Виктория Холт - Epitaph for Three Women

WHEN her brother-in-law came to tell Katherine that the King was dead, she could not believe him. Not Henry, not the mighty conqueror of her country, not the lover, husband and father of her child.

She stared at him incredulously, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘No. It cannot be so.’

John, the great Duke of Bedford, who had loved his brother Henry well and had always declared it was his dearest wish to serve him with all his might, and had indeed proved that this was so, now regarded her with melancholy eyes.

‘His last thoughts were for you,’ he told her. ‘“Comfort my dear wife,” he said. “This day she will be the most afflicted creature living.”’

She continued to stare at him with disbelieving eyes.

She murmured: ‘He was a little sick … yes … But death …! Oh no … not that.’

‘He should have rested. He insisted on going to Burgundy’s aid.’

Anger showed in her eyes, momentarily subduing her grief. All her life had been overshadowed by the conflict between Burgundy and Orléans. And once again it was Burgundy.

‘You knew him as I did,’ went on the Duke. ‘He would never rest while there was a battle to be fought.’

She murmured quietly: ‘England … France … my son … What shall we do now?’

The Duke laid his hands on her shoulders and drawing her to him gently kissed her brow.

‘It is for God to decide,’ he said.

And because he knew there was nothing else he could do to comfort her he called one of her women to him.

‘Leave her with her grief,’ he said. ‘But be prepared. It will be terrible when she realises what this means.’

So he was dead, the seemingly invincible Harry, the very mention of whose name had struck terror into the French. Since his coming to the throne he had left his dissolute life behind him and had devoted himself to winning the crown of France. He had been tall, handsome, virile, active yet gentle and just in his dealings save when his anger was aroused. Then men compared him with a lion. He was a man who refused to see failure and forever after when men spoke of him they would think of Agincourt, that famous battle into which he led his men with all the fire and confidence of a conqueror so that his tiny army, depleted by sickness, had faced the might of France and won a resounding victory. It had been a more than victorious battle for it heralded the end of the war which had been going on since the days when Edward III decided that he had a claim to France.

And just as the great warrior was about to accept the fruits of his conquest, he had taken to his bed and died.

Katherine might well ask, What now?

She was twenty-one. Not very old but it might be that a childhood fraught with disasters had prepared her in some way for them.

In Windsor Castle in England a nine months old boy was living cared for by his nurses under the control of Henry’s brother Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. That little boy – Henry like his father – was the most important child in England, because on the sudden death of his father he had now become England’s King.

Now that she had grown accustomed to the fact that Henry was dead a calmness settled on Katherine. Her brother-in-law John would tell her what to do and she would trust him, as Henry had.

She travelled from Senlis to the Castle of Vincennes where Henry lay and when she looked on the dead body of her husband her calmness deserted her and for the first time since she had heard the news, she wept. It was as though at last she realised what the death of Henry meant, and she was desolate, afraid of the future.

There were so many who wished to talk to her. His body must be taken back to England, they said. There should be no delay. But the Duke of Bedford had ordered that her wishes should be respected in every way.

She wanted to be alone, she said, just for an hour … alone to think. She ordered that her horse should be saddled; she had a desire for the solitude which the forest could offer.

So they saddled her horse and she rode out into the Bois de Vincennes while at a respectful distance the King’s squires waited for her. When she dismounted one of the squires hurried forward to take her horse. She looked at him. He was young, about her own age, tall, dark, with a face which interested her.

She said: ‘I have a mind to rest here for a little while. The forest is beautiful at this time of year. Do you agree?’

‘It is, my lady,’ he replied. He had an accent which she found difficult to understand, but then she was not as proficient in the English language as she would have liked to be. She remembered afresh how Henry had laughed at her delivery of some words. ‘I must improve,’ she had said demurely. ‘No,’ he had cried. ‘I like it your way, Kate. Don’t change. Just stay my little French Kate.’

She wondered if she was going on all her life remembering.

She said: ‘Already there are signs of autumn.’

‘It’s so, my lady,’ answered the squire.

‘It is sad … the summer over. The leaves are already changing colour. Soon the branches will be stark and bare.’

A terrible melancholy had come over her. As with my life, she thought. He is gone. Summer is over. The winter is coming on. Then she looked at the squire. He was very young – in the springtime of life one might say.

‘How old are you?’ she asked impulsively.

He looked surprised as though wondering of what interest his age could possibly be to this Queen.

But he answered promptly: ‘I am about to be twenty-one.’

She looked at him and smiled. A moment ago she had been thinking how young he was, with his life before him; and he was just her age.

It was like a revelation. Henry was dead; but she was alive and she was young. She was beautiful; she might be the widow of Henry the Conqueror but she was also the mother of Henry the Sixth of England and there was so much left to her. There was her baby to care for. Her whole life lay before her. She had lived through terrible hazards in the past; she would do so again if necessary.

For a few moments her melancholy had lifted. She smiled dazzlingly at the young squire.

‘I will return to the castle now,’ she said. ‘There is much to be done.’

Obediently he helped her to mount.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She looked at him steadily. ‘You have a strange way of talking,’ she went on in halting English. ‘I think you could say the same of me.’

He did not know what to answer and she smiled at him again.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what is your country? Where do you come from?’

‘I come from Wales, my lady,’ he answered.

‘Wales. Oh yes, I have heard the King speak of Wales. Tell me your name.’

‘It is Owen Tudor, my lady.’

‘Owen Tudor,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you, Owen Tudor. You have done well.’

She rode thoughtfully back to the castle. A hope had returned to her. It was strange that it should have happened during a few moments’ conversation with a Welsh squire.

They laid the King’s body in a chariot which was to be drawn by four horses. She had ordered that an effigy should be made resembling him as near as possible, and that this should be placed above the coffin and borne across France to Calais. On the head of the image was set a crown of gold and brilliant gems and about its shoulders was a purple velvet cloak trimmed with ermine. In the right hand was placed a sceptre and in the left a golden orb. It was uncanny. As though Henry had come to life again to observe his funeral rites.