The Forbidden Queen (46 page)

Wistfully, I turned my attention back to James, who continued to expand on his good fortune. ‘An extortionate ransom of sixty thousand marks.’ He laughed with a sardonic bark. ‘Good to know they see my worth. In their generosity, I get to pay it in annual instalments.’ His cynical smile sat strangely on his youthful features, but he had learned cynicism before all else in his protracted exile. ‘I hope it won’t beggar Scotland. They’ll not want me back if it does.’

‘Of course they will,’ I assured him, my attention snagged by a raucous burst of laughter.

One face in the
mêlée
of young men, and younger than most, caught my eye. A vital face with fine dark brows and russet eyes that glittered with high spirits.

‘And do you know the best of it?’ James continued, unaware of my wandering appreciation. ‘I get my wife. I get Joan.’ He leaned to where Joan hovered, close enough to overhear, snatched her hand and pulled her closer still until his arm was wound around her waist. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. Or if I did, we would both be in our dotage before we climbed into the marriage bed together and I would be incapable.’

Joan giggled, her cheeks pink, and I smiled on them, even as claws of jealousy raked at my heart. Joan positively shimmered with happiness and James’s love for her was written on his face far more clearly than it had ever been in his verses. I clenched my fists in the folds of my skirts. I would curb such instincts as base as envy.

‘Have they set a date for your marriage?’ I asked, aware now of a frown between James’s eyes, but again my interest was caught elsewhere.

The young man with russet eyes and hair to match had snatched off his cap, flinging it to one of his friends, and was demonstrating a flamboyant thrust of an imaginary sword. He lunged, overbalanced, righted himself with a graceful turn of foot and burst into laughter. His companions mocked but slapped him on the back in easy camaraderie.
He might be younger than most of them but he had a place in their society. When he retaliated with a series of quick punches to those who tormented him, I found myself smiling because I could do no other.

And, of course, I knew those features. When he turned to face me, repeating the thrust with an agile wrist, I saw the Beaufort family resemblance was strong. Joan’s hair might be lighter, her eyes more brown than russet, but the smile was the same, the quick winging brows.

Here was her brother.

‘No, they have not set a date for the marriage yet.’ I heard James remark in reply to my question. ‘They say it will be as soon as it can be arranged—although I have my doubts.’ He shook off his concern, probably for the sake of Joan, who had begun to look anxious again, and he seized my hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll live in hope—have I not done so for the past dozen years and more? And I’ll expect you to dance at my wedding.’

‘I don’t dance,’ I said flatly. My baser nature was still lurking around my mood, reluctant to let go and be banished.

‘Well, you should.’ For the first time he really looked at my face. ‘What’s wrong, Katherine? You don’t look happy.’ I shook my head. This was no day for my unreasonable miseries. ‘In fact…’ he pursued, frowning.

Immediately I stood, more than a little embarrassed that he should see so great a change in me. ‘Perhaps you should introduce your friends.’

As a distraction it worked well enough. ‘Most of them you know.’ He complied, drawing the young men forward to make their bow. ‘And here,’ he announced, ‘is Edmund.’

‘My brother thought he ought to come to wish me well, my lady,’ Joan said, pulling the young man before me. I saw love and admiration in her face, and was not surprised.

He bowed, more ostentatiously than was necessary in so intimate a setting, and I remembered his flamboyance with the invisible sword. Clearly he was a man to draw attention to himself, as was proved when the feathers of his velvet cap swept the floor, his arms spread in the deepest respect, until he looked up at me beneath his well-etched brows. He laughed aloud, his eyes full of mischief.

‘My sister does me a disservice, my lady. I am not at her beck and call. Neither am I under orders from the newly restored King of Scotland.’ His smile touched my heart as he took my hand and raised it formally to his lips. They were warm and dry against my skin and I shivered at their light brush as Edmund Beaufort continued, smoothly courteous, holding my gaze with his. ‘I am come to pay my respects to the Young King. And, of course, to his lady mother.’

He hesitated as if he was lacking in assurance, but I knew he was not. None of the Beauforts lacked assurance. ‘If my lady will receive me here as a guest, in her household, as the King’s cousin?’

The question made my heart flutter. How strange that he should ask it, and in so personal a manner. Why would I not receive him? The strange intensity of him undermined my habitual polite response, and I found myself searching for a reply, caught up in his stare.

His family history was not unknown to me, redolent as it was with past scandals. The Beaufort bloodline was descended from John of Lancaster and his mistress of many years Katherine Swynford. A scandalous, illegitimate line, of course, but on the marriage of the infamous pair the children had been subsequently legitimised and had married into the aristocratic families of the realm. Now, formidably ambitious, precociously gifted and intelligent as well as blood related to the King, they were one of the foremost families in the land.

And this was Edmund Beaufort, son of the Earl of Somerset and nephew of Bishop Henry, and of course Joan’s brother. And second cousin to my son. A young man from a family skilled in warfare and politics, obviously destined for great things, as were all his family, although he had been too young to fight in the recent wars in France at Henry’s side.

How old was he? I considered the years behind the supreme confidence, beneath the fluid line of muscle given attention by his fashionable tunic with its luxuriant sleeves and jewelled clasps. Less than twenty years old, I thought. Younger than I. But he had grown up since I had last seen him, a youth under Bishop Henry’s care,
when I had first come to England. Taller and broader, he would make a fine soldier now that he was grown into his strength.

‘My lady?’

I had been staring at him. ‘You are welcome,’ I managed as he bowed low again over my hand, brushing my fingers once more in chivalrous salute. And he did not release his clasp until I tugged my hand away, and then he did so with a rueful smile.

‘Forgive me, my lady. I am sorely blinded by your beauty. As is every man here.’

It took my breath. I could only stare at him, as he stared back at me. Men did not flirt so openly with the Queen Dowager. Men did not flirt at all.

James, still caught up in his own woes and oblivious to any undercurrents, continued to expound. ‘I still thought they would never release me, even with the document and the pen to hand.’

‘Of course they would.’ Edmund, abandoning me with a charming smile much older than his years, punched him on the arm. ‘Have sense, man. Think about it. What will your return to Scotland bring of benefit to England? Peace between the two countries. Particularly if you decide you were well treated here.’

James gave a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s why the Exchequer has agreed to provide me with a tunic in cloth of gold for my wedding.’

‘Of course. And in grateful thanks for your cloth of
gold you will do exactly what England demands of you. You will withdraw all Scottish aid to French armies, and you will stop any plundering along the border between our two countries.’

I was impressed. How precocious he was, and how cynical, as were all the Beaufort clan. I could not look away as he stood, hands fisted on hips, outlining the future of English relations with Scotland. Edmund grinned, spreading his hands, long fingered and elegant. ‘The cloth of gold is the last payment England will have to make for you. You’ll be home in no time after the New Year. And we will send you off in good spirits, will we not, my lady?’ He had spun round. Again, before I could prepare for it, that red-brown gaze was devouring my face and I felt myself flushing almost as rosily as Joan.

‘What do you say, my lady?’ he whispered, as if it were some intimate invitation.

And all I could do was swallow the breath caught fast in my throat.

‘As for that, if you’ll have us,’ James interrupted, as he gestured to encompass his friends, ‘we’re in mind to stay here with you for Christmas and the New Year.’

‘And the possibility of spending it with your newly affianced wife…’ I managed to chide, pleased to have the attention drawn away from me.

‘… has nothing to do with it.’ But James’s hand sought Joan’s again.

‘And you, Lord Edmund? Do your family expect you?’
I held my breath, not quite knowing why. Or perhaps not willing to admit to it.

‘No, my lady. I am here at your disposal.’ His face was a miracle of deference.

‘There are no festivities planned,’ I warned. ‘We live quietly.’ I thought I sounded ungracious and tried to make amends. ‘That is to say that usually we see no need to feast and…’ This was no better. Windsor sounded much like a convent of aging nuns.

‘Quietly?’ Edmund interrupted, grinning. ‘It’s no better than a damned tomb. It’s a dismal place. Old King Edward, who feasted and frolicked at every opportunity, must be turning in his grave. I think we should celebrate.’

‘Celebrate what?’ James asked warily, which gave me pause. It made me think that he might have had experience of some of Beaufort’s wilder schemes. I could imagine Edmund Beaufort being wild.

‘Your release, man. Let’s make it a Christmas and Twelfth Night to remember.’ And Edmund Beaufort actually grasped my hand, linking his fingers with mine before I could react. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Shall we shake Windsor back into life? Shall we make the old rooms echo with our play?’

Edmund Beaufort was irrepressible.
Queen Kat?
No one had ever called me that. But my heart was lighter. For the first time in many weeks my spirits had risen, and my room was full of noise and laughter. I did not know
whether to laugh or rebuke him for his lack of respect. I did neither, for he gave me no time.

‘Do you object to games and dancing, Majesty? I do hope not.’ Releasing me as fast as he had seized hold of me, he swept me another magnificent bow, as full of mockery as it was possible to be, following it with a dozen agile dance steps that took him to plant a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. ‘We’ll celebrate around you if you’ve no taste for it—and you can sit on your dignity and let us get on with it.’

I laughed at the irreverent picture, and at Beatrice’s astonished discomfiture. But there he was, waiting for my reply.

‘Well, Cousin Queen? Do we celebrate with you or around you? Or do we leave you to your misery and take ourselves off to Westminster instead?’

I was struck by an overwhelming longing to be part of this youthful group.

‘Let me arrange the festivities for you,’ Edmund Beaufort pleaded in false anxiety. ‘I will die of boredom if you refuse. Let me loose to bring this place back to life again.’

And you too
. I heard the implication that was not spoken.

Entirely baffled, I felt the prickle of tears at his concern.

‘I’d let him if I were you,’ James remarked. ‘He’ll only badger you into insensibility if you don’t.’

‘Please let us dance, my lady,’ Joan added.

‘And even play games. We are not too old for games,’ Meg observed.

‘I would like it too,’ Beatrice added solemnly.

I raised my palms, helpless before all the expectant faces. ‘It seems that we celebrate,’ I managed.

Edmund crowed at his success. ‘Then we will. I’m at your feet, my lady. Your wish is my command.’ True to his statement, he flung himself to his knees and raised the hem of my gown to his lips. When he looked up his face was all vivid life and expectation. ‘We will turn night into day. We will transmute shadows into brightest sunlight.’

That was what I wanted.

The years fell away from me.

Edmund Beaufort took control with a snap of his impertinent fingers. I had never met anyone with so much inexhaustible energy. Or such a charmingly insolent denial of authority, such wanton disregard for my enforced cold respectability as Queen Dowager and Queen Mother. Or such wilful casting aside of court etiquette. Unleashed on the quiet Court at Windsor, Edmund Beaufort blew the cobwebs from the tapestries and stirred the old rooms into joyful activity, breathing life into rooms that had not seen occupation for years. I found myself at the centre of a whirlwind.

Our staid court became a place of ragingly youthful high spirits, the young courtiers who elected to remain with James and my damsels in no manner reluctant to be drawn into Edmund’s plans. It was as if they were awakened from a long sleep, and I too. I was drawn in whether I wished it or no. And I did. I came alive, my despondency
and desolation vanishing like mist under early morning sun. There was no lying abed in those frosty December mornings when the sound of the hunting horn beneath my window blasted me into activity. Neither was I allowed to cry off. We hunted through the days, come fair weather or foul.

Some days, seeing my wariness around horses, Edmund arranged that we take the hawks out into the marshes on foot. There was little sport to be had, nothing but wet feet and icy fingers and shivering limbs by the time that the noon hour approached, but Edmund, in his role of Overseer of Inordinate Pleasure, had all arranged with my Master of Household. As the pale sun reached its zenith, wagons pulled by oxen trundled towards us along the track.

‘What is this?’ I squinted against the hazy sun.

‘Everything for your comfort, of course, my lady.’

I watched with astonishment.

‘When did he arrange this?’ I asked James, who stood with his arm openly around Joan’s shoulders.

‘Lord knows. He’s a past master. Give him an inch…’

And he would take a dozen miles. As he had. Hot braziers, the air shimmering around them, were manhandled onto the ground in our midst. Heaped platters of bread and meat and cheese, bowls of steaming pottage, flagons of warm spiced ale were all unloaded and a group of minstrels produced their instruments, blowing on their cold fingers. Soon the marshes echoed to music and song.