Root of the Tudor Rose by Mari Griffith

love.’
    â€˜Are you happy?’
    â€˜Mmmm. Of course. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜Because I would like everybody in the world to be as happy as we are.’
    â€˜Oh, yes? Now is that everybody, my sweet, or do you have anyone particular in mind?’
    â€˜Joan,’ said Catherine. ‘She is very lovely and so unhappy.’
    â€˜Joan who? Belknap?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Courcy?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Not the old trout?’
    Catherine gave a little squeal of laughter. ‘Oh, Henry! How can you call her that! Poor Troutbeck! No, not Joanna. Joan. Joan Beaufort, your uncle Henry Beaufort’s niece. Margaret’s daughter. Your kinswoman. My kinswoman, too, by marriage. I am concerned for her.’
    Henry raised himself on his elbow and looked at her in the dim light. ‘Ah, but she wants to marry James of Scotland,’ he said, ‘and I have expressly forbidden it.’
    â€˜But why, Henry? They are both very much in love and they could be as happy as we are.’
    â€˜Because, well, because … because there was a time when he refused to bear arms under my banner. Insolent young puppy. Needs to be taught a lesson.’
    â€˜But he has a great deal of respect for you, Henry. He said so only this afternoon.’
    Henry was quiet for a moment. ‘Did he really?’
    â€˜Yes, he did. Talk to him tomorrow. For my sake. You could make him the happiest man in Christendom.’
    â€˜Next to me.’
    â€˜Next to you, of course.’
    Henry paused then, after a moment, he said: ‘Very well, you sweet witch, you have beguiled me yet again. As long as James has come to his senses, I don’t really mind him marrying. I’m not against the marriage in principle but he’s still very young. It won’t hurt them to wait a year or so. Anyway, I will discuss it with him tomorrow since you have asked me so prettily. In the meantime …’
    Henry reached for her again and didn’t see her little smile of triumph as she slid her body obligingly under his.

Chapter Six
    Leicester, Easter 1421
    March had turned very cold, just when Catherine thought that spring was coming at last. No sooner were the catkins dancing on the hazel trees to gladden the heart than winter delivered one last stab in the back, riming the reed beds with hoar frost, freezing the cart tracks on muddy roads, and making life well-nigh impossible for travellers. Still, Henry had sent for her and she was glad to go to him, even though it meant an arduous journey from London to Leicester.
    It had upset her that he’d wanted to leave Westminster within a few days of her coronation. Why? She didn’t understand. Was he in any way displeased with her? Perhaps he was, because he was clearly irritated by having to explain to her that he now needed to make contact with his subjects again as a matter of urgency. He had been away in France too long. The people would forget what he looked like unless he went out to meet them and how else would he persuade them to finance his army?
    Catherine had tried to argue that there were plenty of people in London who saw him very regularly but Henry had countered her argument by pointing out that, though it was crowded, London was quite a small place. The real money lay with the big landowners outside London. Those were the people he wanted to talk to. Those were the people whose money he wanted, the people who would send their tenants to swell the ranks of his army.
    So he left with a small retinue headed by his confessor, Bishop William Alnwick, a man who had served him well throughout his time in France, a man on whom Henry relied for spiritual guidance and Christian fellowship. Alnwick rode behind the King as they left Westminster heading west towards the town of Bristol. From there they would strike northwards through the Welsh marches, first to Hereford and then on to Shrewsbury.
    Catherine felt surprisingly lonely without