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.

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.