The Tudor Bride (40 page)

I saw Catherine catch her breath and squirm slightly in her chair. It might have been solely due to the mention of her brother, but I suspected that her pains were growing stronger.

‘It is surprising what a Frenchwoman can do when provoked,’ she managed to say, taking another sip of wine and fielding a sharp look from Edmund. ‘We do not lie down easily under the heel of tyranny.’ With an effort she pushed herself to her feet, using the arms of her chair. ‘I am afraid I must leave you now, Edmund, but I hope you will stay until tomorrow. I should like to hear more of the girl from Lorraine.’

She did not seem surprised to find Owen suddenly at her side, taking her arm and supporting her. Edmund also rose and Owen addressed him deferentially. ‘No hunting during Lent, my lord, but we could course some hare later if you had a mind.’

The Earl of Mortain gave a small bow of acquiescence. ‘Thank you, Master Tudor, I would relish that.’

Owen turned to lead Catherine away. ‘Come, cariad, the midwife is here and you have work to do.’

C
atherine gave birth to her second son soon after midnight. The two men had enjoyed an afternoon’s distraction by bringing down a few hares for Sunday’s permitted respite from the meatless Lenten diet and an evening swapping stories from the French wars beside the hall fire before Owen had been summoned to Catherine’s bedside to view his firstborn son. Despite my protests that she should let a wet nurse suckle her baby, Catherine had laughed and declared that she would do it herself and begged me to show her how. After that Owen watched in fascination as his tiny son struggled to latch on to his mother’s breast and whooped with delight when the newborn finally succeeded. I am not sure what the midwife made of it all but she was a taciturn widow who lived alone on the edge of the manor lands and was not much given to idle gossip, a quality which had greatly recommended her to us.

Compared to her first confinement, it was remarkable how swiftly Catherine recovered from the birth. By dusk the following day she was seated by the fire in her bedchamber eating supper with Owen and Edmund Beaufort. Geoffrey was absent in London so Catherine had invited Agnes and me to share the supper of roasted eel and fish stew, leaving the rest of the household to their own devices around the long trestle in the hall. They had been sent wine to toast the new arrival and we, too, drank the health of the tiny infant who lay sleeping within our reach in his carved wooden crib. Catherine toasted his health with the wine but otherwise, on the advice of the midwife, drank only freshly brewed ale to boost her milk supply. Although she was well cushioned in her arm chair, more than once I noticed a spasm of pain register on her face and made a mental note not to let her sit up too long.

Over the preceding twenty-four hours and despite their initial animosity towards each other, Owen and Edmund had clearly become, if not equals, at least friends. At the start of the meal they fell to discussing the relative merits of various forms of hunting but Catherine soon changed the subject.

‘Enough of hawks and hares!’ she said. ‘You are only here for a short time, Edmund, and now that I am the happy mother of another son please tell me something of Henry. I miss him so and only get letters from him once a month, which I know are censored by his tutors. Have you seen him lately?’

‘I was invited to spend Christmas with the court at Windsor but, to be honest, it was a paltry celebration – too much church and not enough cheer for my liking.’ Edmund smiled apologetically and shrugged. ‘But the king loved it. He is very keen on the choir at St George’s chapel. I do believe he would like to be a chorister himself, but of course with Warwick as his governor he is obliged to spend half his time at arms-training.’

Catherine frowned. ‘But he is only seven. Surely he is not strong enough yet to lift a sword!’

‘Clearly you are not acquainted with the long process of becoming a knight.’ Edmund proudly felt the muscles of his own right arm. ‘A boy has to start at seven to develop his strength. Warwick has provided the king with miniature versions of every type of weapon and even his own small suit of armour.’

Catherine looked unimpressed. ‘And what about the development of his mind?’ she asked. ‘A king has to rule with wisdom. You do not get that with swords and maces.’

‘I do not think you need to worry about his intellectual education. I am told that your son is prodigiously bright for his age when it comes to scholarship. I suppose that is why the Earl of Warwick feels he must balance his education with physical exercise, because if Henry was left to his own devices he would be constantly at book or prayer.’

‘And music?’ put in Owen. ‘You say he likes singing. Does he have lessons in music?’

Edmund looked uncertain. ‘That I cannot tell you. I only know that at the Christmas feasts he showed little interest in the dancing or minstrelsy. In fact he looked bored sitting through all the fun and games.’

‘He takes after his father,’ Catherine said. ‘He was always impatient with too much drinking and merriment.’ Her voice took on a yearning tone. ‘Did you speak with Henry much? Did he mention me?’

Edmund gave an awkward shrug. ‘It is hard to speak with him alone because his tutors guard him assiduously. However he did tell me that he was sorry you had been unable to come for Christmas at court.’

‘Actually, I did not receive an invitation.’ Catherine gave a forced little laugh. ‘Which I suppose in the circumstances is just as well, for I would have been obliged to refuse.’

Edmund glanced across at the cradle where the new baby was making small snuffling sounds in his sleep. ‘Will you tell him about his little brother? Surely it cannot remain a secret for ever.’

Catherine followed the direction of his gaze with maternal pride. ‘Of course I will tell Henry, but not while he is surrounded by people who wish me ill. When he is old enough to know his own mind I am sure he will understand my situation and even come to love his younger brother. After all, hard though they try to make him forget me I do not believe they will succeed.’ When she turned back there were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away. ‘That is why I have a huge favour to ask you, Edmund. I should say we have, because Owen joins me in this. We wondered if you would do our son the honour of becoming his godfather and if you accept we would like to name the child after you. With the Earl of Mortain as his sponsor we feel confident that he would have at least one man in his life who would steer its course, should we ever be unable to do so. I know this would be an imposition, but the fact that you stand by your oath to me gives me hope that you will be generous enough to extend that affinity to our son.’

A silence descended on the room, punctuated by the sound of a log shifting on the fire. A fountain of sparks climbed into the chimney and Edmund followed their ascent, his brow creased in a frown, then his lips spread in a slow smile and he nodded. ‘I would be honoured to know that your child was named after me and delighted to stand as his champion at the font. I shall take great pride in following the progress of a boy who, with such parents as you, is certain to make his mark in life.’

It was Owen who responded, dropping to his knee beside Edmund’s chair and bending to kiss his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord. I cannot tell you how much reassurance I feel as a father that my son will have such a powerful and noble friend. For what it is worth, in return you have my lifelong loyalty and fealty.’

‘It is worth a great deal, Master Tudor,’ said Edmund. ‘For you should know that I find you one of the finest fellows that was never knighted and I know you would defend your own family with the last breath in your body.’

Owen rose to his feet and Catherine raised her cup to the earl. ‘Thank you, Edmund, with all my heart. And now, before I retire which I feel must be soon, please tell me more of the situation in France. You say there is a girl from Lorraine?’

‘Yes. Her name is Jeanne and she is just some crazed country wench who seems to have convinced the Pretender that she is sent by God to lead his forces to victory. They call her La Pucelle – the Maid.’ Edmund’s voice acquired a brittle note. ‘In reality she is a gold-digging putane who has the temerity to wear armour and wield a sword and has been given a banner showing Christ in a field of fleurs-de-lys. It would be laughable if it were not having such an extraordinary effect on the French fighting forces.’ The earl fingered the hilt of his dagger as if he itched to sink it into the soft flesh of the French maid. ‘Orleans had all but fallen to our siege, but now its defenders seem filled with new zeal, which is why I am taking reinforcements there.’

‘And you say that Charles believes her?’ I glanced sharply at Catherine. It was some years since she had spoken the name of her younger brother, whom the English called the Pretender.

‘So it would seem, else why would he have given her armour and horses and a position in his high command? A woman in the high command! It is ridiculous.’

‘Has he taken her as a mistress?’ suggested Owen. ‘Could that be the reason?’

Edmund grinned at him as man-to-man and nodded. ‘It seems most likely, although she claims virginity, and that visions of St Catherine and St Margaret tell her what to do … and St Michael too, I believe. She is not short of saints to call on.’

‘Ah – St Michael …’ Catherine bit her lip pensively. ‘Charles always had great faith in the Archangel Michael. Does this Jeanne also tell him that the saints confirm him as the rightful King of France?’

Edmund gave her a startled look. ‘How did you know? Not only that, she says that God has sent her to crown him in the cathedral at Rheims.’

‘She is clever,’ Catherine said. ‘She knows his weak spot. Do you not see? If she tells him God wants him crowned, she confirms his divine right to rule as the true-born son of our father. She lifts the stain of the Treaty of Troyes which declared him illegitimate, and restores his Determination to fight. Bastardy has long been the monster at Charles’s shoulder. But how is it that a young peasant girl has acquired the knowledge and skill to manipulate him in such a way?’

Edmund threw up his hands. ‘Jesu knows! The whole situation is incredible. A woman in armour, placed at the head of the army! No wonder our men are thrown into confusion. They are not used to waging war against women.’

‘Not with blades and arrows anyway.’ Catherine murmured this under her breath in French and I think only I heard it.

‘When do you go to France, my lord?’ asked Owen.

‘The troops are mustering in Southampton now, ready to embark, so I hope the babe’s baptism can be arranged for early morning for I must ride at Tierce.’

Edmund got to his feet as Catherine rose stiffly from her chair.

‘Please stay and finish your meal,’ she said, accepting my steadying arm. ‘I will go back to bed and listen to your conversation from there, but while my baby sleeps I must try to rest. He will be ready to be taken to the church before the Hour of Tierce and afterwards, every time we call him Edmund we shall think of you.’

Edmund of Hadham was baptised the following morning by Father Godric, with Agnes standing godmother beside Lord Edmund. Less than two months later, Catherine carried my own baby boy to the same font in the Church of St Andrew to stand as his godmother. They called him William after me, at Geoffrey’s insistence, because he was so frightened that he might lose me.

I am left with little memory of that birth and so I must rely on what others told me afterwards. Childbirth is always hazardous. I already knew it to my cost, for at the age of fifteen I had suffered the stillbirth of my firstborn son, when I thought my world had ended. In fact it had just begun, because as a result I was recruited into the royal nursery to suckle Catherine. My next two children had arrived without trouble and although this time too the birth itself was relatively easy, something went badly wrong in the aftermath. I was vaguely aware that Agnes and the midwife fought desperately to staunch the bleeding while I drifted slowly into unconsciousness. As my senses faded, the last words that I heard were from Catherine, who was kneeling beside my bed, her voice desperate and pleading, ‘Blessed Saint Margaret save her! Do not leave me, Mette.’

Later I dimly remember regaining consciousness and being told all was well, the bleeding had stopped. However, within hours a fever started and I grew hotter than a blacksmith’s forge and apparently I began raving about black crows and blood-spouting gargoyles while Geoffrey sat by my side constantly sponging me down with cool spring water, praying to every saint he could think of who might intercede on my behalf. For two more days I hovered between life and death. It could have been his loving care, it could have been the beneficence of one or all of the saints or it could have been that I was, and happily still am, a hardy child of the Paris back-streets – but I survived.

It was only a fortnight later that I regained enough strength even to sit up and it was then that I learned how much I owed to Catherine, who suckled my little William along with her own son until I could do so myself.

‘What could be more appropriate, Mette?’ she declared in response to my weak bleats of gratitude. ‘You suckled me as a baby and now I can repay you by feeding your child. The wheel of fortune turns full circle.’

Nor were these births the only legacy of that year of love at Hadham Manor. At the end of June, Anne and Thomas Roke were at last able to announce that she was with child and at the end of August there was much rejoicing when Agnes and Hywell were betrothed. He was to carry her off to Anglesey so that they could be married in the heart of his family and a lively farewell feast was given with much music and merriment, followed by a tearful leave-taking when Catherine begged Agnes to come back to her after the wedding.

‘By then we will not only be friends but also relatives,’ she pointed out. ‘Owen has told me that his mother and Hywell’s father were sister and brother and so you will have family here as well as in Wales.’

Agnes laughed and returned Catherine’s hug. ‘How wonderful that sounds to one whose own people cut her off without a penny! If Hywell agrees, of course we will return.’