten the English. And the reason? Because he was not there.

I knew him well enough to read his thoughts. He had indulged himself; he had given way to a desire for family life. He had been spending time with his wife, contemplating the birth of his child, and consequently the French had beaten the English, and his beloved brother had been killed.

The messengers feared the wrath which was sometimes the reward of bringing bad news; but Henry was too sensible for that. His grief was intense but it was under control.

He fired questions at them. He wanted to know all that had happened.

It was something like this: when we had come to England, Bedford accompanying us, Henry had left Clarence behind as Captain of Normandy and Lieutenant of France. Clarence had carried on with Henry’s advance and had reached Beaufort-en-Vallée. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, had signed no contracts with Henry. I could imagine his wrath when he heard that our mother and father had given away his birthright and I had become Henry’s queen. Naturally there would be many who would deplore the surrender of France and would rally around him. Moreover, the Scots were the perennial enemies of the English, and there were many in France who had gone there to support the French.

I understood the attitude of Henry’s brothers toward him. They recognized his brilliance and all regarded him with a certain awe and sought to emulate him. Bedford was the only one who realized that, efficient as he might be, he did not, nor ever could, compare his skills with the military genius of Henry. Clarence believed that he could equal it; Gloucester, I was to discover, was deluded enough to think he could excel it.

I guessed that what Clarence wanted was to present Henry with as great a victory as Agincourt—with himself, Clarence, as the hero of the day.

When he heard that the Dauphin was marching on Beaugé with a strong force, he was impatient to go into battle. His main army was not at hand and could not join up with him for a day or so; but he was eager for glory, and with a very small force he rode in to the attack. It was brave but it was folly.

I watched Henry half close his eyes and grind his teeth as he listened.

Clarence’s little band of knights were quickly overcome and in the fighting which ensued Clarence was slain.

Henry stood numb. I guessed what emotion he was suffering. Grief at the loss of a beloved brother and there would be the realization that the aura of invincibility, which he had built up and which he believed was one of the elements of victory, had been tarnished.

Oh, foolish Clarence! Henry would never have acted so. He would have waited. He would have taken no risks. Great planners only took risks when it was necessary to do so. Henry would never have been so foolish as to attack without the means to win. But others were not Henry.

“My lord,” went on the messengers. “The Earl of Salisbury recovered the bodies of those who were slain. They are sending the Duke’s body back to England.”

Henry nodded. He stood silent for a few moments; then he dismissed the men. They needed refreshment and rest; they had ridden far and fast.

They were relieved to go.

I looked at Henry and I knew that the peaceful days were over. He was shedding the role of lover, husband and prospective father. These were forgotten in that of the conquering king.

“I must leave for France,” he said, “as quickly as possible.”

I had known it would happen. The next days were spent in feverish preparation. I scarcely saw him and wondered when I should again.

The day came for his departure. He expressed regret at leaving me, but I knew that his heart was in France.

On the last night we spent together he spoke about the child.

“Perhaps you will be back by December,” I said. “You should be here when he is born.”

“I shall do my utmost to be here, but who can say? I did not plan to leave England until after he was born.” Then he became very solemn. “The boy must not be born at Windsor,” he said.

Not at Windsor! Indeed, I had thought that my confinement should take place there. It was the place I loved best of all the castles and palaces of England. I had promised myself that I would go there and await the birth of my child. And now he was saying it must not be Windsor.

“No,” he repeated, “I do not want him to be born in Windsor.”

“I cannot think why you should say that. It is the most beautiful place I know. I felt happy there…at peace with myself and the world.”

“Windsor is a fine castle…yes. The park and the forest are indeed majestic. But there are other places. And remember this, Kate: I do not wish my son to be born at Windsor. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then, sweetheart, that is settled.”

That night, as I lay beside him, I was thinking, when shall I see him again? By that time I shall surely have my son…or perhaps a daughter. That was the one thing of which I felt certain.

And the next day he was gone.

After he left I went to Windsor. A mood of serenity had settled upon me. There was a certain relief in not having to ask myself when the summons would come to take him away. He was gone and there was no point in thinking about it any more. I knew some months would pass before he returned. Moreover, there was the baby to think of.