The Tudor Bride (47 page)

‘It is pointless to tempt the king with the smell of venison, Madame,’ said Gloucester on an unmistakable note of triumph. ‘I happen to know it is the one meat that is not to his grace’s taste, is that not so, nephew? Your mother has either forgotten, or else you have changed. Young boys do change their tastes as they grow, Madame, but of course you can have little experience of that. Now I think you should go and make yourself ready for the journey, Henry, and let Ralph clothe you in your warmest attire. Remember it is February and the wind is blowing cold from the east.’

The squire, a sturdy-looking young man approaching the age of knighthood, bowed low to the king and gestured him pointedly towards the door. Henry’s gaze flickered uncertainly between Catherine and the duke and then he shrugged.

‘It seems I must go, then,’ he grumbled, ‘but I do so unwillingly, uncle.’

‘We will make our farewells in private before you go, my son,’ Catherine called after his small, departing figure, waiting for the door to close before turning angrily on the duke. ‘Shame on you, Gloucester! There is a boy who is baffled and bemused – and no wonder. We were fighting over him like the two women before Solomon. He was happy with Lord Hungerford. Now he does not know if he is coming or going. Boys of his age need security and a regular routine.’

Gloucester sneered down at her from his superior height. ‘Neither of which you are in a position to give him, Madame. So do not lecture me on the upbringing of boys. At least I was one once.’

She was holding the breviary she had taken to Mass and suddenly raised it high under his nose. ‘Using my son for revenge on me is the devil’s work. Have a care for your soul, my lord!’

Gloucester adopted an incredulous expression. ‘Revenge on you? You are not of enough significance. Even less so now that the fool who sought to advance himself by marrying you has secured himself a bride of rather more worth. You probably are not aware that, lacking English estates, Edmund Beaufort has married Warwick’s daughter Eleanor, Lady Roos; a widow with enough lands and wealth to satisfy any impecunious younger son.’

Humphrey took his sword from the table where the squire had left it and made a great show of buckling it on. ‘However the upstart Beaufort pup has not learned his lesson. He married her without licence from the council, so when the formalities are finally concluded, which may take some time, he will be paying a sizeable sum into the Treasury by way of a fine. Still, the penalty for marrying you would have been penury and dishonour and no woman is worth that, however royal her blood.’

To show his disdain for her ban on weapons, he half drew his sword, slammed it fiercely back into the scabbard then, without bow or farewell, made his exit.

Catherine took a deep breath to shout after him in protest, then caught my eye and expelled air instead. ‘Ugh! Abominable, self-satisfied, pompous man! And I have to let him ride away with my son. God give me the patience to bear it!’ She paced furiously around the room. ‘Power has corrupted Humphrey of Gloucester and I hope it will be his downfall and that Henry, when he is old enough, will be the one to bring it about!’

As we were alone, I risked the remark that it was fortunate she had not told Henry about her marriage and his brothers. ‘For it appears that at present the king is too much in Gloucester’s thrall to be trusted not to reveal your secret.’

‘Yet I must tell him, Mette,’ she declared with grim determination. ‘He must hear it from my lips. If there is to be trust between any two people, surely it must be between mother and son.’

A
week before Easter, Geoffrey came to Hadham to accompany me and William to London to prepare for Mildy’s wedding, which was to take place immediately afterwards. It was an affecting sight to see our three-year-old son grinning from ear to ear as he rode in a pommel-seat on his father’s saddle, but I have to admit that my heart was in my mouth all the way to Tun Lane. I knew from bitter experience that life was God’s to give and take as He saw fit but, being what Catherine teasingly called ‘autumn’ parents, William had become of such supreme importance in our lives that to have him taken from us by some dreadful riding accident was not something I could bear to contemplate. However all went well and William attended his half-sister’s wedding in a new blue doublet and a jaunty felt hat with a red feather in it. I may be biased, but the sight of our lively little boy with the curly brown hair and ready smile made me almost burst with pride.

The marriage was an interesting match between two people who had known each other since childhood and were friends rather than sweethearts. At twenty-three, Mildy had reached an age when she understood the obligations of matrimony and looked forward to keeping a house and raising a family. Hugh Vintner was her cousin, a few years older and just the right side of the Church’s rules on consanguinity, who had recently returned from a lengthy period acting as the family’s agent in Bordeaux, where he had learned all there was to know about the wine from that region and so was amply suited to take over his ailing father’s London import business. I suppose it could have been called a marriage of convenience, but watching them talking and laughing together as they shared a cup at the wedding feast I thought the omens looked good for this particular union.

Our intention had been to stay in London for a few weeks before returning to Hadham. Shortly after the episode at Hertford, Catherine had revealed to Owen that she was pregnant again and I planned to return to her side well before the birth of their third child in the summer. However, less than a week after Mildy’s wedding, a letter came from Hadham. In truth it was more of a cry of distress; a scrawled note penned in obvious haste and agitation, without any greeting or signature.

Oh, Mette!

As so often I am in sore need of your wise counsel for I am torn between my eldest son and my husband and cannot reconcile my loyalty to each. Henry has written to say that he is to stay an extra month at St Edmund’s Bury, but will visit me in early May on his way back to Westminster for the opening of Parliament on the sixteenth. I have written to tell him that I will be at Hadham and not Hertford and Owen is furious with me, saying I have betrayed his trust by not consulting him first. He says he will not be at Hadham if the king comes because he cannot preserve the deception here in our sanctuary and forbids me to tell Henry of our marriage. I have declared that I must because by then it will be obvious that I am with child. He wants me to tell Henry not to come. We have argued as never before and he has left Hadham – gone I think to Wales. Suppose he does not return? I cannot live without him. Dear God, what should I do?

I had procured refreshments for the courier while he waited for a reply, then taken the note straight to Geoffrey in his library where he was working. He had not looked pleased at being interrupted, but I had pushed the letter at him.

‘I am sorry, Geoffrey, but you must read this. It is from Catherine. We have to go back to Hadham.’

He scanned the note and shook his head impatiently. ‘It is time you let her fight her own battles, Mette,’ he declared. ‘She expects too much and you have other commitments now.’

‘She sounds desperate, Geoffrey. Look at the writing. The ink is spattered. Her hand is shaking as she writes. This is a frantic note. She might do anything and there is the babe to think of.’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘We have our own child to consider, Mette. Why should we take William on a rushed and hazardous journey to Hadham just because Catherine and Owen have had an argument? Owen will probably have returned by the time we get there and our haste will have been for nothing. Reply to the queen with your advice in a letter and let us not change our plans because of a slight marital disagreement.’

I demurred. ‘This is not a trivial tiff. It has been brewing for weeks and the problem is of major significance. If she tells the king of her marriage and he decides he cannot keep it a secret, it could spell the end of everything.’

Geoffrey was perusing the letter again, more carefully. ‘I cannot believe Owen will have gone far. He is too honourable a man to leave Catherine in such a predicament. She says she thinks he has gone to Wales, but she does not know that. It is my belief that he has galloped off in a fit of pique to the next dower manor and once he has calmed down he will turn around and go back to Hadham. He is probably there already.’

Stubbornly I stood my ground. ‘Then he could do with your legal advice, Geoffrey. What is the likelihood of him being arrested if their marriage comes to the attention of the council, and what would be the position of the children? Contingency plans should be made.’

With another sigh he pushed away the scroll he had been consulting and stood up. ‘Very well, I can see you will not be dissuaded. But we cannot leave until tomorrow. I have to make arrangements for another lawyer to take this case and besides there is not time to make it to Hadham in daylight if we leave today. I refuse to submit William to the dangers of a night journey.’

I walked round the table to give him a kiss and took back the letter. ‘Thank you, husband,’ I said with a conciliatory smile. ‘I will send a note to that effect with the courier. Apart from anything else, William will be delighted to go back to Edmund. I fear the company of his parents is no substitute for that of his boon companion.’

As Geoffrey had predicted, Owen had returned to Hadham by the time we arrived, but the mood between him and Catherine remained tense. He greeted us cheerfully enough, but over the evening meal he exchanged hardly a word with her and instead of sharing a game of chess with Geoffrey afterwards, as he often did, or else playing his harp for us all, he disappeared with Hywell and John on some business concerning weapons or armour. Clearly he and Catherine had not resolved their differences and when I had a chance to talk to her, I soon learned that she remained adamant that she would not put off the king’s visit, nor would she consent to keep her marriage a secret from him any longer. She appeared pleased with our return and listened to Geoffrey’s advice on the legal ramifications if the marriage should become public; however, even the possibility that Owen might end up in Newgate Prison did not cause her to swerve from her intended purpose. Observing how pronounced her five-month baby belly was already, I confess I could appreciate her point of view, but I nevertheless tended to agree with Owen, that it was not too late to postpone the king’s visit, being of the opinion that even for a king, ten was too young for a boy to be saddled with knowledge of his mother’s clandestine marriage and secret children.

‘I will not turn my own son away from my door,’ she retorted when I expressed this thought. ‘And Henry is not like your average page boy. He is highly intelligent and well educated. He may dislike the idea of my marriage at first, but I am sure he will appreciate my point of view eventually.’

I made no reaction except to purse my lips and she must have noticed because she tossed her head and called Agnes to bring the chessboard. Geoffrey and I were obviously dismissed.

The king came a few days later, in the first week of May, sending a messenger on ahead to warn us of his imminent arrival. This gave Catherine time to change her drab workaday clothes for something her royal son might recognise as queenly attire and, since she chose a tight-bodiced houppelande gown with a full skirt that flowed from a high waist, I suspect she was hoping that the king might not notice her gravid state.

However she did not risk welcoming him outside in front of his steward and retainers. Owen performed this task, ushering King Henry into the house and straight to Catherine’s solar, where a canopied chair awaited him across the hearth from his mother’s. Catherine bent her knee in greeting and embraced him warmly before they both took their seats. I too made my obeisance to the king and waited in my usual place behind the queen’s chair in the shadow of the chimney-piece, discreetly removed but ready to be of service. The door had barely closed behind Owen when we were startled by King Henry’s frantic, stuttering inquiry.

‘My lady mother, please tell me that my eyes deceive me and that you are not … are not … well, are not …’ His treble voice seemed to fail him and vanished altogether in a gulp. For several seconds there was silence.

Catherine gave a nervous cough. ‘That is why I wanted you to come here, my son, so that I could tell you myself. Yes, Henry, I am expecting a child.’

Henry’s arm moved rapidly as he crossed himself repeatedly muttering, ‘
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus … ora pro nobis peccatoribus
…’

Catherine interrupted his recital, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘Why do you say the Ave, Henry? Why do you pray for “us sinners”? I do not believe you are a sinner and I am certainly not a sinner.’

The king’s response emerged like a chicken’s squawk. ‘You must be a sinner! You are condemned by your condition. How can you deny that you are a fallen woman? A Mary Magdalene!’ I detected a frightening build-up of hysteria and took a step forward, ready in case he threw himself at his mother in ferment, but Catherine raised her hand to stop me.

‘Even Lord Jesus let Mary Magdalene wash his feet,’ she reminded him gently. ‘But, believe me, Henry, I am not a fallen woman, as you put it.’

‘What is this, then?’ her son demanded, pointing his finger accusingly at her stomach. ‘I may be only ten but I know full well that a child born out of wedlock is a bastard and its mother is a-a-a whore!’ He tripped over the word but eventually spat it out with venom, his young face twisted in distaste. Falling from his chair onto his knees, he raised his clenched fists skywards in a dramatic appeal to the Almighty. ‘Ah dear Lord be my aid! I am shamed and betrayed by my own mother!’ Then he covered his face with his hands and broke into wild moans of anguish and denial, choking and sobbing by turns.

Catherine swung round to look at me, her eyes rounded in alarm. I knew what she was thinking. This kind of sudden and uncontrolled behaviour was reminiscent of her father’s fits of madness, when he had screamed that he was made of glass and would not let anyone near him in case he shattered. Could this tragic feebleness of mind be re-appearing in King Charles’s grandson?