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He is praying.
Of course he is praying.
When the entire court are dancing and laughing - their heads thrown back in unrestrained glee, drinking and dancing and delighting - Henry has come to his private chapel, clasped his hands together, and supplicated himself before the Lord.
Margaret tries to pretend that she does not notice. A king should not spend his whole time on his prie-dieu, surely? He should be first among his men, winner of the jousts, arbiter of the melees, and central part of the band of brothers. A little like his father, perhaps? The infamous Henry V, the scourge of France and then its king. When she had arrived to be Henry's wife, that is what Margaret had been expecting.
Not this man in a shabby coat, who always has his eyes on God.
Slipping inside the private chapel, Margaret closes the door behind her. She is not yet used to her new name; Margaret and Marguerite are close, sisters even, but still they are not the same. She is a new person here and must get used to the new garments. Back at home in France she had been a daughter and a sister, as well as pawn and player with all the potential in the world. Now she is just Henry's queen. Henry's wife.
We need an heir, she thinks, as she begins to move towards her husband. That was the duty of a queen, no? To fill her husband's hall with a multitude of children. Her own mother had birthed ten children, and of those only four had survived - Marguerite, Yolande, Louis, and Jean. Louis is already dead and buried, but the others are still alive.
She wonders if she will ever see them again. She thinks not.
Walking down the aisle, Margaret's shoes make a soft shuffling sound against the polished tiles, but Henry does not lift his head. Instead, he continues to whisper his prayers - his voice low - and keeps his mind on the ethereal rather than corporal world.
"Henry?"
"Henry?"
"Henry?"
He looks up, his eyes dark and strangely distant. "Oh Margaret, it is you."
"Yes, it is me." She reaches out to touch him, but he instantly flinches away. "I thought I would come and see you."
He smiles, sweet and kind. She cannot imagine such an expression on the face of his father, the man who had burned down half of France in pursuit of a crown. "Thank you, wife. I appreciate that you thought to come and see me. There was so much noise in there..."
He does not look back to the door through which Margaret has just come, nor gestured in the direction of the great crowd she knows is pressing to see him in one of the other rooms of the palace. It is like the threat of a Minotaur, breathing down their necks at a distance. Knowing that Henry is not one to make himself the centre of attention, or arm himself in search of a fight, Margaret kneels down beside her husband and shuts the world of the court behind impenetrable doors in her mind.
Somewhere distant, a church bell rings.
"Henry."
"Margaret."
"We need to talk."
That faint smile again. "Do we?"
"Yes." She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "The rattle of York's sabre is getting louder by the day. We need to do something."
"I am praying that God will show me the way."
It sounds devoted, pious, but also incredibly naive. "Henry. While I am sure our heavenly father is listening to your prayers, we need to do something here, something today to sort out our predicament."
"Our predicament?" Henry seems confused. "What predicament?"
"That you are a king without brothers..."
"I have brothers..."
"Edmund and Jasper do not count," says Margaret, a little too firmly. "I mean brothers who share your father's blood, your royal blood. And you do not have brothers and you do not have sons, meaning that snake York is parading around as if he were king himself."
"Then what do you propose we do about it?"
Margaret does not want to do it, but she knows she must. Reaching out with the speed of a bravado in street combat, she pulls Henry's hand from his prayers and grasps it tightly. His eyes go wide. In four years of marriage, they have never touched like this; with purpose, with her leading away. In fact, they have rarely touched at all.
"We need to make an heir. You need to have a son."
He went a little pale, almost snow white, and it makes Margaret want to reach out and comfort him. Like him, she has had no desire to pursue the physical love that others seem to cherish and find such joy in, but she knows no other way to get a child. It is hardly as if the Archangel Gabriel will appear bearing good tidings on this cold day in Windsor, is it?
"Margaret, Marguerite... I cannot... I..."
"It will be an easy thing, just a few short minutes. Two bodies in communion in the way god intended. Once we have the child, once we have our son... we need never do it again." She can see the terror in his eyes, so gives him a kind smile in the hopes that it will soothe him. "Henry, there is more than just our pleasure at stake here. Our throne, our crowns, our lives. Please, you must consider it."
Perhaps recognising the fear in her voice, Henry's own terror subsides, and it is replaced by that faraway expression that Margaret thinks of as entirely Henry's own. "My dear," he says, his voice suddenly that of a merciful king. "For the love of you, I will consider it, but not tonight."
"Henry, I—"
"Not tonight," he repeats, this time firmer. "I am the king of England, and the king of my own chamber. I will call for you when I want you."
Knowing that will be never, Margaret nevertheless bows her head. If she ever hopes for a son, a child of her own, maybe her eyes will have to drift elsewhere. The very thought is repugnant. She gets up to go, but Henry squeezes her fingers, showing her a flash of determination. It almost startles her.
"Pray with me," he says.
It is a command, not a request.
She does.