The Tudor Bride (19 page)

Alys is only a year or so older than my Anne and yet apparently so much more capable. No doubt a credit to your upbringing. She does, of course, miss you fearfully, I will not be disingenuous on that account.

I think it very likely that I will be undertaking another journey to France early next year and would be honoured to have your company, should you find it possible to lay aside your duty to the queen. Meanwhile I remain your respectful friend,

Geoffrey Vintner

Written at the House of the Vines, London, this day the 12th of November 1421

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I was tempted to sit down there and then and write to accept Master Vintner’s kind offer, without even consulting Catherine about it and over the next weeks I wished many times that I had. It only became more difficult to broach the subject as the tension between us increased, for Catherine resolutely refused to pack up and retire to Sheen for her confinement. Initially I did not blame her because I considered childbirth practice among the English nobility to be unnecessarily draconian, insisting that an expectant mother retreat into a closed room a month before the expected date of the birth.

‘Look at me, Mette,’ she protested vehemently, ‘I am hardly waddling like a duck! There is plenty of time to take up a life of tedium and waiting. I shall go mad sitting in one room all that time. It is less than a day’s journey downriver to Sheen and you can send servants on ahead to make sure that everything is made ready. I do not need to take to the barge until mid-December.’

We were walking in the garden outside St George’s Hall, adjacent to the royal apartments, taking advantage of a burst of weak sunshine that had broken through the persistent autumn mist. I sighed, cast my gaze about for eavesdroppers and, lowering my voice to a whisper, responded as forcefully as I could. ‘We cannot be sure of that, Mademoiselle. You were with the king from the middle of March. God may have blessed your union at the earliest possible moment. You know what the king said about not having the child at Windsor. I beg you to leave before the end of November.’

But she would not be tied down. ‘I feel fine. Do not fuss, Mette. I promise to leave in plenty of time. It is my Saint’s Day next week and Jacqueline has organised some special entertainment, including a new fool who has a reputation for being very rude and extremely funny. I do not want to miss that.’

Jacqueline! That name grated on my brain like a cartwheel on gravel. The Duchess of Hainault had insinuated herself into Catherine’s life with the same effect as bindweed twining through woodland – elegant, ubiquitous and impossible to get rid of. I had no personal reason to dislike her, except that she had a very obvious disdain for me, equally without a personal reason since she did not know me. Unfortunately Catherine and the duchess were together almost constantly and it was very difficult to serve two ladies, one of whom did not recognise my existence, while the other coolly ignored me, as I had been warned she was obliged to. Then there was Eleanor Cobham to contend with, the artful, dark foil for Jacqueline’s fair Nordic beauty, who followed her around like a hare-hound masquerading as a lap-dog, nimble-brained, shrewd and always looking for ways to please her mistress, frequently by undermining me. It was not a year since Eleanor had been presented and rejected by Catherine as one of her ladies in waiting and yet she had now contrived to spend more time in the queen’s company than I did. When I had welcomed her recruitment by the duchess, I had not realised that it was tantamount to her being employed in the queen’s household after all. Had it not been for the faithful Agnes, on whom we all relied, those months of Catherine’s pregnancy would have been purgatory for me.

A midwife had been appointed for the birth, one Mistress Bet Scorer who had been recommended by Margaret of Clarence and came from a village called Eye, not far from the palace of Westminster. In mid-November an escort was sent for her protection and she travelled to Windsor with her husband and a young couple from the same village, William and Margery Jourdemayne. Once they had seen their wives settled in the royal household, the two men returned home to their farm work. Mistress Scorer was a plump, practical soul, a veteran of a hundred births, who examined Catherine respectfully but thoroughly and took care not to frighten her with too many details of the skills she had to offer. Her assistant, Margery, was a handsome, sturdy young woman of about Catherine’s age who had been some years with Mrs Scorer learning the science of midwifery. It quickly became evident that she was of more than average yeoman intelligence and Eleanor started to favour her company, showing her the Windsor herb garden and comparing and exchanging knowledge of cures and remedies.

My campaign to get Catherine to travel to Sheen was not aided when, towards the end of November, Eleanor announced loudly in the queen’s hearing that she hoped the household would not leave Windsor until she and Margery had completed their work with the plants in the castle herb garden to prepare fresh salves and potions to ease and assist the queen’s confinement. I decided to speak to Mistress Scorer privately with a view to acquiring an ally over the move to Sheen, but she did not prove instrumental.

‘The baby is small yet,’ she told me matter-of-factly. ‘I think it will not be born until Christmas. If the queen wishes to stay here until Margery has completed her remedies, I will not gainsay her. It would be better in my opinion if she had the baby here at Windsor anyway.’

Since it had been a private matter between the king and Catherine, I did not wish to reveal his grace’s prohibition of a Windsor birth and so I had no argument to present for an imminent move. Instead I decided to seek reassurance from the midwife on another matter that had been worrying me.

‘Are you familiar with the recipes Mistress Jourdemayne and Damoiselle Cobham are preparing for the queen?’ I asked her. ‘We need assurances that they will not be in any way harmful to her grace or the baby.’

The midwife looked seriously offended. ‘Margery Jourdemayne has been apprenticed to me for four years now and she is very skilled in the use of herbs and simples, Madame,’ she protested. ‘She has been studying under a renowned apothecary in Westminster and, young though she is, there can be few who excel her in knowledge and expertise, especially in balms for use in childbirth. Ask the dowager duchess if you do not believe me.’

I hastened to assure her that I did indeed believe her, but made a mental note to check with Margaret of Clarence anyway. As for the move to Sheen, Catherine announced that same day that she would be happy for arrangements to be made to travel there after the feast of St Nicholas but not before, because she wished to preside over the distribution of presents to children on the holy day of their patron saint, which fell on the sixth of December. I bit my tongue and hoped for the best.

On the fifth of December her pains began. It was a mild day for the season and she had taken a walk with the Duchess of Hainault around Queen Philippa’s garden, laid out for King Henry’s great grandmother on a flat area of ground behind St George’s Hall where the curtain wall sheltered a pretty enclosure of paths, low evergreen hedges and ornamental flowering bushes. While Catherine walked and talked intimately with her royal friend, I had hung back discreetly, but I noticed that she was not moving with her usual grace and occasionally her hand strayed to her back, which she rubbed distractedly. On their return to the queen’s solar, she took her usual chair but fretfully demanded that more cushions be provided.

‘Are you feeling pains, Madame?’ I asked. ‘Shall I fetch Mistress Scorer?’

‘No, no, Mette, do not fuss. I am just a bit stiff. Heaven knows I am carrying enough extra weight around. Just do as I ask and fetch the cushions – today if possible!’

Such sarcasm was not typical of her, even when in the company of the duchess, who often treated servants with sharp impatience. So while I was collecting the requested cushions I also sent a page to find the midwife. Prudently, these days Mistress Scorer was never far away. When I returned and began to arrange the cushions in order to give her more support, she suddenly drew a sharp breath and grimaced.

‘Oh – oh! What was that? Did you poke me?’ Catherine’s voice was harsh and accusatory.

Hastily I drew my hand back. ‘No, your grace.’ I was conscious that the duchess shot me an irritated scowl but ignored it. ‘Why? Did you feel something?’

I was not unduly concerned, believing as I always had that this first week of December was a much more likely delivery date than Christmastide, which the midwife had predicted, but Catherine went into a panic and stood up, casting the cushions to the floor.

‘Mette, Mette! I must leave now!’ she exclaimed. ‘I promised the king I would not deliver my baby at Windsor. Order the barges. How long will it take to get downriver to Sheen?’

‘Oh no, your grace! If your pains have started, you cannot travel now, not even by barge.’

For once it was not me telling Catherine what she could and could not do; it was the midwife. Mistress Scorer had answered my summons with impressive speed and bent her knee at the door before hurrying to the queen’s side.

‘It will distress the child and the babe needs all its strength to make its way into the world. No, we will prepare your chamber for delivery and meanwhile you must rest. Margery will provide hyssop water to soothe the cramps and you must drink an infusion of camomile to calm you.’

‘But it cannot have started; it is too early!’ cried Catherine. ‘I promised the king that I would not have the baby at Windsor. He read of some prophecy which predicts ill fortune if his son is born here. You said the birth would not be until Christmas.’

‘Babies come when they will, honoured lady,’ said the midwife soothingly. ‘The babe is small, but that means it will be easier to deliver. Now, pray do as I say and rest. All will be well.’

As another pain seized her, Catherine grabbed at my hand, clenching it until the bones crunched audibly and staring at me in alarm. ‘Ah! It hurts, Mette. It hurts!’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle, it is not easy. That is why we call it labour.’ I was not going to tell her that the pain she felt now was only a fraction of what was to come. ‘Come, we have laid cushions on this bench and in no time we will have prepared your bed. Your confessor has been called and very soon he will be here to pray with you. Prayer always calms you.’

I noticed that the Duchess of Hainault remained rooted to her chair, her expression one of alarm, even distaste. She seemed unwilling or simply unable to offer any sympathy or encouragement to her friend in these circumstances. I knew that Catherine had asked her to be godmother and sponsor to the child and to witness the birth, but I rather wondered if she was up to the task. For once Eleanor was not with us, away in the workshop she had set up with Margery to prepare their herbal lotions.

When he arrived, it was obvious that Maître Boyers was equally perturbed by the prospect of entering a room where a woman had begun the process of giving birth and hovered in the doorway wringing his hands. I bustled up to him, smiling reassuringly. ‘All is well, Maître Jean. Things are at a very early stage, but we will not be moving to Sheen. Her grace would like to hear Mass and receive the comfort of the host before she retires to her confinement. She asks that you go with her into the oratory.’

By this time Catherine had grown more accustomed to the strength and rhythm of the pains, which were still only coming at extended intervals, so she felt confident about hearing the Mass and feeling the reassuring touch of the holy wafer on her tongue, without frightening the priest by delivering the baby while kneeling on the prie Dieu. Lady Joan accompanied her to the oratory and I went to fetch supplies of napkins, sheets and soft linen waste for mopping, in readiness for the birth. A messenger was sent to the wife of a local baron who had agreed to wean her own child in preparation for becoming the royal baby’s first wet nurse. Catherine had declared that she wished to feed the baby herself, but her wishes had been silenced by loud protests from both Jacqueline of Hainault and Margaret of Clarence. In England as in France, a queen simply did not put her child to her own breast.

A few hours later, there was no great sign of progress and Catherine became fretful and restless. ‘It is too hot!’ she complained, throwing off the bedcovers. ‘Why do the windows have to be shuttered and the fire made to burn so fiercely? I know it is winter, but I am stifled.’

‘We must shield the baby from bad humours,’ explained Mistress Scorer placidly, wringing out a pad of linen waste in a bowl of lavender water. ‘Here,’ she handed it to me. ‘Bathe her grace’s face and neck with this. And is there no one who can sing or read to the queen while she labours? Some of my high-born ladies have poetry read to distract them. I have heard wonderful poems by someone called Geoffrey Chaucer, all about pilgrims on the road to Canterbury.’

Margaret of Clarence was in close attendance and made a disapproving noise. ‘Oh no, the queen would not like to hear those. They are too earthy and besides they are in English, and very coarse English too. I do not think her grace would understand them. But I could certainly read to her – from the Gospels perhaps or St Augustine’s Confessions.’

Bet Scorer made a sour face, clearly not impressed with the duchess’s choice of literary distraction. Catherine lay bathed in sweat, panting as another pain gripped her and I moved in to wield the lavender-scented linen pad, wiping it gently over her brow and neck. We had long ago undressed her and she wore only a damp chemise, its ribbons tangled and wet.

‘That is lovely and cool, Mette,’ she said when the pain had passed. ‘I would like a drink.’

‘I will bring some watered wine, Mademoiselle,’ I murmured, smiling fondly. In the crisis of childbirth our relationship had reverted to its mother–daughter origins. ‘I will fetch a fresh chemise also, you will be more comfortable.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, Mette, please do. Will it be very much longer, do you think?’