The Tudor Bride (48 page)

‘Listen to me, Henry!’ Catherine grabbed her son’s hands and hauled him to his feet. ‘Stop screaming or you will not hear me.’ She pushed him back into his chair. ‘Stop it! Now!’

Henry lapsed into silence as if suddenly aware of how childish he had been sounding, like a toddler in a tantrum over a sweetmeat. He had the grace to look a little shamefaced and sat in his chair swinging his feet, eyes downcast, sighing, fiddling with his fingernails. The door opened and a rather portly grey-bearded man in a dark chaperon hat poked his head tentatively into the room, only to be waved regally away by Catherine, who carefully kept her back to him.

‘Take no notice, Messire, the king has had a surprise but he is now recovered. Leave us please. We wish to be alone.’

When Catherine spoke in that regal ignore-me-at-your-peril tone of voice it was beyond the bravest of courtiers to disobey and the door hastily closed again. I had recognised the man as Sir Robert Babthorpe the royal steward who had been foisted on King Henry by the Duke of Gloucester at Hertford. My heart sank at the possibility of him having noticed Catherine’s condition. If he had, the news would go straight to the duke himself.

‘I think you might fetch Maître Boyers, Mette.’ Catherine was keeping up a calm front and seated herself back in her chair. ‘Henry obviously needs the reassurance of a priest. Meanwhile I will endeavour to tell him the truth without him jumping to any more false conclusions.’

As I crossed the room to the door, I saw Henry raise his head to look at his mother. His expression was still thunderous but his tantrum seemed to have subsided. I found Maître Boyers in the hall conversing with Owen, Geoffrey and Sir Robert while servants laid cloths and napkins on a trestle ready to serve the steward some refreshment. Two of King Henry’s squires were playing dice beside a brazier in a far corner. I beckoned the priest aside in order to convey Catherine’s message out of earshot of the visitors.

When we reached the solar, the little king was slumped, whey-faced, in his chair and Catherine was kneeling before him, his hands held tightly in hers. She was evidently trying to reassure him as best she could, but she looked relieved to see her confessor. ‘Ah, Maître Boyers is here now. He will confirm what I have said, Henry, that I am married to Owen Tudor and that this child will be your legitimate half brother or sister.’

The priest did not appear surprised to be summoned for this purpose and I concluded that Catherine must have primed him beforehand to be ready to administer divine comfort to the bewildered young boy. She stood up, gestured to her confessor to approach the king and came over to join me.

‘My poor son,’ she murmured, shaking her head sorrowfully. ‘He has taken it badly. I hope some prayer and priestly advice may calm his anxiety. What is Owen doing with the steward?’

‘He is arranging some refreshment, Mademoiselle. Have you told his grace about his brothers yet?’

Catherine shook her head. ‘No. One step at a time, I think. It took me quite by surprise when Henry made so much fuss before I was able to explain. He is still as temperamental as he was when a small child. I am surprised the Earl of Warwick has not managed to instil more self control. Do you think Sir Robert noticed my condition when he burst in?’

‘No, Mademoiselle, you were very quick to turn your back. When I saw him in the hall, Sir Robert was eyeing the table hungrily as the cloth was being spread; I would say he was more concerned about filling his belly than measuring yours.’

As we spoke together quietly, the priest had drawn Henry out of his chair and over to the prie dieu. Soon there was the familiar sound of chanted prayer and King Henry bowed his head over his hands in reverence of the Virgin’s image.

‘He is so very devout,’ his mother whispered. ‘Prayers and psalms soothe him. I will tell him the whole story after they finish. Perhaps you would arrange for us to dine together in here, Mette; and Owen too I think. Ask Geoffrey to distract Sir Robert with an inspection of the dower accounts after his meal so that we can bring Edmund and Jasper down here to meet their brother without the steward noticing.’

I had to hand it to her; she had it all planned and, the Lord be praised, things proceeded just the way she intended. Sir Robert relished his meal and then dozed over the income and expenditure of Catherine’s dower manors under the watchful eye of Geoffrey, while Owen and Catherine gently eased King Henry into acceptance of their marriage and life at Hadham. To my surprise, casting aside his doubts and fears, Owen assumed the lead role in this task. With a courtier’s skill, he was careful to afford the young king all the deference due to his rank, but for once he asserted himself, gently but firmly impressing on Henry the love and respect he felt for Catherine and the desire they both had to live quietly removed from court, while remaining his loyal and faithful subjects.

At first the young king avoided their gaze as he picked at his roasted birds and jellied parsley and sipped his weak ale, his brow knitted in a fierce frown. I served their meal and at one point, as I was filling his cup, he fixed me with his flecked brown eyes, so like his father’s they made me blink. ‘You are the one who brought me the letter from the queen after my coronation,’ he said accusingly. ‘I was very pleased to get it. And you used to come to my nursery at Windsor. Have you stayed with my lady mother all this time?’

My hand shook with surprise at such a direct question and some ale spilled on the cloth, making me even more flustered. ‘Er – yes, your grace. I live sometimes here in the queen’s household and sometimes in London with my husband.’ I was acutely conscious of the white lies I had told him at Westminster Palace, regarding my name and my domicile, but this did not seem to concern him.

‘So you came with her from France and you have been with her ever since? You are very loyal.’

I did not know how to respond to this observation so I just said, ‘Yes, your grace,’ and moved round the table with my jug.

‘Mette used to tell you stories when you were a little boy at Windsor,’ Catherine interjected. ‘Do you remember?’

At last the king responded to his mother directly. ‘Yes, I liked her stories, but I liked Master Tudor’s better,’ he said, suddenly turning his attention to Owen, ‘especially when you sang those wonderful songs about knights and their quests. I am very fond of singing.’

Owen smiled. ‘So I understand, your grace. I would happily teach you some lays if you would like to learn them.’

The king’s frown returned. ‘I do not think I will have time today. Sir Robert says we must get to Waltham Abbey before sundown. He is anxious to reach Westminster early tomorrow. Perhaps I could learn the songs on my next visit?’

‘Of course, my liege. We are delighted that you would like to come again.’ Owen made an acquiescent bow and seized his opportunity. ‘With that in mind, I hope you will not mention to Sir Robert anything we have told you of our marriage, or indeed to anyone at all. I am afraid that if you do, when you come again I may not be here to teach you anything, your grace.’

King Henry looked puzzled and was about to speak when Catherine broke in again. ‘You see, Henry, our marriage is regarded as honourable by the Church and legal according to the laws of England. It is important that you remember that. However, we have fallen foul of a recent Act of Parliament that says I can only marry with your permission, which sadly you are still too young to give. I hope you understand that we must ask you to keep our secret until you come of age and can give that permission, otherwise Owen could be arrested and imprisoned and that would upset me enormously. Will you – can you – guard this secret for us?’

King Henry did not respond immediately, but gave himself some thinking time by fiddling distractedly with one of the pearl buttons on his blue velvet doublet. Owen made as if to speak, but Catherine shook her head at him and laid a finger on her lips. A log shifted on the fire and the noise it made was the only sound in a silence that seemed to last for long minutes. When at last the troubled boy lifted his head, there were tears in his eyes.

‘I remember copying a letter to you concerning a proposed marriage to the Earl of Mortain,’ he told Catherine. ‘My lord of Warwick said the marriage would not be in England’s interests. I was sorry because I like Edmund Beaufort.’

Catherine leaned forward to place her hand over his. ‘I was sorry then too, Henry,’ she said, ‘but now I am glad because I found love with Owen and married him instead.’

King Henry blushed and removed his hand from under hers. ‘Yes, but I would have preferred it if you had married Edmund Beaufort. Of course I like Owen and he is a very good archer and musician, but he is a commoner and your child will not be of true royal blood.’

Not for the first time I felt my common blood begin to boil at the way this trainee king was being educated for his vital role as ruler of his country. Of course he needed to be aware of his own birth and heritage, but it seemed to me that he also needed to acquire some of his father’s appreciation of his subjects’ worth. England needed a king with pride and charisma, but also with the common touch.

Catherine countered her son’s received prejudice from a rather different angle, however. Noticing Owen’s rueful expression, she flashed him a placatory smile and turned again to the king. ‘You will be happy to hear then that Master Tudor is directly descended from a line of Welsh princes and, disinherited though they may be, their blood is as royal as yours, my son.’ This appeared to give her son pause for thought, and while he was thinking she delivered her final thrust.

‘And I must tell you now, Henry, that apart from the baby I am expecting, we have two sons already. They are called Edmund and Jasper. Would you like to meet them?’

Now the young king looked completely stunned. His jaw slackened and for several seconds he gaped at Catherine, his mouth and eyes open and staring, like a fish in a monger’s basket. Before he could speak, Catherine beckoned to me. ‘Would you fetch the boys please, Mette – and bring some toys and games.’

I have always considered it curious that children, no matter the difference in their age and size, invariably recognise each other as children and quickly form a bond that is a mystery to adults. Despite King Henry’s evident shock at receiving the news that he had two half-brothers, after they had been introduced and had stared at each other for several minutes without speaking, when I suggested that they might like to play the game of indoor skittles I had brought from the nursery he was the first to agree. Obviously familiar with the game, he was quickly down on the floor placing the pins ready to start and proved to be a good shot, knocking down the king pin twice during his first turn. The two little boys took a few moments to lose their shyness, but it was not long before they were also throwing the wooden balls enthusiastically at the pins; sometimes a little too enthusiastically so that Owen had to restrain them and show them how to aim more accurately. Inevitably Henry won the match but he showed sensitivity towards the younger boys’ disappointment by asking what other games they liked to play and letting them each win a game of Claim the Castle.

When the time came for the king to leave, he did not wait for Owen or Catherine to remind him of the secret he had to keep. He even realised that he must not mention what that secret was, nor refer to his relationship with the little boys in their earshot.

‘I will remember all that you asked of me, my lady mother,’ he murmured to Catherine when she hugged him before he quitted the room. ‘I will think of you all and pray for you. And I will find a way to come back and visit again soon.’

Edmund and Jasper broke off sharing another game to say their farewells to Henry. ‘Next time I will beat you at skittles,’ declared Edmund, his chin jutting determinedly. ‘I will be practising.’

‘Me too,’ said Jasper stolidly.

‘Then I shall have to practise as well,’ retorted Henry with a grin. ‘Next time will be a fine battle.’

‘Who was that, Mama?’ Edmund asked when the king had left the room, escorted by Owen and Maître Boyers. ‘I liked him.’

Catherine ruffled Edmund’s gold head. ‘I am glad,’ she said. ‘He is a good friend of ours.’

Such reticence was essential. Trusting a ten-year-old boy with her all-important secret was nerve-wracking enough, but to reveal the truth of their birth to these two, that were little more than toddlers, was a risk too far.

C
atherine and Owen’s third child was born on the Feast of St Margaret, the twentieth of July 1432, and duly baptised in honour of that saint, which surprised Catherine who had thought she was destined only to have sons and thrilled Owen because Margaret was the name of his mother who had died when he was six years old.

‘Now I have a living reminder of the beautiful Margaret Vychan, whose voice I have inherited and who taught me my first notes on the harp!’ he cried, cradling the tiny girl carefully in his brawny arms, ‘As I shall teach you, cariad bach!’

There was no sign of the fear and anger that had caused his dispute with Catherine and driven him temporarily away three months before. After the king’s visit they had spent several hours closeted alone together and then it was as if there had never been a rift. In the glorious sunshine of that balmy Hadham summer, their idyll was restored.

Nor, after Margaret’s birth, could I bring myself to leave Catherine’s household as I had considered doing. Geoffrey and I had discussed taking William to live with us permanently in London, but he and Edmund Tudor were so close it seemed a shame to separate them. For two months of their earliest infancy they had shared milk from the same breast and it may have been this that had forged the tight bond between them so that they were seldom to be seen apart, even sharing a cot bed at night. Little Jasper tried to shadow their every move and most of the time they tolerated the younger boy, but now and then they managed to give him the slip to go off on ‘big boy’ expeditions into the woods. So adventurous did they become that a student from Hatfield Priory was hired to keep them from danger and also to teach them the rudiments of writing and reading.