In six months’ time the child would be born, and as the days passed I could forget everything but that wondrous fact.

Guillemote was in her element. She loved babies and was looking forward to mine with as much excitement as I was myself.

Since I had come to England I had grown very fond of four of my English attendants. They were Agnes and the three Joannas. We often laughed about their having the same name. They were Joanna Courcy, Joanna Belknap and Joanna Troutbeck. With these friends around me, I could not feel that I was in an alien land.

I knew we should all be happy at Windsor. Each day when I awoke I would remind myself that I was a day nearer to the great occasion which was to take place in December. My own child! That was what I wanted more than anything on earth.

We talked about the child continually. Guillemote was making tiny garments. She remembered me, she said, when I was little more than a baby.

“I watched you grow,” she said, shaking her head and thinking back, I knew, to those days in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. We should never cast off the memory of those days—any of us who had lived through them. Guillemote could only have been a young girl when she came, but they would live in her memory forever.

It was about three weeks after Henry had left that Jacqueline of Bavaria arrived and the peace of Windsor was broken; one cannot say that it was shattered exactly, but it was ruffled.

Jacqueline was a disturbing person; moreover, she was filled with resentment against life.

I remembered her slightly from the old days when I had seen her once or twice, for she had been my sister-in-law, having been married briefly to my brother Jean.

She had gone back to her birthplace, Bavaria, when Jean had died, for she was the daughter of the Count of Hainault, Holland and Zealand and Margaret of Burgundy, sister of Jean the Fearless, the murdered Duke.

When her father died, she had inherited all his lands and had married the Duke of Brabant, who was her cousin and also a cousin of Philip, Duke of Burgundy. However, her uncle, at one time Bishop of Liège and known as John the Pitiless, had usurped her possessions, having tricked her second husband, the weak Duke of Brabant, into signing them away.

As a result she was in exile and had been given refuge in England, where she was treated with great respect. This might have been partly due to her connection with me, for I suppose the Queen’s former sister-in-law could not have been denied a haven.

I said to Guillemote: “We must be patient with her. We must let her talk of her wrongs. It helps her. She has suffered so much. Imagine being an exile…and robbed of one’s inheritance. She is just about three months older than I.”

“She looks years older,” said Guillemote.

“She certainly looks experienced,” added Joanna Courcy.

“One would expect her to be after having had two husbands,” said Agnes.

“I remember her…just a little,” I told them. “She came to France when she was married to my brother Jean. He was Dauphin for a while.”

“She reckoned she would be Queen of France,” said Guillemote.

“Well, she might have been…had he lived. But he died, as my brother Louis had before him.”

“Two Dauphins…to die,” said Joanna Belknap. “How very sad…and strange.”

There was silence. I knew what they were thinking. I had thought it myself many times. It was suspicious…and my mother had liked neither of them. But did she like my brother Charles any more? For a few moments I was back in that unhappy past; my mother exerting her power over us all; my father shut away in darkness. Michelle was happy, I believed, with Burgundy, but how did it feel to live with the fact that her brother had been in the plot which had resulted in the death of her husband’s father? Marie was the only one who had found peace, in her convent. Charles…poor little baby brother…had lost his throne and was now trying to regain it. The Duke of Clarence had died because of that.

But I had escaped. I was the fortunate one. Here I was, happy at Windsor…awaiting the greatest event of my life. I must forget the past. I was beginning to. It was only now and then, on occasions like this, that it was brought back vividly to me.

Jacqueline was often in my company. I supposed she thought that, in view of the family connection between us, I should have her with me. She talked on and on about her grievances and I would feign to listen sympathetically while my thoughts were elsewhere. Would the child be a girl after all? I wondered. A little girl would be delightful, but of course it must be a boy. Henry wanted a boy. The country wanted a boy. The bells would peal out and everything that had gone before would be worthwhile because of this child.

Jacqueline was saying: “Of course, what they all wanted was Hainault, Holland, Zealand and Friesland. They were mine. That is why they were so eager to have me.”

I looked at her. She was quite comely; but there was something mildly repellant about her. It is due to what she has suffered, I told myself.

“They were ambitious for me,” she went on. “Both my mother and my father. It was a great blow to my father that I was not a boy. How highly men rate their own sex.”

I agreed. “It is because men lead other men into battle,” I said. “People always want war…or conquests. I do not think they like it overmuch when it goes against them. But for war, Henry would be here now. We had to marry to make a harmonious union between our two countries. But for war my father could have remained King and Charles would have followed him peacefully. But they had to make war, and what men would want a woman to lead them? When you come to think of it, what woman would want to lead them? That is why they always want boys.”

“If Jean had lived …”

“What if Jean had lived? Do you think Jean would have been able to stand out against Henry? Jean, less than any, wanted the crown.”

“They would not let me remain a widow for long,” she was saying.

“And you were not happy with your second marriage?” I asked perfunctorily, because I knew the answer already.

“How dared they marry me to such a weakling!”

“Well, he is your own cousin and therefore cousin to Philip of Burgundy.”

“He is a fool. He allowed my wicked uncle to rob us of our estates.”

“Money! Power! It seems there is always conflict where they exist. Oh, Jacqueline, do you not wish sometimes that we had not been born into families such as ours?”

She looked at me in astonishment. “No! No!” she cried. “I would not have it otherwise. We are the ruling class. We have the power.”

“Until we lose it. Look what has happened to you! What has happened to my family!”

“That was war. And all is well with you now. You have made your way to the winning side. All would have been well with me if they had not forced me into marriage with Brabant…and if my wicked uncle had not seen how he could cheat the fool and rob me of my rights.”

I knew so well by now the story of Jacqueline’s second marriage to the Duke of Brabant who had foolishly allowed himself to be tricked by her scheming uncle, who had made a treaty with the Duke that all the property left by his late brother to his daughter should pass to him.

“Brabant should have fought for my rights,” she cried in anguish. “Our marriage will be annulled. Yes, I shall be free of the fool. But look at me! What have I now? I…who was once the greatest heiress in Europe?”

I sympathized. We did what we could to help her, but her continual ranting about her wrongs wearied us.

“One day,” she said, “there will be someone who will help me regain what was stolen from me.”

“I hope so, Jacqueline,” I replied.

I did indeed. Then she would go back to her own country and leave us in peace.

Meanwhile I continued to plan for the baby.

The time was passing…July, August, September.

I watched the leaves turning to bronze. Time was passing and Henry showed no sign of coming home.

I thought, a little resentfully, that he should have been here for the birth of our child.

I left Windsor and went to Westminster. October came.

I said to Guillemote: “I long to be at Windsor.”

She replied: “Well, you could go there and return to Westminster for the birth. There is time.”

So we went to Windsor.

Jacqueline stayed at Westminster. She had been given a comfortable pension by the state which had mollified her a little. I was glad of that.

I wanted to spend my time peacefully waiting…in the company of my dear Guillemote and my faithful ladies.

November had come.

Guillemote said: “If the child is not to be born at Windsor, we should begin to think of leaving. You will not want to travel in a week or so.”

“Guillemote,” I replied, “I do not want to travel now.”

“I thought the King expressly said that the child must not be born at Windsor.”

“How could he get such a fancy, Guillemote? Henry…the practical soldier…to have such a whim. I love this place. I don’t feel so happy anywhere else. It is pleasant not to have Jacqueline always with me. It is so delightful here. I feel safe and secure. Just a few more days, Guillemote.”

“A few more days,” echoed Guillemote. “But no more.”

But when those days had passed I still felt reluctant to leave.

“They say a pregnant woman’s whims should be satisfied,” I reminded Guillemote.

“How shall we move later on? You will not be fit for it.”

“No, Guillemote. I shall not be.”

I do not know why I did what I did. It was like some compulsion. Each day I put off the departure. I thought he could not really have meant it. It was such a fanciful notion and Henry was not a man of fancies. It was just said on the spur of the moment. And I did not want to leave Windsor, where I was so happy.

I was still at Windsor when December came. The weather had turned cold. Bleak winds swept through the park and the forest and there were flurries of snow in the air.

“You could not leave in this,” said Guillemote. “The King would not wish it and I would not allow it.”

“No,” I said. “It is too late now, Guillemote.”

Then came that wonderful day when my child was born.

I lay on my bed and they brought him to me and put him in my arms. Happiness surged over me. My child had been safely born and he was perfect in every way.

“A beautiful boy,” they said.

I thought of Henry’s joy when the news reached him. But I had disobeyed him and my son had been born at Windsor.

What did that matter? It was a slight matter when he was here, alive…healthy.

I looked at his little red face, the tiny nose, the little hands, perfectly fitted with miniature nails…and on his head I pictured a crown.

Henry VI was born, and I was happy as I had never been before.

Each morning I awoke to a sense of excitement. I would go to the cradle and gloat over my son. Because Henry was absent there had as yet been no arrangements as to the setting up of a royal nursery. I could keep him with me as any lowborn mother might. That was wonderful.

Guillemote and I would talk of him endlessly. When he whimpered, there was a race between us to reach him first.

Those wonderful days were only overshadowed by the thought that they could not last.

Immediately little Henry had been born, news had been sent across the Channel to his father. I was very proud because I had given him not only a child but a son.

When the messengers returned, I sent for them and I asked what the King had said when the news was imparted to him. I wanted to know each detail.

“His joy was great, my lady. He first asked news of the boy. He was a little sad because he had been out of England at the time of his birth. Then he asked where he had been born.”

I felt a twinge of alarm. He had been so insistent. I could hear his voice echoing in my mind: “The child must not be born at Windsor.”

“And,” I prompted, “you told him …?”

“We told him that the Prince had been born at Windsor.”

“And what said he then?”

The messengers looked at each other and were silent for a moment.

“Yes,” I repeated. “And what said he?”

“He said nothing for a moment, but he seemed uneasy. Then he said slowly: ‘Are you sure that the Prince was born at Windsor?’ ‘Without a doubt,’ we told him.”

“And then?” I asked.

“It seemed, my lady, that a cloud came over his joy. He murmured something. Then he turned to us and said: ‘I, Henry born at Monmouth, shall small time reign and much get; but Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.’ It was strange, my lady, and as though someone spoke through him. It was so clear…we remembered the exact words he spoke. Then he closed his eyes and murmured: ‘But if it is God’s will, so be it.’”