The Tudor Bride (18 page)

Catherine frowned deeply. ‘I have never before known you to set much store by astrologers, my liege. It is my brother, Charles, who consults them at every turn and little good it has done him. Besides, I like it here at Windsor. It has kept English kings and queens safe for centuries. There can be nothing unlucky about so impregnable a fortress. I feel safe here.’

But King Henry was adamant. ‘The warning is clear. The astrologer writes: Of all that Henry of Monmouth gain, Naught will to Henry of Windsor remain. I have fought hard to win back territory that should be ours, Catherine. I do not want it all to be for naught. Arrangements are being made for your lying-in at Sheen.’

‘I have never been to Sheen,’ Catherine protested. ‘I am comfortable here and the air is fresh and clean.’

‘And so it is at Sheen for it is also on the River Thames. It is not so far away, a palace with a pleasure garden, elegant and beautiful – more like your French chateaux; not a vast military stronghold like Windsor. I am having it refurbished and the royal apartments will be ready by the autumn. Promise me you will go there for the birth.’ He paused, looking for me and raised his voice when he could not see me. ‘Mette! Mette, where are you?’

I had retreated to a corner behind the great curtained bed, still within earshot but wishing to let them feel their conversation private; however I emerged at his call and bent my knee. ‘Here, your grace.’

‘I am relying on you to ensure that the queen goes to Sheen for the birth of our son, Mette. When do you estimate that will be?’

I cleared my throat nervously. ‘These things are never certain, sire, as you know, but it should be in December, probably before Christmas.’

‘I dearly wish I could be here for it, but there is much still to be done in France.’ He turned back to Catherine. ‘You will write to me from time to time, will you not, my queen? I shall await your letters as eagerly as any lovelorn squire.’

Catherine rose from the bench. ‘Of course I will write. My lord does not need to ask, but I must also be sure that you are well protected.’ She reached out to where the neck of his chemise showed above his doublet and felt there for the chain he always wore. Pulling out the gold reliquary she had given him as a wedding gift she put her lips to it, muttering a little prayer. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I have begged Sweet Jesu to keep you safe while you wear the thorn from his crown. You must promise me never to take it off.’

King Henry took the reliquary from her and kissed it himself. ‘I swear. And may Christ’s holy mother keep you and our child safe.’ Their eyes locked for several seconds and I rose with the intention of disappearing from sight once more, but the king saw me move and swung round. ‘Mette, I charge you also to send regular reports on her grace’s progress. Now we will break our fast here together. Will you organise that for us? And get a message to my captain to have the men and horses ready immediately afterwards. We must be in Dover by tomorrow.’

For nearly an hour it was as if we were back in the Pleasance at Kenilworth as I served them bread and ale and cold meats and they sat at table together looking so longingly at one another that had King Henry not sworn a solemn oath of abstinence for fear of harming the baby, I believe they would have thrown themselves onto the big bed for a passionate farewell embrace. The official parting, performed in the Upper Court under a brilliant azure sky and the curious gaze of many, seemed sadly formal compared to the ardour of that meal.

The leaves were beginning to turn when news came from Sheen Palace that the refurbishment work had been completed on the royal apartments. I thought Catherine would immediately begin plans to move there but, to my surprise, several weeks went by and she made no mention of it. To be fair, although there was no doubt that she was pregnant, her belly was not yet massively swollen and, disguised by the flowing houppelande gowns which she made every effort to ensure remained the fashion, many people might not have guessed her condition. With most of King Henry’s closest friends and courtiers at his side in France and his brother John, Duke of Bedford, residing mostly at Westminster where the Regency Council sat, Catherine’s court at Windsor was cosy and intimate, consisting of herself and Jacqueline and their small band of ladies, occasionally boosted by visiting nobles and their wives. All summer she had been happy and relaxed, and there was every reason to think that the pregnancy was progressing perfectly normally.

With the lovesick Lady Joan urging her on, Catherine busied herself particularly over the matter of the Scottish king’s ransom and to that end cultivated the help of King Henry’s half-uncle Bishop Beaufort, who had been instrumental in getting negotiations started during a diplomatic mission over the northern border earlier in the year. Spurred on by the advantageous prospect of having his niece as Queen of Scotland, the wily bishop had also managed to secure agreement from King Henry to support a marriage between Lady Joan and King James, provided the recently knighted young king proved helpful in securing the capitulation of certain French strongholds, which had been garrisoned by troops of Scottish mercenaries. Understandably therefore, of all the ladies Joan proved the most ardent collector of news from the French campaign, growing more jubilant every time word came that another town or castle had surrendered to the English. For her part Catherine remained passively neutral about such matters, neither celebrating King Henry’s victories nor crowing over the dauphin-pretender’s defeats. I often wondered what her true thoughts were as King Henry secured one victory after another over her brother, systematically pursuing his revenge for the death of his brother Thomas of Clarence, but she gave no indication of them and showed me no encouragement to ask.

Meanwhile, Lady Joan’s mother, Margaret of Clarence, had been successful in arranging a ransom for at least one of her two Beaufort sons, taken prisoner during the terrible English defeat at Beaugé, the battle which had robbed her of her husband. Edmund Beaufort arrived in Windsor in early November to the great joy of his mother and Lady Joan and the delight of Catherine, who had grown fond of him during her siege honeymoon.

‘Captivity has changed you, Edmund,’ she observed as he knelt before her in the Windsor great hall. ‘You have become a man.’

She received him in front of the assembled household and those of us who had last seen him a year ago in France were struck as she was by the change in him. Then he had been a callow youth, smooth-cheeked and quick to blush. Now he was taller and broader and carried himself like the confident soldier he was, even after six months of imprisonment.

‘I hope so, your grace,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I have certainly done things and seen sights to inspire maturity. I hope you will not be offended if I say that you have altered considerably as well, Madame.’

Edmund’s mother, standing beside him, shot him a disapproving glance, but Catherine laughed. ‘That remark demonstrates the change in you,’ she observed. ‘When you were a young squire, bringing me messages from the king, you would have blushed at the sight of my condition and made no mention of it.’

‘And now I salute it and congratulate you for it, your grace.’ He bowed enthusiastically. ‘It is a blessed state and one that the people of two kingdoms joyfully celebrate.’

‘Thank you, Edmund, and we should both congratulate your lady mother for so quickly realising the funds for your ransom and achieving your release.’ She turned to the dowager duchess with sympathetic concern. ‘Tell me, Madame, what news is there of Edmund’s brother, my lord of Somerset? Is he still in France?’

It transpired that the heavy sum demanded in ransom for the release of John Beaufort had proved more difficult and he still languished as a prisoner of the Duke of Alençon, likely to remain captive while hostilities raged in that duchy between the forces of King Henry and the dauphin.

Margaret of Clarence remained optimistic, however. ‘The king has generously agreed to exchange a French nobleman of similar rank for John’s release, should one such be taken captive. So far that situation has not arisen.’

‘But the Duke of Orleans is a prisoner in England still,’ Catherine observed. ‘Could this not be an opportunity to end his captivity also?’ There was an awkward silence which caused her brow to crease in a puzzled frown. ‘Is there some problem?’ she asked.

The duchess exchanged meaningful glances with her son and then mutely bowed her head. Edmund cleared his throat and addressed the queen apologetically. ‘There is no question of that, Madame. Six years ago, after the battle of Agincourt, it was decreed that the Duke of Orleans should not be ransomed until he and all of France recognise King Henry’s legitimate claim to the French throne.’

Catherine pursed her lips and nodded slowly. ‘Ah, I see. Well, in that case we shall all have to pray for a swift resolution to hostilities across the Sleeve.’ Her solemn expression brightened into a smile. ‘But we can celebrate your return to England at least. Tonight I decree that there will be feasting and music and I hope you will entertain me, Edmund, by dancing with all my young ladies!’

During that evening’s festivities I noticed Catherine growing progressively more pale and quiet until I eventually plucked up courage to suggest that she retire. To my surprise she agreed and, as I helped her wearily to bed, I nearly broached the subject of the move to Sheen but decided to leave it to the morning when she might be more amenable. This turned out to be a mistake, for by morning she felt rested and cheerful and dismissed the idea airily.

‘No, no, Mette. There is plenty of time for that. Life will be unutterably boring at Sheen. Once we have moved there, people will think I cannot be disturbed. There will be no visitors. I am not ready yet for confinement. We will wait here at Windsor until nearer the time.’

W
alter Vintner had gone to France in the king’s train, but to my delight a letter was delivered to me from my daughter Alys, brought from Paris by Walter’s father and from London to Windsor in the royal courier’s bag. It came with an additional note from Geoffrey Vintner himself, but I was so eager to read the one in my daughter’s hand that I put his aside and broke the seal on the other, tears springing to my eyes when I unfolded the paper and instantly recognised Alys’s neat, looped script, tightly packed into every inch of the page.

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Warmest greetings to my best beloved Maman,

How clever of you to arrange your own courier service and with such a cultivated and charming messenger! But how I wish you could have come with Master Vintner. It is nearly a year now since we were together and I am desolate to tell you that I think little Catrine can no longer remember her fond Grandemère, although of course I speak of you every day. She is such a pretty little maid with her glossy dark-brown curls and constant dimpled smiles. I do not think she can be anything like me but takes after her Pépé, as she calls him. Jacques adores her, as you can imagine, and is thrilled, as I hope you will be that I am expecting another babe in the spring of next year. Maître Vintner indicated that he offered to escort you across the Sleeve once you have fulfilled your duty to Queen Catherine in her confinement, so perhaps we may hope to see you in Paris within the year and to introduce you to another grandchild?

Everything here goes well, although without an active royal court in the city there is little call for fashionable garb and Jacques has to be content with making gowns for the merchants and guild-masters and their wives, which he does very successfully. However I am sure that he misses introducing new designs and fabrics as he did for Queen Catherine.

I wonder if the queen ever speaks of her little god-daughter. Please tell her that we are thinking of her and praying for the safe delivery of her child. She must be fervently hoping that it will be a son to inherit the thrones of France and England. I am glad I do not have to worry whether my baby is a boy or a girl, although I think Jacques would like a son to follow him in his craft. My dearest wish would be to have you, Ma, to help me when the child comes, as you did for Catrine’s birth. I truly believe I would have died then if it had not been for you but they say that the second time is easier, do they not? The queen is fortunate indeed to have you at her side.

I kiss and embrace you and then kneel for your blessing as a good daughter should. May St Margaret protect us all and bring a happy conclusion to our labours.

Your loving daughter

Alys

Written at La Ruelle du Louvre, Paris, this day Sunday the Sixth of November 1421

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I scanned the letter half a dozen times and had to wipe my tears after every reading. The more I read it, the more I heard the note of desperate longing in Alys’s words. I felt a terrible stab of guilt. I do not know if I saved their lives, but it is true I had done my utmost to bring a difficult birth to a happy end when little Catrine was born. I had employed my instinct and every bit of folklore I could muster, including rubbing Alys’s belly with a jasper stone to bring the baby out. And now all I could do for her second labour was pray that it would, as so often happened, be easier.

Geoffrey Vintner’s covering letter confirmed my suspicions about Alys’s true feelings.

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To my esteemed friend Madame Guillaumette Lanière, greetings,

I write to tell you that I visited your daughter while I was in Paris and delivered your letter. As you see, she immediately wrote a reply.

I found her well and your granddaughter Catrine a delightful little girl who called me M’sieur Vin-vin, which I think I prefer to my real name! She entertained me by showing me her ‘poupée’, a wooden doll wearing a beautiful robe her mother had made. What fine stitching was in that gown!

Unfortunately your son-in-law, the tailor, was not at the house but away taking a commission from a new customer, so I did not meet him. However, judging by the amount of visible work in progress he has no shortage of orders and your daughter assured me that they were making a good living. She was kind enough to serve me a drink of good wine and some delicious Parisian wafers while we spoke of you and your son Luc, of whom she regrets she has not seen or heard during the past year. She asked me if I ever visited the Pretender’s court and I was sorry to disappoint her by answering in the negative.