The Tudor Bride (46 page)

‘Did you see her? What did she look like?’

The king shrugged. ‘I saw her only once. She was ordinary, a peasant girl. You would not have noticed her in a street crowd but she was a sorceress, of that there is no doubt.’

‘Oh?’ Catherine’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Did she cast spells and fling curses?’

‘Not that I heard, but she claimed to hear voices. She said they were saints telling her what God wanted her to do.’ Henry shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Everything she did was against the teaching of Holy Mother Church. She wore men’s clothes and carried a sword, she said because Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine told her to do so. Also she claimed to have been sent by God to save France. From what, I would like to know? I am God’s chosen King of France. She was blasphemous.’

‘And what happened to her? We heard she was burned.’

‘Yes. At first she repented and was sentenced to prison for life but then she recanted and somehow she acquired male dress in her prison cell and dressed as a man again.’

‘As protection perhaps,’ murmured Catherine, ‘from the guards.’ I could tell that she felt certain sympathy for this girl whom her brother, Charles, seemed callously to have used and then abandoned.

Henry shook his head and took a sip of his ale. ‘No I do not think so. She was ugly. Warwick said that if she was a virgin it was only because she was unattractive to men.’

His mother’s eyes rounded in shock at this flagrant masculine bigotry and her tone became indignant. ‘So they burned her?’

Henry did not appear to notice the reproach in her question. He nodded. ‘Two days later, in the main square at Rouen.’

Catherine shivered visibly. ‘You did not watch?’

‘They would not let me,’ Henry said almost bitterly. ‘She deserved to burn though. She was a schismatic, a witch, a heretic!’

I saw Catherine wince at the strident tone in which her son made these terrible accusations. Nevertheless she managed to sound matter-of-fact.

‘So the maid is dead?’

‘Yes.’ At this point Henry suddenly began to sound uncertain, more like the ten-year-old boy he was. ‘Some of the French now call her a saint. They say her soul took the form of a white dove and flew out of the flames and up to heaven.’ He stared into the fire for a few moments, then turned haunted eyes to Catherine. ‘Would that not be terrible if it were true?’

A mother’s urge to console overcame Catherine’s misgivings. ‘Perhaps, Henry, but it would be her followers who want you to believe that. To me she seemed a poor young girl who was given to wild fantasies, which misled her into believing she was God’s chosen vessel. Such things happen in convents when young nuns pray too much and eat too little. I saw it at Poissy when I was young.’

The alarm in Henry’s eyes faded and he smiled. ‘They say she hardly ate at all,’ he said, ‘so perhaps you may be right.’

His mother abruptly changed the subject and became brisk and businesslike. ‘Have you seen the Duke of Gloucester since your return?’

‘Yes, of course. Did you not hear? He organised a big parade through London to welcome me back and we are to spend Easter together at St Edmund’s Bury. I would ask you to join us but it will be men only.’

She smiled. ‘It is much better to see you now, alone. Will you stay with the monks all through Lent then?’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I am to have lessons from a famous scholar who is very old and cannot leave the abbey. He will teach me how to translate Aristotle.’

‘And will you like that, Henry?’

I could not blame Catherine for sounding a little incredulous, but her son looked remarkably keen. ‘Oh yes, and it means I will escape the Earl of Warwick’s daily arms practices for a while.’ Henry leaned forward confidingly again. ‘But do not tell anyone I said that, will you, Mother?’

She leaned forward and patted his arm. ‘No, Henry, I promise I will not – especially if you promise to visit me again on your way back from Bury. Will you do that?’

He gave her a gratifyingly determined nod. ‘I will, my lady mother, whatever anyone says!’

A bright laugh greeted this response. ‘Well said, my son. You are the king; do not let anyone bully you, whoever “anyone” is. Now, what would you like to do while you are here at Hertford? Would you like to hunt with Master Tudor tomorrow? The park is full of game.’

Henry looked shocked. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. I cannot hunt on a Sunday. Will your chaplain not celebrate a high Mass?’

Catherine blushed. ‘Do you know, in the excitement of seeing you again I had quite forgotten what day of the week it was. Of course Maître Boyers will be honoured to say high Mass tomorrow with the king.’

That night, because of her elaborate apparel, both Agnes and I were needed to help Catherine prepare for bed and as the three of us discussed the events of the day, it felt quite like old times, before her marriage to King Henry’s father. As part of their pretence during the king’s visit, she and Owen were keeping separate chambers but it quickly became apparent that Catherine was seriously considering telling her son about her second marriage and the existence of his stepbrothers.

‘I so dislike the need for this deception,’ she fretted, pulling one glittering ring after another from her fingers in a series of vexed jerks. ‘I feel as if I am performing in a masque. It is like these jewels – all sham and show. I have not actually had to deny that I am married to Owen, but the longer I continue to keep it from Henry the less he will be able to trust me afterwards. He seems so mature for his age. Two coronations would be enough to make anyone grow up fast. I believe I can trust him to keep our secret.’

Agnes ventured a mild protest as she hastily gathered up the rings Catherine had discarded. ‘But, Madame, if you tell King Henry might he not have to lie to protect you? That would be hard for one as young as he – and so obviously devout? He will be torn between God’s commandment to honour his mother, and obedience to the Church’s teaching on truth.’

Catherine pondered this briefly, then shook her head. ‘No, he will not have to lie because I am scarcely a part of his life. I am willing to wager that my name is only mentioned when he writes his censored letters to me. Lord Hungerford is the only member of the government he could ask to escort him to Hertford. I suspect the Duke of Gloucester and the Earl of Warwick would have refused to bring him to visit his mother because they want him to forget me and learn to pursue the war with France. Henry will not have to lie; he will be able to keep the secret by saying nothing.’

‘And will Owen be happy for you to tell the king?’ I asked, lifting the heavy gold templette from her head.

‘I do not know and I cannot ask him because he is not here, where he should be!’ She put her hands to her forehead to scratch irritably at the red marks left by the headdress. ‘I know, I know, Mette, you are going to tell me that he is the one who will suffer if it gets out that he has defied the heinous Marriage Act. And you are right. They may throw him in jail – or worse. Aaah!’ She sank her head into her hands and her next words were muffled. ‘It is not a decision I want to make.’

In the event it was not a decision she had time to make, because the next morning a warning trumpet blast was heard and a troop of horsemen cantered over the drawbridge under the banner of the Duke of Gloucester. Catherine had just finished dressing for Mass, donning once more the sober widow’s barbe and wimple she had abandoned on moving to Hadham, and immediately sent Agnes to find out who had arrived. The news did not please her.

‘No visit from Gloucester augers well,’ she observed grimly as I handed her her breviary. ‘He would never come here except to bring bad news or else to gloat.’

‘Then you must be careful, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘Do not allow him to rile you.’

She took a final look in the Venetian glass; an unusual event these days because it never went to Hadham for fear of breakage. A prim figure in a plain dark-blue gown stared back at her. Framed by her linen coif, her face was pale, the eyes steely blue and the answering smile resolute. ‘I would not give him the satisfaction, Mette. Please accompany me.’

The great hall was crowded with men in Gloucester livery and half-armour, whose arrival had sent the servants scurrying as they struggled to answer strident calls for ale and meat. Catherine checked her pace at the entrance and advanced with slow, regal tread towards the hearth where the Duke of Gloucester stood impatiently tapping his booted foot. His meagre bow of greeting was made grudgingly.

Catherine made no effort to greet him in return, but stared pointedly down at the duke’s sword, hanging in its jewelled scabbard from his gilded leather belt. ‘You must know as well as anyone, my lord duke, that where the king is in residence all arms must be left at the gatehouse – even yours.’ Her tone was calm but not pleasant.

‘Then the king is here. That is what I came to find out,’ said Gloucester curtly. ‘I have no time for niceties. I must speak with the king and my men need refreshment. We ride on for St Edmund’s Bury afterwards.’

Catherine seated herself in a chair by the fire. ‘I repeat. All arms must be taken to the guardhouse before anything further can be done.’

Across the hall I saw Owen enter from the screen door. He heard this request, strode swiftly up to the duke, made a bend of the knee and held out his hands. ‘Allow me to take your sword, my lord, and I will show your men where to leave theirs.’

Gloucester’s scowl deepened, but he unbuckled his weapon and handed it to Owen. ‘It is of great value. Take care it is kept separate from the others,’ he snapped and rounded on Catherine. ‘Now, Madame – the king?’

From close behind Catherine’s chair I watched her ignore the duke’s rude demand for her son, gazing down at her hands, carefully folded around her leather-covered breviary. ‘It is Sunday, my lord of Gloucester. You should be even more aware than I that the king always hears Mass before breaking his fast on a Sunday.’ Her chin lifted as the bell began to ring from the castle chapel and she rose swiftly. ‘You and your men may join us if you like, my lord. The meal will be served after Mass.’

I followed Catherine’s rigid back through the main entrance and down the steps without looking back to see whether the duke came or stayed. We met with the king and Lord Hungerford as they emerged from the privy entrance where Gloucester had accosted Catherine so roughly four years previously.

Henry took her hand as she made her curtsy to him. ‘God’s Sabbath greeting to you, my lady mother.’ She bent to let him plant a kiss on her cheek and gave him one in return. Henry gazed around at the bustle in the courtyard. ‘Who has arrived so early on a Sunday?’

‘Your uncle of Gloucester. He wishes to speak with your grace. I told him he was welcome to join us at breakfast after Mass.’ Catherine managed to keep any hint of antipathy out of her voice.

‘Did he not wish to join us in the chapel?’

‘I invited him but it seems not.’

Lord Hungerford coughed and interjected. ‘Perhaps I should go and see what he wants, your grace?’

Henry frowned but nodded. ‘If you wish, my lord. I hope you will join us in the chapel later.’

But Lord Hungerford did not come to Mass at all, nor was he in the great hall for breakfast.

‘Hungerford had to leave for London,’ the duke explained baldly to the king. ‘Regrettably he will not be continuing as treasurer here and his place will be taken by your new steward, Sir Robert Babthorpe.’

‘What? But why?’ The little king was far from happy at this news and immediately grew petulant. ‘I do not know this Sir Robert Babthorpe. I wish Lord Huntingdon to accompany me to Bury.’

‘That will not be possible, I fear, but you know Sir Robert’s son Ralph. He is one of your squires of the body. He is here with me now and will come with us to St Edmund’s Abbey.’ Gloucester put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and guided him to his place at table. ‘Come, Henry, I expect you are hungry. Some breakfast will set you up.’

My place was further down the board and I was not able to hear what followed, but I could see that Catherine’s questions to the duke were not answered to her satisfaction for she became morose and ate little, taking only a small portion of bread and a few sips of the breakfast ale. Meanwhile Gloucester’s smiling overtures seemed to be working on the king, who grew more animated and amused by his uncle’s conversation as the meal progressed. It was a cheerful boy who withdrew with his mother and the duke to the solar at the end of breakfast.

I slipped in after them, not wanting to risk any chance of Catherine finding herself alone with Humphrey of Gloucester. Behind me Ralph Babthorpe, the squire whose father had suddenly and mysteriously been appointed King Henry’s new steward, smugly brought the duke’s sword and belt into the room and informed him that everything was prepared for departure.

‘His grace’s bags are packed and loaded as you instructed, my lord,’ the young man added.

Henry looked at his mother in surprise. ‘I thought I was to stay here with you until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I was so busy telling you mine, that I have hardly heard any of your news.’

Catherine smiled and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, turning him pointedly away from the duke. ‘You may stay as long as you like, my dear son. And you are right; we still have much to tell each other.’

‘On another occasion perhaps, my liege,’ Gloucester said, moving in on Henry’s other side. ‘The plans have changed. I am to escort you to Bury and must leave at once.’ He took the king’s other elbow, removing him firmly from Catherine’s grasp and letting his gaze travel contemptuously over her plain attire and concealing coif. ‘Besides, now that your mother lives in such nun-like seclusion, she can have nothing of much interest to tell you. Far better we should make a more leisurely journey and arrive in good time to enjoy the abbot’s lavish Fat Tuesday feast before Lent turns our thoughts to our salvation, do you not agree?’

‘Actually we have a sumptuous feast prepared here for you today, Henry,’ countered Catherine, refusing to admit defeat. ‘Master Tudor brought down a fine hind and it is already roasting at the kitchen fire. I believe we can smell its tantalising aroma.’ She sniffed appreciatively.