The Tudor Bride (28 page)

The earl bowed punctiliously. The charming gallant, who had been so instrumental in bringing about Catherine’s marriage to the young king’s father, had not lost any of his diplomatic tact. ‘My own son is not yet two, your grace, but I assure you that yours will receive all the training in social graces that I deem essential for my heir. I can offer no more to the son of my old friend and comrade in arms, whose memory we both hold so dear.’

Catherine gave him a brief smile. Her admiration for Richard of Warwick, once that of a star-struck young girl for a celebrated and handsome chevalier, was now tempered by the high-handed way he had usurped parental control over her son. ‘I will hold you to that, my lord,’ she said. ‘I trust that you will care for him as if I were hovering at your shoulder, watching your every move.’

As she spoke, the town bells began to ring for Tierce. The days were short and it was already full light. We would need to start for Hertford if we were to reach it by dark. The Earl of Warwick coughed loudly into his hand.

Catherine looked at him sharply. ‘You are impatient, my lord. Impatient to send me from my son’s side, but he will not forget his mother, of that you may be sure.’ She turned back to her son and kissed his soft, childish cheek. His bottom lip was now visibly trembling. ‘You must hold that kiss in your heart, Henry, for I think you will not have another until we meet again at Easter.’

Under the archway of the main entrance to St George’s Hall the king knelt before his mother for her blessing, baring his bright auburn head for the touch of her hand. She managed to keep her voice steady as she called for God’s blessing and protection on her little son, then she took a deep breath, wrapped her sable-lined riding cloak around her shoulders and descended the steps to where the earl himself waited to hold her stirrup while she mounted her palfrey. An escort of a hundred royal guards would accompany her to Hertford Castle, where Owen Tudor had been sent ahead to prepare the royal palace for the young dowager queen’s life of retirement.

From the steps the little king gave a slow, sad wave, but with brimming eyes fixed on her horse’s ears Catherine did not see it. The warm breath of horses and riders condensed to steam in the chill January air, clouding us in a faint mist as we trotted under the Norman gatehouse and past the Round Tower, riding out to a new and unknown future.

T
he biggest drawback to Hertford Castle was that once inside the gates it was difficult to see anything of the surrounding countryside, unless you climbed up to the battlements on the high curtain wall. The great hall, the chapel and all the living quarters were clustered together around a central court and were built long and low so that they nestled under the parapets, shutting off all sight of the outside world except to those soldiers who kept watch from the towers. It produced the same sense of confinement as a convent, when all activity is enclosed in stone and incense robs the air of freshness. In a small inner court there was a formal garden, but it was laid out in straight lines with pebble paths and little hedges and, despite being open to the sky, proved nearly as restrictive as the gloomy stairways and passages of the royal apartments. It was no wonder that Catherine quickly established a daily habit of riding out into the well-tended hunting park outside the walls.

The two remaining Joannas accompanied her on these excursions, along with a detachment of guards and frequently Owen Tudor and Walter Vintner, who had been recruited as her chief clerk. This was an appointment which had delighted me because I maintained a close correspondence with his father, Geoffrey, who had spent several years in Rouen attached to the new Council of Normandy, where he had legally secured many land titles and estates which had been granted to English knights and nobles as a reward for their efforts in the campaign that had won the territory back from the French crown. Much of the dowager queen’s business was conducted during these rides, when Owen and Catherine would discuss arrangements and problems and Walter would take notes in order to write letters and keep records afterwards.

I often joined the rides also, because I liked to exercise Genevieve myself, being absurdly fond of my faithful and sturdy palfrey. However, on Shrove Tuesday, I had elected to remain in the castle to supervise arrangements for the traditional feast to mark the transition into Lent. It was a sin to allow good food to go to waste over the six weeks of fasting and so, as was the custom, before dusk we would all assemble together to eat and drink as much as we wished and the leftovers would be distributed to the poor of the surrounding villages, some of whom were already assembling in the outer bailey to await their share. So I was not among the excursion party who encountered a colourful cavalcade of knights and horsemen advancing unexpectedly on the castle from the south.

Alerted by a trumpet blast and a loud clanging of the bell on the watch-tower, Agnes and I rushed to the main courtyard where there was much scuttling and scurrying among the grooms and stable lads, because instead of only ten horses returning from the usual ride there were suddenly thirty or more clattering over the drawbridge and under the gatehouse. Leading the procession with Catherine was a splendidly accoutred knight wearing half armour and identified by a blue standard bearing scattered fleurs-de-lys slashed diagonally by a red and white bend. It was not a crest familiar to me, but Agnes recognised it.

‘Those are the arms of the Counts of Mortain,’ she murmured in surprise, ‘but is that not Edmund Beaufort, the Duchess of Clarence’s son?’

It was indeed Edmund Beaufort, but a very much grander and more mature figure than the lanky squire we had last encountered at Windsor before the present king’s birth. The men at arms in his retinue all wore the Beaufort portcullis on their shoulders, but they also bore the Mortain arms on their pike pennants. It was very obvious that Margaret of Clarence’s youngest son had not only become a knight, but had also been granted tenure and title to a large part of Normandy. I wondered if Geoffrey Vintner might have drawn up the title deeds.

‘He must now be the Count of Mortain,’ marvelled Agnes, her eyes round with awe. ‘Who would have imagined?’

‘Not Catherine, I would wager,’ I murmured, turning on my heel. ‘I must go and warn the kitchen.’

No sooner had I briefed the cooks, than a message came for me to attend the queen and I hurried up from the kitchens to Catherine’s private solar off the great hall. The hall itself, as I passed through, was crowded with soldiers, members of Edmund’s retinue whose loud calls for refreshments had servants scurrying about with flagons of wine and pewter cups. Hertford was a sprawling castle, but our relatively small household was not sufficiently staffed to manage such a sudden influx.

When the chamberlain admitted me, I found Catherine and Edmund seated on either side of the hearth in her well-lit private chamber whose walls were hung with bright-coloured tapestries depicting scenes of English legend; an ancient king receiving the swords of a surrendering garrison on one, a queen begging the lives of hostages outside a besieged city on another. Hardly appropriate for a lady’s solar, I considered, but Hertford Castle had a colourful history, which Catherine was explaining to Edmund.

‘Believe it or not, my ancestor King John of France was housed here as a prisoner of King Edward the Third; and thirty years ago it was where my eldest sister Isabelle came to live as the child-queen of King Richard,’ she told him with a nervous laugh. ‘Neither of them can have been very happy, I imagine.’

Edmund echoed her laugh, but on a merrier note. ‘We shall have to try and cheer the place up,’ he said. ‘I am glad to have arrived before Lent so that we can have a proper celebration of our reunion. I have much to tell you of the situation in France.’

Catherine caught sight of me and beckoned me forward. ‘That is why I summoned Madame Lanière. You remember her, do you not? She is still my beloved companion and loyal servant.’

Edmund acknowledged me with a smile and a nod of the head. ‘I do indeed remember Mette. She once did me the honour of riding pillion behind me during my time as your squire.’

Disconcertingly I found myself blushing, remembering the days when I had been unable to ride my own horse and was obliged to undertake some excruciatingly uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing journeys in Catherine’s wake. I bent my knee dutifully to the count. ‘I am glad to say that I ride my own horse these days, my lord,’ I responded.

‘I thought you would be interested in the progress of the war in France, Mette.’ Catherine gestured towards a stool set behind and to one side of her. Its placement indicated my role – I was to listen but not participate. Catherine was acutely conscious of the need for a chaperone when entertaining male guests. As Queen Mother, any whiff of scandal that reached the ears of the regency council might prompt them to further restrict her access to the king.

Edmund cleared his throat. ‘I think it safe to say that, at present, our English lions fly at their highest over France, Madame. My lord of Bedford and the Earl of Salisbury are even now drawing up plans to invest a siege of Orleans and once that city is taken, the whole of the south will open up to us.’

Catherine shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. News of England’s successes always indicated losses on her brother’s part. ‘Is that so? And will you be returning for that campaign, Edmund?’

‘I will certainly be returning to France because my estates in Normandy require much attention, but whether I will take part in the siege I do not know. I have still to pursue the matter of my brother’s ransom but, while the Duke of Orleans remains a prisoner in England, I cannot see him being released.’

‘So that is what brought you back to England.’ Catherine gave him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘It is good to see you, but if you have won yourself such lands and honours I think you must be much in demand across the Sleeve.’

To the complete surprise of both of us, Edmund suddenly flung himself to his knees beside Catherine’s chair. ‘I came back for one very good reason, Madame,’ he said breathlessly, ‘to put an important proposition to you.’ He took one of her hands in his and continued what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. ‘I will come straight to the point. My lady mother informs me that you may be of a mind to re-marry now that the king has a separate household. Would you think it presumptuous of me to ask whether you might consider a match with me? You know I have always held you in the highest esteem and I dare to think that a marriage with someone like myself might be exactly what you need.’

He looked only slightly sheepish as he hastened to boast his credentials. ‘I am landed now, but not so greatly that I might be anything but a loyal subject of your son. I am also of the blood royal, though as a younger son not too close to the succession. Most importantly of all, I am young and vigorous and think you the most beautiful woman on earth. There – I can put it no plainer than that.’

He came to an abrupt halt and set her hand to his lips in an ardent salute before fixing her with an enquiring gaze. Catherine was staring at him in amazement and I suddenly realised that I had risen to my feet, perhaps with some crazy idea of curtailing excessive advances. Edmund’s proposal had come out of the blue.

‘I … I am honoured,’ Catherine stuttered, nonplussed by this assured approach by a man whom she had scarcely had time to appreciate was no longer a boy to be teased and ordered about. ‘I do not know what to say, Edmund. You have taken me completely by surprise.’

I sheepishly resumed my seat as Catherine shook her head in bewilderment. I could sense her regarding him differently, weighing him up as a lord and partner and found myself doing the same, studying his honest face and candid grey eyes, which were twinkling at her now, kindly and without guile. He looked confident, intelligent and capable. Perhaps Catherine might even find him attractive.

‘Your suggestion is very interesting to me, Edmund,’ she said gravely. ‘I will give it the serious consideration it deserves.’

He sat back in his chair, suddenly relaxed and I guessed that his proposal had cost him more mental stress than he showed. ‘I am glad,’ he said. ‘There is no great hurry for your answer, except my own impatience of course. I return to France next year and very much hope you will come with me as my countess.’

Catherine inclined her head in my direction. ‘Pour some wine please, Mette, and we will drink to future possibilities.’

When I brought the two cups to them, they stood and raised them in a toast. The sudden change in their relationship hovered between them like a phantasm.

‘There is just one more thing,’ said Edmund suddenly, taking her cup and turning to place them both on a nearby table. Then, swinging round, he gathered her into his arms with gentle ardour and kissed her on the mouth. It was not a snatched kiss from an awkward admirer, but a long and businesslike statement of intent from a man of confidence and experience and she showed no inclination to repulse it. When their lips finally parted, he gazed intently down at her. ‘It would not be a marriage of convenience, you know, Catherine.’

It was the first time he had ever used her name.

In France we call Shrove Tuesday Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, more apt in my opinion because although we were all shriven by the priest before sunset, the hours between that and midnight were given over to feasting and merry-making. On this occasion Catherine and Edmund sat side by side at the high table, sharing a cup and offering each other choice morsels of meats and sweetmeats. It was the first time since the death of her charismatic husband that I had witnessed her really come alive and it did my heart good to see it. With them sat the priest, Maître Boyers, Edmund’s two knight-captains and the two Joannas, invited there to entertain the men. In the body of the hall the actions of the hostess and her principal guest caused plenty of nudging and winking among Edmund’s louder and less courtly retainers and beside me Agnes expressed mild shock at her widowed friend’s lively demeanour, as if two well-matched and unattached people were not allowed to flirt a little during a Fat Tuesday feast without bringing the wrath of God down upon their handsome coroneted heads.