Epitaph for Three Women

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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.

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