She never does see the tomb at Kings Langley, no matter how she asks. It’s the smallest thing King Henry could give her, a kindness so small it is almost invisible — but the same queasy look crosses his face at the prospect, or she imagines it to when her envoys (such as they are) return to her empty-handed. Not even under guard, in the company of his own fine and strapping young sons, perhaps — the new king doesn’t take the bait, and as soon as he departs from her chambers she lies down on the stones and weeps herself sick.