The Tudor Bride (25 page)

‘It is an idea, certainly.’ His shy concern for Catherine induced in me a similar benevolence towards him and I had another sudden thought. ‘Have you eaten, Master Tudor? You are probably missing your evening meal by coming here. Let me arrange some refreshment for you.’

He shifted from one foot to another, fiddling with the strap of the bag. ‘I usually find some scraps left when I return to troop headquarters. We are billeted in a barn on abbey land outside the walls.’

I waved my hands in dismay. ‘Oh no, Master Tudor, that will not do. I should have asked sooner. Come with me. I think we can do rather better than scraps.’

While Catherine nibbled listlessly at a meagre meal with her ladies in the great hall of the bishop’s palace, I sat with Owen Tudor in a small chamber off the kitchen as he consumed a large bowl of pottage enriched with venison and several slices cut from a manchet loaf. ‘Bishops dine much better than bowmen,’ he grinned, dipping the delectable white bread in the meaty soup. ‘I have not touched white bread nor eaten venison since leaving Wales.’

‘And where did you dine so royally in Wales?’ I enquired. Deer-meat was the prerogative of the hunting classes, which meant that it was generally restricted to the tables of monarchs, bishops and barons.

‘In the wild lands of the Welsh mountains, deer are not guarded as closely as they are in England and France. My godfather hunted them even when he was a hunted outlaw himself.’

My eyes widened. ‘And who is your godfather?’ I asked.

His expression darkened and he made the sign of the cross. ‘Not is – was – for he is dead, God rest his soul. The great Welsh freedom fighter Owen Glendower was my mother’s uncle.’

It was a name that had been infamous across Europe twenty years ago. Owen Glendower had led a Welsh rebel force over the English border to try and win back the principality from the English crown. Around the fire in their honeymoon camp at the siege of Melun, King Henry had told Catherine stories of this battle in which, as a young prince, he had received the arrow wound which had scarred his cheek and nearly killed him; an incident that had also given him a deep respect for the power and accuracy of Welsh archers.

‘Glendower tried to unite the Welsh people, like his ancestor Llewellyn the Great had done two hundred years before. He failed, but he was a great man for all that. And because the people loved him, they did not betray him to the English. Officially he was an outlaw, but he lived on his manors in the wild lands of the Welsh border for years after the war and he took me into his household and taught me everything – reading, writing, swordplay, archery, manners and, best of all, music and poetry. Everything I am, I owe to him.’

‘And was it his death that caused you to join King Henry’s French expedition?’

Owen shook his head. ‘No. Glendower sent me away. I was fifteen when he arranged for me to join Sir Walter Hungerford’s troop. He said he wanted me to learn battle-craft under a great leader, but he was already ill and I believe he did not want me to watch him die. So instead I fought at Agincourt and later watched King Henry die. Ironic, is it not?’ I waited as he took another spoonful of the venison pottage and presently continued. ‘And here is another irony. King Henry and I are both descended from Llewellyn the Great; he through his mother and I through my father.’

My reaction to this statement was laced with a touch of sarcasm. ‘No! Are you telling me that you are the rightful Prince of Wales, Master Tudor?’

Owen gave me an impish look. ‘My claim is as good as his was anyway, for we are both descended from daughters of Llewellyn, although admittedly his six-times-great grandmother, Gladwys ap Llewellyn, was my five-times-great grandmother Anghared’s elder sister – if you are still with me.’

Now I had to laugh. ‘Well, we are all descended from Adam and Eve, Master Tudor, are we not?’

To his credit he shared my mirth, but only briefly. ‘That is what I thought and more or less what I said when my godfather drew my bloodline, but he roared at me in anger, “The blood of Welsh princes flows in your veins, Owen – never, never forget that!”’ The young archer’s sculpted jaw jutted proudly and he shrugged. ‘So I do not.’

I relayed the gist of this conversation to Catherine while she prepared for bed and was rewarded with a wisp of a smile. ‘I wonder if Henry knew that he and his squire were related, however remotely?’ In the mirror glass and the dim light of the bishop’s chamber her face, dominated by her sunken cheeks and framed by the unforgiving widow’s barbe and wimple, reminded me agonisingly of a skull. Then, as happened so often when she thought of the dead king, tears misted her blue eyes. ‘I think he might have told me if he did, for it would have amused him.’

‘Master Tudor wondered whether you might be having trouble sleeping. He suggested he might play outside your chamber door again.’

‘That was a kind offer. I will think on it. Will he come to the cathedral tomorrow?’

‘He will come wherever and whenever you summon him, Madame.’

She folded her hands, staring down at the great ancestral betrothal ring Henry had given her. ‘It is good to know that I have such unconditional support.’

At that moment there was a knock on the door. A page entered, dropping to one knee. ‘Despite the late hour his grace the Duke of Bedford begs an audience, your grace,’ he said.

Catherine frowned and straightened her back. ‘Place another chair beside the fire, Mette,’ she told me, adding to the page, ‘and tell his grace I will see him.’

Like all the members of the funeral cortège, John, Duke of Bedford was dressed entirely in black, except for the Lancastrian S-link collar of mourning silver he wore around his shoulders. He bowed low, unsmiling, over Catherine’s hand and kissed her cheek briefly, before obeying her silent gesture and seating himself in the cushioned chair across the hearth. Swarthier of complexion than his older brother King Henry had been, there was already a scattering of grey in his thick dark hair and responsibility had drawn deeper lines on his brow than on that of his younger brother, Humphrey of Gloucester.

‘I regret that I have more sad news for you,’ he said sorrowfully.

I had not thought that Catherine could become any paler, but somehow her white face blanched further and in a strangled whisper she pleaded, ‘Not little Henry, please God not my son …’

He hastened to relieve her distress. ‘No, no, Madame. The young king is well as far as I know. It is your father, King Charles. News has just come from Paris that he died yesterday. The herald said that he fell asleep at night and never woke in the morning. Such a peaceful death is granted to very few.’

Catherine’s hand flicked over her face and breast in the sign of the cross. ‘God rest his soul,’ she said faintly, adding in a clearer voice and almost without emotion. ‘In truth he has been dying for years. Every time he slipped into madness he emerged a little less alive than he had been before. His was a tragic life.’

‘And it brought tragedy to his country,’ observed Bedford, nodding. ‘Had he been a strong ruler like his father, he would not have lost control of his nobles. Henry would never have invaded if he had been confronted by a united France.’

‘Do you really believe that, my lord?’ Catherine looked surprised. ‘Well, you may be right. My father was a peace-lover. He tried to placate and only succeeded in antagonising. And my mother was no help to him. Sometimes I think his madness was a retreat – a cloak to hide his sense of failure.’

‘Yet I have heard him called Charles the Well-Beloved,’ responded Bedford. ‘There will be those who greatly mourn his passing.’

‘Myself among them. How sad that only four of his children still live and three of them will not be able to attend his funeral. Jeanne cannot leave Brittany, I must bury my husband and Charles remains an enemy. Perhaps my sister, Abbess Marie, may emerge from Poissy to attend his obsequies. I hope he will be buried with due honour.’

‘I shall see to that,’ Bedford announced. ‘Regrettably I must leave my brother’s cortège now. It is imperative that I go immediately to Paris to secure the throne for your son. Young Henry must be declared King of France as well as England.’

‘Poor babe,’ murmured Catherine, ‘so young and with such a burden to bear.’

‘He will not be alone. His father made strict provision in his will for his care and guidance and he will have many able men to help him rule.’

She leaned forward earnestly. ‘But you are the one Henry trusted most. So do not stay too long in France, my lord. My son will need you particularly.’

Bedford looked doubtful. ‘I regret that I may not be in England for some time. Philippe of Burgundy has refused to take the French regency, saying he is too much affected by his wife’s death. I must lead the council in Paris therefore.’

‘But who will take charge in England?’ asked Catherine anxiously.

‘Henry’s will names our brother Humphrey as protector of the realm, unless the regency council rules otherwise.’

‘Who will be on the council?’

‘Warwick, Exeter, Beaufort, Hungerford – there are many who are worthy.’

‘And me? Is there a place for the king’s mother on such a council?’

Bedford looked astonished at this suggestion, almost as if she had blasphemed. ‘I do not know. Henry made no mention of it. The English have long memories and Isabella, the last French queen regent, was far from popular.’ He was almost squirming in his seat as he said this.

‘In France we have had several strong queen regents,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘My mother was regent for my father on and off for years.’

Bedford’s unease appeared to increase and he coughed apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Madame, but not with any great success and, as you may be aware, there is no great love for French ways in England.’

Catherine sighed. ‘Or for the French themselves, I think. Ah well, we shall see. First we must bury two dead kings. How strange it is that they should die so close together.’

‘I believe it is a tragedy for both our countries that my brother did not live to inherit your father’s throne. We cannot know how it will play out.’ Bedford stood up. ‘Forgive me, Madame, but I must take my leave. I wish to ride as far as Mantes before dark.’

Catherine also stood and gave him her hand. ‘Farewell then, my lord. I shall pray that we see you soon in England for I feel we shall have need of your wisdom and statesmanship.’

The following evening, Owen Tudor came to play in the cathedral as usual and when she left the coffin’s side Catherine spoke briefly to him. I was not close enough to hear what was said but I noticed that Owen slipped off his stool to his knees at her approach and remained humbly kneeling until she left. Passing quite nearby as I followed Catherine out of the cathedral, I saw a slight smile twitch at his lips and heard him begin to hum a little tune under his breath as he pulled the leather carrying-bag over his harp.

Later she asked me to arrange a place for the harper in the ante-room outside the bishop’s bedchamber, which the prelate had vacated in her favour. From then on Owen played Catherine to sleep every night. For a while his presence caused a flutter among the impressionable young ladies of her household, but Owen was scrupulous in his behaviour towards them as they passed to and from the bedchamber. Not by so much as a glance or a smile did he display any interest, even in the wondrously pretty Lady Joan Beaufort, although to be fair her twinkling glances tended to be reserved for her royal suitor, King James of Scotland, who was among the cortège followers.

Being much the same age as Catherine, Owen tended to regard me as a mother figure, a safe companion whose friendship would not involve him in awkward situations. So when his harp music had lulled Catherine to sleep we would often drink a cup of wine together while the brazier in the anteroom died down. He told me stories of the home and family he had left ten years before, his war-scattered brothers and sisters and his dead parents. Seven years spent campaigning in France had not blunted his love of his homeland and his descriptions of the Welsh landscape were so vivid and evocative that I felt as if I had personally visited the Isle of Anglesey where he had spent his early years.

‘When you cross to it by boat, it is like arriving in a magic world. All around are rolling hills and the sea constantly beats at the shore with an eternal music. They call it the Lovers’ Isle because it is so green and lush.’

‘Is that the only reason, Master Tudor, or could it have something to do with the warmth of its people?’ I asked, smiling.

He gazed at me solemnly. ‘If poetry and music and beauty combine to feed love then yes, Madame, we are a people rich in love, but regrettably these days not rich in freedom.’

‘Because of your godfather’s rebellion?’

He frowned, deep creases marring his handsome features. ‘No. Glendower failed to win Wales back for us, but we have suffered under an English yoke ever since the first King Edward stamped his iron-shod foot on us. We live in the shadow of Beaumaris Castle and the injustice of English rule.’

‘And yet you fought under the English banner at Agincourt.’

He shrugged. ‘King Henry was born in Monmouth. Although he was the King of England, he had an admiration for the Welsh people. He will be mourned on both sides of the border.’

The crossing to Dover at the end of October was mercifully uneventful, but the onward progress of the cortège was slow, stopping two days in Canterbury for a solemn requiem mass and plodding on over four more days to another lengthy and solemn requiem mass at St Paul’s in London. As the end of the journey drew nearer, Catherine fretted at the pace of travel but every town and village we passed through wanted to pay homage to the hero of Agincourt, so that the halts were many and frequent, culminating in a sombre welcome at Blackheath from the mayor, sheriffs, aldermen and guildsmen of London, who escorted King Henry’s body into the City of London. Catherine’s cold and miserable overnight stay in the Tower was in stark contrast to her visit there less than two years earlier, when she had prepared with awe and anticipation for her coronation.

‘All I want to do is ride to Windsor and take my son in my arms!’ she cried as she crept into bed that night with no harp music to comfort her, for Owen had been asked to play at the funeral in Westminster Abbey the following day and had ridden ahead to prepare. ‘My poor little fatherless boy who must bear the weight of two kingdoms on his tiny shoulders. What a heavy burden Henry has left him and what a cheerless future he has left to me!’