The Tudor Bride (27 page)
Catherine did not immediately reply, coolly meeting the demanding gaze of the younger woman until Eleanor was forced to look away in some confusion. Then Catherine spoke in a tone of guarded sympathy. ‘I have heard that your mother recently died, Damoiselle, for which I am truly sorry. May God rest her soul. Had she still been alive, I am sure she would have advised you that it is not customary for a queen to be directly approached for an appointment to her service. Should a post become vacant, an intermediary will suggest a candidate and thus both parties are saved the embarrassment of any face to face refusal. However, since you have chosen not to follow customary court procedure, I cannot save you that embarrassment. Regrettably I am unable to offer you a place because the departure of Joanna Coucy has by chance allowed me to achieve the reduction in my household that the council recently demanded of me, so I will not be appointing a replacement. I do hope you understand.’
Eleanor Cobham had a cat-like habit of narrowing her eyes when she was angry and never was a look more feline than that which flashed across her face at that moment. There was intense resentment in it, an emotion swiftly disguised but unmissable for its brief duration. This was the second time Catherine had refused her a place at court and she clearly regarded it as a snub, unlikely to be forgiven or forgotten.
Less than a month later, Windsor and Westminster had been set buzzing with the scandalous news that the Duke of Gloucester had taken a mistress and flagrantly installed her as the chatelaine of Hadleigh Castle. Her name was Eleanor Cobham.
Catherine had been almost incandescent with anger. ‘Not only has Gloucester humiliated and disparaged Jacqueline of Hainault, he has now made it more than clear that he expected me to provide his paramour with a place in my household in order to enable him to conduct a relationship with her under the noses of the king’s court! Now I am doubly glad that I did not include Damoiselle Cobham among my intimate companions. She and Gloucester have both rendered themselves utterly graceless in my eyes.’
More regrettable to us all than Joanna Coucy’s departure had been that of the loveable and exuberant Joan Beaufort. Before the late king’s death, arrangements had been finalised for the ransom and return of his royal hostage, King James, to Scotland and a marriage between him and Lady Joan approved. Their wedding at the beautiful church of St Mary Overy in Southwark, with feasting at Bishop Beaufort’s nearby episcopal palace, was the first opportunity for celebration and merrymaking after the extended period of mourning for the dead king. Immediately afterwards, the newlyweds left for their restored northern kingdom. It cannot have been an easy throne-coming for the couple, but I must admit it pleased me greatly that the pretty girl who had once removed a stone so skilfully from my mare’s hoof now wore a crown. After nearly four years of marriage, Queen Joan of Scotland was already the mother of two daughters and presumably praying for a son. I had no doubt that she provided invaluable and practical advice to her royal spouse and was a hands-on mother to her children.
After telling her staff that she was no longer to be a part of young Henry’s life and once she was alone with her ladies in her bedchamber, Catherine announced that she would cease to wear the barbe, the uniform of widowhood. ‘Now that my son is to be taken from me, I do not see that it has any meaning. I am only twenty-six and I am not a nun; why should I hide my throat from view? Agnes, you may take it off!’
Agnes de Blagny, quiet and obliging as ever, hastened to remove the offending neck-curtain and its accompanying wimple from her mistress’s head. Freed from its tight frame, Catherine’s appearance of nun-like severity was returned to a familiar luminous beauty. Joanna Belknap fetched a comb, released the long pale-gold hair from its knot at the nape of her neck and began to braid it.
‘You should marry again, Madame,’ said Agnes sympathetically. ‘You might have more children.’
Catherine pursed her lips doubtfully. ‘Hmm. I think the council would consider that a contentious issue.’
‘I do not see why,’ protested Agnes.
‘The man I marry would become the king’s step-father. That is a position of some power.’
‘I had not thought of that,’ Agnes confessed. ‘But they cannot require you to remain single and celibate against your wishes.’
‘They can do anything!’ Catherine put scornful stress on ‘they’. ‘It would be a different matter if I were on the council of regency. Then I might be able to influence proceedings.’
This was a sore point. A month after her husband’s burial, she had spent a humiliating afternoon arguing her case for a place on the council, but the assembled lords had unanimously and unhesitatingly rejected her claim, as if she had suggested placing a viper in their midst. Her only consolation was that they had also refused to make Humphrey of Gloucester regent, appointing him only protector of the realm, which curtailed his powers and angered him considerably.
‘Do you have anyone in mind as a candidate for your hand, Madame?’ I asked curiously. I had not noticed her favouring one particular lord over another. ‘Perhaps you are looking abroad?’
This suggestion inspired a vehement shake of the head. ‘No, no, Mette. I would not leave England while my son is here! Besides, English people distrust foreigners, have you not noticed?’
Joanna Belknap brought a coronet and veil and began to fit them around the braids now coiled at Catherine’s temples, commenting indignantly, ‘Not all English people, your grace!’
‘Very well, Belknap, I agree that there are some exceptions, but you cannot deny that many of the laws of England restrict what foreigners can and cannot do. For instance Owen Tudor told me that Welsh people are not allowed to brew ale or bake bread, even within their own borders. The English have the monopoly of these essential commodities and can therefore wilfully overcharge for the basic necessities of life. My lord’s father enforced that law after the Welsh rebellion.’
‘That is true, Madame,’ nodded Belknap, ‘and marriage between the Welsh and the English is forbidden except by special licence, which carries with it a substantial fine and loss of status for the English partner.’
‘Master Tudor believes that the English hate the Welsh even more than the French, despite the crucial role their archers play in France,’ Catherine remarked with a hollow laugh. ‘Prejudice is not logical.’
However, despite being Welsh, Owen Tudor had played his harp rhapsodically at King Henry’s funeral and had been appointed a Squire of the Chamber to the baby king. In recent months he had taken particular pride in teaching young Henry the rudiments both of archery and music, but he was chiefly responsible for administering and organising the guard on both the king’s and the queen mother’s apartments, so we frequently encountered him on our daily visits to the nursery. At Catherine’s suggestion and with the encouragement of the young king’s elderly uncle and official guardian, the Duke of Exeter, Owen had also arranged frequent excursions and games in the gardens and parkland around Windsor castle with other young children chosen from among courtiers’ families. He had come to be regarded as someone who could be relied on to devise activities and amusements and occasionally administer discipline in a kind and constructive way. I know that Catherine believed that, for a little boy otherwise surrounded by female nursemaids and governesses, such a young, strong and masculine presence in his life was of great value. Now that a whole posse of male tutors and custodians had been officially appointed for the king in Owen’s stead, I was not surprised to learn that Catherine had taken steps to retain the services of someone whom she had found to be utterly reliable.
‘As a matter of fact, today Owen Tudor has been appointed my new master of the wardrobe,’ Catherine announced, a hint of glee in her voice, ‘which may give the grey-beards on the council something to splutter about at their next meeting but, happily, they have no jurisdiction over appointments to my new staff.
‘Master Tudor will take responsibility for the business side of the household, working with my treasurer and receiver-general, who have yet to be appointed. All the domestic servants will report to him and he will supervise my dower manors which, as you know are scattered around the country. He is to set out tomorrow to inspect the various residences at my disposal so that arrangements can be made to prepare one for our occupation. He will also be responsible for our security. We will need our own detachment of guards. It is a heavy burden he assumes, but I am sure he will be diligent and thorough in his undertakings.’
I was delighted for Owen. At twenty-seven this new post represented a timely promotion for him and would release him from daily duties which had sometimes been more akin to those of a children’s nurse rather than a courtier. Of course running the dowager queen’s household would take him away from the king’s favour, but all real opportunity and influence had long ago gravitated to Westminster, where the chief crown officials and council members kept their households and somehow I did not see the archer-musician flourishing in the field of politics and diplomacy. If he did not want to go back to fighting the French wars, then a job that made him effectively the dowager queen’s right-hand man should suit him well. I did not encounter him before he left to begin his tour of inspection, but I imagined Master Tudor was in buoyant mood.
‘I have come to say farewell, my lady mother.’ The king’s treble voice held a slight tremor but by no other sign did the boy betray any emotion. At six years old the young Henry already displayed some of his father’s ability to disguise his feelings; a useful attribute in a king, I thought, but a sad skill to practice on your mother. He was a solemn boy, tall for his age with a pale, oval face that reminded me a little of Catherine’s brother Charles, perhaps because of the Valois set of his nose, already long (too long some might say) and straight, which might suit the man he would become better than the boy he now was. His shoulders were square and he held himself erect, but there was always a dreamy look in his eyes, as if his mind was not completely focussed, away somewhere in a dream or a prayer. Even at such a tender age he was of a markedly religious bent and would often have to be called away from his prie dieu to attend lessons.
Queen Catherine sat, calm and smiling, in a crimson-draped chair. The parting was taking place in the king’s presence chamber because Catherine’s goods and furnishings had already been packed into barges to be transported by river to Hertford Castle, where it had now been decided she would start her new life. ‘I hope you have enjoyed the festive holiday, Henry,’ she said. They addressed each other in French because she was determined he should speak it as his mother tongue but, of course, he also spoke English and was already learning Latin.
‘Oh yes. I think the choir here at Windsor very fine and the Christmas services were beautiful, but I did not much like all the japes and jests at the Twelfth Night feast.’ He climbed into the throne-like chair on the dais beside his mother’s and sat there awkwardly, legs dangling. He wore a scarlet sable-trimmed doublet and soft draped black hat and his curious speckled eyes roamed the faces of the assembled courtiers as if seeking evidence that they agreed with his observations.
With an instinctive motherly gesture Catherine reached out to arrange his short mantle for him, receiving a frown of annoyance for her pains, which she ignored. ‘Indeed?’ Her brows rose in enquiry. ‘What did you not like about them?’
On Twelfth Night there had been the usual merrymaking, with a Lord of Misrule chosen by lottery from among the squires and pages of the household. The youth who drew the black bean from among the white ones in the closed bag took charge of the entertainment, with carte blanche to call on anyone or anything that might supply amusement for the revellers. His first act had been to demand that the king swap places with him so that he could rule the feast from the throne and as Henry good-naturedly made his way down the hall to the lower trestles he had been presented with a scroll on which a poem was inscribed that he was ordered to read. Luckily it had not been bawdy, but it had been scurrilous, making irreverent mention of the Bishop of London’s substantial paunch and the various bodily shortcomings of other clerics, and it had quickly become obvious that the pious young king was not comfortable reading it. However his blushes and mumblings had only increased the raucous laughter from the assembled diners, so that the new ‘king’ of the banquet had yelled for him to speak up. At a Twelfth Night feast even the King of England had to dance to the tune of the Lord of Misrule.
‘I do not think the king’s grace should be made to insult a bishop of the Church,’ Henry had declared loudly so that everyone should hear. ‘I do not mind a joke, but such rudeness as was in that poem is an offence to Our Lord and His hierarchy.’
Catherine smiled sympathetically. ‘Yes, I agree that it was a bit naughty, but that is the point of misrule, is it not? We must all learn to accept a joke against ourselves otherwise we become puffed up with too much pride.’
Henry sniffed. ‘When I am really king I shall abolish misrule,’ he said primly.
Some thought the young king’s piety excessive and believed that his love of prayer and Church ritual prevented him developing other important skills, such as military prowess. Among them was the Earl of Warwick, who had noticed his unwillingness to play with wooden swords and shields and his preference for music and bible stories.
‘There are too many women around him,’ Warwick had reportedly complained to the council of regency during the debate on the king’s future. ‘Women make a man weak. King Henry should be starting to train for knighthood.’
Catherine turned now to the earl, who stood protectively within earshot of his new charge. ‘I urge you to take very good care of my son, my lord of Warwick. I know that in the absence of his own father there can be no better man to teach him knightly skills, but I beg you to remember that one day he will be married and his queen will require him to have at least some knowledge and understanding of the gentle arts.’