Owen (13 page)

A flicker of concern crosses her face. ‘Edmund and Jasper... where did they take them?’

‘They are safe.’ I try a smile, although it is not how I feel as I miss my sons and worry about them. ‘I will bring Edmund and Jasper to see you when the baby is born.’

A week turns into a month and I settle into a routine of visiting Catherine, passing the rest of my days helping the young Welsh priest, Thomas Lewis, deal with the many travellers and poor who come to the Abbey of St Saviour. As the chill of winter approaches Catherine becomes obsessed by the idea she will never see her sons again. She repeatedly asks me to bring them to see her, even though I patiently explain it is not possible.

One morning I find her dictating her last will and testament to one of the nuns. Catherine’s preoccupation with her own death is unsettling. She describes vivid dreams where she sees her funeral, with me leading mourners down the long aisle of Westminster Abbey. Thomas Lewis tries to put my troubled mind at rest, pointing out it is natural for her to be concerned as she reaches full term, although I know it is a bad omen.

As the New Year approaches I worry about Catherine’s health. Her cheeks are hollow and her once lustrous hair is thinning, although she has yet to reach her fortieth year. Her bright blue eyes still show the vitality I found so attractive, yet her lapses of memory become more frequent. Sometimes she stares as if seeing me for the first time.

Her latest wish is for me to bring Harry to see her. She pleads with me, saying the touch of a king can heal the sick. I have not dared set foot outside the sanctuary of the abbey grounds, and am not convinced the king would find it easy to see his mother in such a condition. I take her hand in mine and tell her I love her. I promise as soon as the baby is born we will present her to her half-brother Harry.

I kneel in the abbey chapel for the New Year’s Eve service and pray for my wife. I also say a prayer for our unborn child and wonder what lies ahead for us all as the bells clang high in their tower to mark the dawn of a new year. Too concerned for Catherine to enjoy any celebration, I retire to my bed and escape into dreams of happier times.

I wake to feel someone shaking me and calling out my name, then recognise Briony’s worried face in the near darkness. Her long, dark hair, normally plaited under her headdress, straggles lank and loose over her shoulders. There are red spots of blood on her linen apron. The waiting is over.

‘The baby?’

Briony nods. ‘You have a daughter.’

My mind is filled with urgent questions. ‘How is Catherine?’

Briony shakes her head and tries to suppress a sob. I glance at my sleeping friends and lead her out into the abbey cloisters. There has been a heavy frost overnight and I shiver in my nightshirt as I wait for Briony to compose herself and tell me what I don’t want to hear.

Briony dries her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Catherine is weak.’ Briony glances towards the infirmary as if she doesn’t want to return. ‘She is asking for you.’

’Let me have a moment and I’ll come with you.’

I dress without waking the snoring figures in the room and follow Briony in the dark to the infirmary, now lit with a dozen tallow candles, which give off a flickering yellow light. Catherine is awake, cradling our new daughter in her arms.

She looks up as I enter. ‘Owen.’ Her voice sounds weak. ‘Have you brought my sons to see me?’

‘No, Catherine. The hour is late. They are sleeping.’

I pull up a chair to sit at her bedside and glance at Briony, who withdraws to leave us alone together. The baby is tightly wrapped in clean white linen and its eyes are closed. All I can see is a tiny pale face and a wisp of dark hair. For a second I wonder if our daughter is still alive, then she screws up her face and gives a little cough.

I reach across and she opens her eyes as I caress her hair. I feel a powerful sense of relief, followed by a deep sense of foreboding. My instinct tells me there is something wrong. I remember how our sons were so full of life from the moment they were born, yet our daughter seems so delicate, with the same sickly pallor as her mother.

Catherine forces a smile. ‘Margaret...’

‘After my mother.’ I smile back at her. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I need to rest... but I am glad that now the worst is over.’

I kiss her on the forehead. Her brow is feverish. ‘You must sleep, Catherine. Briony will take care of our daughter.’

There are beads of sweat on Catherine’s forehead, so I cross the room to where a jug and bowl stand on a table and pour a little of the icy water onto a piece of clean linen. When I place the dampened cloth on her brow she closes her eyes with the soothing pleasure of it.

‘I love you, Catherine, with all my heart, and pray to God you will soon be well.’

She doesn’t answer.

In the three days after our daughter’s birth I watch her become a shadow of the woman I first met all those years ago in Windsor. The nuns tell me there is little they can do for her but pray, so I ask Nathaniel to deliver an urgent message to the king, asking him to send his best physicians. They have yet to arrive and in my heart I fear it will be too late.

‘Owen...’

Her voice is so soft I have to lean over her and strain to hear. ‘I’m here, Catherine.’

‘Please tell my sons... I love them dearly.’

‘I will.’

I take her frail hand in mine as I have done so often to comfort her in the past. The familiar gold rings on her thin fingers feel loose. Someone has manicured her nails, each one perfectly trimmed. I guess it must have been Briony. I give her hand a comforting squeeze, which she always returns. It is our way of reassuring each other everything is alright. Catherine doesn’t squeeze my hand and I look into her ice-blue eyes. They are wide open but I know I have lost her. I hold her in my arms for one last time and weep.

I find I am looking forward to the challenge of the long ride ahead, as it offers a way of dealing with my grief at the double loss of my wife and only daughter, who has not lived for a week. The baby cried plaintively for her mother, using the last ounce of strength in her tiny lungs to wail in protest at being left. Briony did all she could, staying up all night to care for her, yet the child simply wouldn’t feed.

The island of Ynys Mon is almost three hundred miles north-west of Southwark, but I feel an ancient connection with the place of my birth and have nowhere else to go. Thomas and Nathaniel understand why I cannot stay for Catherine’s funeral. It is almost certain I will be arrested if I do, with an increased risk of being captured on the roads leading out of the city if I delay my departure any longer.

My saddlebags are hastily packed with half my fortune of gold and silver, entrusting Nathaniel with the safe keeping of my remaining possessions. I wear my sword with pride, my gift from Catherine and a sign to the world that I am a free man, with the rights of an Englishman to travel as I please.

I ride hard all day and spend an uncomfortable night in a hayloft before continuing at first light. As I reach the outskirts of the town of Northampton I hear the urgent rumble of hooves on the hard ground behind me and turn to see a troop of the king’s soldiers approaching.

A commanding voice calls out. ‘You there! Halt!’

I consider trying to outrun them but the landscape is bleak and open, with no cover in any direction. I turn my Welsh Cob in the road and wait for them to approach.

Their captain addresses me again. ‘Are you Owen Tudor, formerly of the royal household?’

‘I am.’ There didn’t seem to be any point in denying it.

‘You are summoned by the messengers of the council to appear before the king.’ He glances at the armed soldiers to each side of him, as if to warn them to be ready for trouble. ‘My orders are to bring you to the Palace of Westminster.’

I sense the young captain is unsure of his ground. ‘Are those the king’s orders, Captain?’

‘They are the orders of the Duke of Gloucester, who acts in the name of the king.’

I know there is no chance of escape. ‘I will come with you if I have the word of the Duke of Gloucester that I can explain myself to the king.’

‘The duke is in London.’ The captain seems confused as to how he can grant my request.

‘I will ride with you to London and then you must secure the duke’s word—in writing.’

The captain seems relieved to have a way out and leads me back towards London while his men follow behind. As we approach Westminster I am increasingly concerned about walking into a trap. The king will be of age on the sixth of December, after which time the duke will no longer be able to act in his name. In the meantime, I have to find a way to force Duke Humphrey to provide me with his surety of safe conduct.

The solution appears before me as we approach the towering Palace of Westminster. My guards are tired from the long ride and their captain rides a little way ahead. As we pass a water-filled horse trough I slip from the saddle while my horse drinks his fill. I unbuckle my precious saddlebags and run with them until my lungs are burning in my chest. I can hear men shouting behind me as I dart into the servants’ passage and through into the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey.

Seeking sanctuary is not a simple matter, as the right to grant sanctuary is at the discretion of the abbot. I do my best to explain my situation to one of the older monks, who listens carefully, then asks me to be seated while the matter is considered. After an agonising wait I am granted an audience with the Abbot of Westminster.

Abbot Richard Harweden is simply dressed in black Benedictine robes, although around his neck he wears a crucifix on a heavy gold chain which belies his humble appearance. He listens impassively while I repeat my story, interrupting only when I say how my youngest son died in the abbey infirmary during childbirth.

‘Your son lives. He will become a postulant when he is of age. Until that time he is being raised as a member of our community of St Benedict.’

‘I was led to believe he was dead?’ The news is almost too difficult to comprehend.

‘I regret you were misinformed. The queen dowager was not in any condition to care for him and gave her consent for your son to join our order.’

Now I see why Catherine had been so insistent and feel a stab of regret at how I had been so quick to doubt her. ‘I didn’t know.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘Is he here now?’

Abbot Harweden inclines his head. ‘He is not, although he will return here when he is older.’

‘I would like to see him, Your Grace, when it is possible.’

The abbot studies me appraisingly. ‘I will grant you sanctuary while you wait for the letter of safe conduct, Master Tudor. May God be with you.’

‘And with you, Your Grace.’

I find my way to the scriptorium, where rows of monks copy Latin texts. One of them agrees to let me write a message to Nathaniel, and I briefly explain that I am safe but
Fortune's Wheel
has turned against me. I give the monk a silver groat in return for his promise to deliver it to Nathaniel at Bermondsey Abbey. Then all I can do is wait and pray.

I soon begin to tire of the austere life in sanctuary and risk a visit to a nearby tavern. Although I wear a hooded cape I am recognised in the street by a man of the king’s guard, who tries to arrest me. I escape down an alleyway and run to Westminster Abbey as fast as I can, lucky to reach my sanctuary before the guard can catch me, but it is a reminder of the dangers London now holds for me.

A week later Nathaniel and Thomas visit with news that Catherine is to be buried here in the abbey. I realise I will be able to be present at the service after all, although I decide to take the precaution of cutting my hair short and shaving my beard, dressing in the plain robes of a monk to reduce the chances of being recognised again. I watch Catherine’s funeral from a distance with the other postulate monks and no one gives me a second glance. Even the monks seem to have forgotten the reason for my being with them.

 
I find it convenient to escape from my grief into the strict Benedictine routine. Waking at midnight, the monks leave their beds in the dormitory for Matins followed by Lauds, before returning to sleep until daybreak, when Prime is sung. After a light breakfast of bread and watery ale, I join in the chantry masses for the souls of those who are buried in Westminster Abbey. Each day I pray for Catherine’s soul. Sometimes tears run down my face as I listen to the poignant singing of the masses and think of her. I miss my wife and pray that our sons Edmund and Jasper are safe and well. I also pray for the soul of a baby daughter I never had the chance to know.

At nine the first mass is celebrated at the high altar in the presbytery, followed by prayers and what are called announcements, where duties and penances are assigned. I help with my share of the cleaning and polishing, a small price to pay for my food and lodgings, although both are frugal and I notice my ribs are beginning to show after the poor monastic diet.

Shortly before noon the bell rings for dinner and I join the monks to wash in the laver, where there is clean water and towels to dry our hands. After dinner the afternoon is marked by the services of none at two o'clock and vespers at four, each taking about half an hour. After a light, plain meal, followed by the singing of compline, I retire to sleep.

* * *

December dawns and the day of the king’s sixteenth birthday finally arrives. I request an audience with the king to explain my situation. After an anxious wait I receive word that he has agreed but our meeting is to be in front of the royal council, which includes Duke Humphrey as well as Cardinal Beaufort. I know that both, as advisors to the king, will take the opportunity to poison young Harry’s mind against me, but I have no option now and my only wish is to be allowed to continue on my way to Wales.

I stand before the great council dressed in a plain black doublet and wearing my fine sword and dagger for the first time since I sought sanctuary. It feels strange after living for so long as a monk but I wear them as a reminder to those who would sit in judgment of me that I have been granted the rights of an Englishman.

King Henry sits between his senior advisors, stony-faced Duke Humphrey to the left and Cardinal Beaufort, in scarlet robes, to his right. Henry looks pale and the gold coronet he wears seems heavy on his head. He stares impassively at me without any sign of recognition, confirming my fear it will not be easy to persuade him my intentions were honourable.

Duke Humphrey speaks first. ‘Owen Tudor... you are called here to account for your conduct as a member of the late queen dowager’s household.’ His voice is cold. ‘It is your right to make a statement before the council makes its judgement on you.’

I address the king. ‘I am, Your Highness, your loyal liege man.’ I glance at the duke, then at Cardinal Beaufort. ‘Whatever anyone has told you, I swear I have always served and protected the late Queen Catherine, your mother, with honesty, loyalty and integrity.’

My words echo from the ceiling of the great council chamber. Duke Humphrey leans across and speaks to the king in a low voice I can’t hear, although I see how Henry nods in understanding. The other members of the council, bishops and nobles, seem to regard me with new interest following my statement.

Cardinal Beaufort gives me a dispassionate stare. ‘If you are as innocent and loyal as you claim, Tudor...’ He pauses for effect. ‘Why is it you felt the need to seek sanctuary with the monks of Westminster Abbey?’

I am prepared for the question. ‘The Duke of Gloucester’s men came to the late Bishop Morgan’s house to arrest me, Your Grace.’ I turn to Duke Humphrey now. ‘Queen Catherine told his men she wished for me to accompany her to the Abbey of St Saviour, which I did. After her death, I decided to return to my homeland and was arrested again and brought to London, where I sought sanctuary only until the king reached his majority.’

The conviction in my answer seems to silence any further questioners, so I take the opportunity to address the king again.

‘Your Highness, I humbly ask you to grant me your consent to return to Wales, where I will live out my life.’

The young king speaks for the first time. ‘You are the father of my half-brothers, Tudor. If it is your wish to leave England...’

Duke Humphrey leans forward. ‘The matter is to be debated by the council, Your Highness.’

Now Archbishop Henry Chichele speaks. ‘The king does not need the consent of council in this matter, unless he wishes it.’

I remember Archbishop Chichele had been a favourite advisor to Henry’s father and is the leading expert on legal procedures of the council. It is one of the first opportunities for the young king to exercise his royal prerogative. He has undoubtedly been warned by his guardian, Cardinal Beaufort, of the consequences of allowing Duke Humphrey to control him after he reached his majority.

In a confident young voice, the king orders me to be released, a free man. I cannot miss the glower of annoyance on Duke Humphrey’s face and recall the words of Sir Richard Beauchamp. I know from now on I had better watch my back, for I am free but I have made a dangerous enemy.

I am pleased and surprised to find Nathaniel and Thomas waiting for me outside the council chamber, dressed in riding clothes as if for a long journey. ‘How did you know I would be released?’

Nathaniel looks serious. ‘We didn’t—but we should never have let you travel alone, so we want to come with you this time.’

‘You will ride with me to Wales?’

Thomas nods. ‘I’ve served my time at the abbey and miss my homeland. I will see if I can find a parish closer to my home in need of a priest.’

‘I will be glad of your company.’ I glance towards the doorway. ‘We must leave before they change their minds.’

Nathaniel has brought me a sturdy horse to replace the Welsh Cob I had to abandon in the street. I run an approving hand over its flank and tie on the saddlebags I’d recovered from my sanctuary in Westminster. Nathaniel and Thomas have divided the rest of my fortune between their saddlebags and each carries a heavy purse of gold and silver hidden under their clothing.

They ride each side of me as we head out of the dirt and noise of the city into the open countryside. The muddy road has frozen hard overnight and puddles glisten with thin ice. The harsh, rattling call of a magpie breaks the silence, sounding to me like an ill omen. I pull my thick felt hat over my ears to protect them from the frost and shiver, despite my warm woollen cloak.

Nathaniel notices me looking over my shoulder. ‘You think we’re being followed?’