The Tudor Bride (57 page)

‘Do you not want to lodge at the Waltham Abbey guesthouse, Mademoiselle?’ I asked. ‘The abbot keeps a very good table and the rooms will be cool with their thick stone walls.’ I was offering her a reason to halt before she tumbled headlong from the saddle, which I was convinced she must do before long.

But she was adamant for continuing. ‘No, Mette. I do not want to risk being recognised by the abbot. Let us continue when the horses have drawn breath. Thomas says the Ermine Inn at Enfield has superior beds. It is not twelve miles to Westminster from there. We can be with the king before Tierce.’

When she finally slid from the saddle in the yard of the inn, it was all Thomas could do to hold her up. Feeling distinctly wobbly myself, I handed Genevieve’s reins to a hostler and told him to wash her legs down with cold water before giving her a hot bran meal. There were only two rooms available and since Catherine was travelling incognito, there was no question of pulling rank, so for the first time she and I were to share a bed. Once I might have pulled some cushions onto the floor and left the comfort of the mattress to her but on this occasion we both ate the bread and pottage supplied by the innkeeper, helped each other out of our outer clothes and, clad only in our chemises, collapsed into the cool embrace of the sheets. I assumed that the fierce pains in my limbs and back could have been no worse than Catherine’s, but she made no complaint and I heard the words of her night-time prayer mumble into silence as the blessed healing power of sleep claimed her only minutes before me.

Catherine woke me to help her dress before the dawn light pierced the cracks in the shutters and then sent me to knock on the door of the men’s bedroom. While we waited for the sleepy grooms to tack up our mounts, we broke our fast on bread and ale in the sweaty reek of the tap room, where the floor was sticky with spilled wine and meat juices. Catherine ate little, but I cajoled her into forcing down a few mouthfuls before we hobbled out to face the seemingly insurmountable task of climbing back into the saddle. Saints be praised there was a mounting block against the yard wall and after a time the agony of being joggled by Genevieve’s uneven stride dulled into mere pain. As the first milepost slid by, I sneaked a peek at Catherine’s face and her jaw looked just as set as mine was. We did not speak for we had nothing of comfort to say to each other. I prayed silently to St Margaret to help the baby hang on tight.

We all cheered when the spires and towers of Westminster came into view and the king’s standard was clearly visible flying from the palace keep. Sure now that Henry had not left for Dover, Catherine fell to thinking out loud about how she should gain admission to the king. She did not wish to declare herself to the guards because of her obvious condition and, anyway, she wanted to change into clothes more fitting for a court attendance. It was Thomas who suggested that we seek accommodation at the abbey guesthouse, where pilgrims from every corner of the land stayed before worshipping at the shrine of St Edward the Confessor.

‘The horses can be stabled there as well,’ he added. ‘They have performed well and deserve a good rest.’

‘I will need my mare to take me to the palace,’ Catherine reminded him. ‘I know it is only a short walk, but I do not think I will be able to manage it. And, Walter, I will give you my signet for the gatehouse guards to recognise. Do not leave my letter with them, you must take it all the way to the king’s apartments.’

The monks showed us to a small guest cell where Catherine gratefully lay down on the cot bed while I prepared the robe and mantle I had packed in my saddlebags for her crucial meeting. She had lost so much weight during this pregnancy that the gowns she had worn as Queen of England still fitted, even over her eight-month belly. I hoped that the full-skirted blue silk one I had chosen would almost completely hide all evidence of it, especially when she also enveloped herself in a flowing gem-sprinkled mantle of deep crimson lined with scarlet. At least in that attire there would be no question of the guards mistaking her pedigree when she rode into the palace.

Walter returned after an hour to announce that the king had been shown the letter on the way to Mass and that a squire would come to escort his mother to the royal presence chamber immediately afterwards. I hurriedly completed arranging Catherine’s hair into jewelled nets and a gossamer veil and the squire arrived as I inserted the final pin. Unable to disguise my own saddle-sore waddling gait, I followed with profound admiration as Catherine managed to glide gracefully over the uneven stone flags of the guesthouse yard, clutching her mantle around her in such a way as to completely camouflage her protruding belly. Apart from her intense pallor there was no sign of her pregnancy or her hectic ride from Hadham.

A
lthough we rode the short distance to Westminster Palace, it was still a considerable walk from the central courtyard, where we left Thomas and Walter with the horses, to the royal apartments overlooking the Thames. Catherine and I more or less held each other up as we negotiated the maze of passages and staircases. We had no energy left for conversation and anyway the silent aloofness of the escorting squire and the curious surveillance of passing courtiers deterred even the most innocuous of remarks. I let Catherine handle the interrogation of the guards at the impressive panelled oak doors of the inner sanctum and kept my gaze firmly fixed on the floor, like a good attendant.

When the king’s presence chamber finally opened up before us I heaved a sigh of relief and looked up to see King Henry standing at the far side of the room, deep in conversation with a young priest. Otherwise the room was empty. On a dais set against one wall stood the large and ornately gilded throne under an impressive crimson canopy, at the foot of which a younger King Henry and I had sat together during my encounter with him after his coronation. Apart from that the room held little other furnishing except some richly coloured tapestry hangings showing scenes of famous historical events and, under a diamond-paned oriel window overlooking the river, a polished buffet on which stood an array of refreshments. This chamber was intended for formal court business, during which only the king would sit, while his courtiers stood or knelt. Catherine was swaying with exhaustion, but her incredible fortitude allowed her to sink into a full court curtsy at which the young king barely glanced. She was not able to rise, however, without relying heavily on my hastily proffered arm.

‘You, grace, it is so kind of you to see me at this busy time. I trust I find you well.’

Her softly uttered words penetrated the king’s conversation and he glanced up frowning at the interruption, whereupon his face registered astonished surprise and he rushed forward to take her other arm. ‘Your grace, my lady mother, Madame, you are here already. You look so weary, please let me help you to a seat.’

Since the only seat in the room was the throne, Catherine was solicitously conducted to it, where I hastily arranged her gown and mantle to preserve their disguising folds. Meanwhile, with a muttered word or two, King Henry dismissed the hovering priest, who cast a more than curious look at Catherine as he left the room.

I made full appraisal of the king as he returned to his mother’s side. I had already noticed that his voice had dropped and, with approaching manhood, his shoulders had broadened and his chest had filled out. His face was thin, but his cheeks were still boyishly rounded and there was down on his chin. I had previously thought him very like his father with his hazel Lancastrian eyes and above-average height but, noticing how prominently his long nose marched down to his soft rosebud mouth, I realised for the first time that he also resembled his Valois mother.

Catherine looked so pale now that I feared she might not have the strength to complete her mission but her voice, when she spoke again, was surprisingly strong.

‘Was that Master Aiscough?’ she asked as the door closed behind the priest. ‘I have seen him in the company of Cardinal Beaufort.’

‘Yes. I recently appointed him as my confessor and find him a good companion and a wise adviser,’ King Henry replied. A wooden board creaked as he sat himself at his mother’s feet on the steps of the velvet-covered dais. ‘He is younger and more forward-thinking than some of the venerable clerics who have been foisted on me up to now.’

There was satisfaction in Henry’s voice when he said this and amusement in Catherine’s response. ‘So you are beginning to make your own choices, my lord king? I am glad to hear it.’

‘Perhaps I take after my lady mother in that,’ he replied. ‘This is an unexpected and unheralded visit, Madame, and made at a time when I think you should not be travelling.’

‘Ah, you noticed,’ said Catherine wryly. ‘I hoped to disguise my condition from the casual glance, but my reason for coming is more important than my own safety or that of my babe. It is a deadly serious matter I must discuss with you my son.’

King Henry laughed nervously. ‘I do not like the sound of that. What can be so serious that you would risk the life of your unborn child?’

‘To put it bluntly, the safety of my first-born child – the King of England. You, Henry.’

‘Are you saying that my life is in jeopardy?’ Henry’s voice, still adolescently unreliable, squeaked treacherously on this question.

‘Yes and I beg you to do me the honour of hearing me out. For what I have to tell you may not seem immediately believable, yet I assure you it is true.’

In the tense pause that followed, I watched him staring up at her anxious face as if assessing her state of mind. But I knew she was very much in her right mind and eventually King Henry must have come to the same conclusion.

‘Well, since you are my mother I will hear your submission,’ he said at length.

‘Blessed Jesu, you make it seem like a court of law!’ The sudden high pitch of Catherine’s tone revealed the level of her stress. ‘But in a way I suppose it is just that. I have set myself up as judge and jury over someone and I must convince you that my judgement is sound.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘You are very friendly with your aunt and uncle of Gloucester, are you not?’

‘Yes, that is true. I know you and he have sometimes been at loggerheads, but my uncle has always worked hard in my Council of Regency and privately he has been like a father to me. I hold him in high regard.’ There was a hint of pique in the king’s inflection.

‘Which is not surprising,’ said Catherine hastily, ‘for he is a literate and intelligent man and intensely loyal to the throne, although as you say, sadly no friend to me. However it is not the Duke of Gloucester that I come to warn you against; it is the duchess, the lady Eleanor.’

‘But she is also kind and gracious! She has invited me to Greenwich while her lord is absent so that I may use his library. He owns many rare and wonderful books.’

‘Yes, Henry, you told me in your letter. That is why I have ridden at speed from Hadham – to tell you that you must not go to Greenwich.’

‘Not go! Why not?’ His demand was indignant, angry. ‘It is a pleasant journey down the river and there are manuscripts there I would dearly love to study.’

‘Perhaps so, but it is a journey from which I fear you may never return. Please – just listen to me, your grace – my son! You gave me leave to speak.’

There was a challenging exchange of glances and an awkward silence before Catherine launched into her explanation.

‘When your father and I were married, I gave him a wedding gift. It was a thorn from the crown of Christ’s Passion. The thorn was in a reliquary which he swore always to wear around his neck to keep him safe from injury, disease and sorcery, but at the siege of Meaux it fell into the mud and was lost. Soon after that he became ill from a flux such as many men suffered and from which most recovered. Your royal father did not, even though he was the strongest of men. He was a conqueror whom his enemies hated and I have come to believe that their sorcery caused his death because he did not have the protection of Christ’s blood on the thorn. Witchcraft is rife in England too, Henry, and I believe the Duchess of Gloucester is using it against you.’

‘No!’ King Henry’s denial was loud and emphatic. ‘You are wrong, mother – misguided. Lady Eleanor is a kind and beautiful woman and a good Christian. Abbot Wheathampstead has received her into the fraternity of St Albans Abbey. She cannot be a witch.’

‘That is only the beginning of my story, Henry. I have evidence.’

My heart was suddenly in my mouth. I thought Catherine was going to call me forward to relate the content of my conversations with Margery Jourdemayne and I began to rack my brains in order to find a way of conveying the information without identifying its source but, to my great relief, she did not.

‘I cannot tell you how I know what I am going to reveal, but I assure you that there is reason to doubt the duchess. Have you ever wondered why your uncle married her? Being a prince himself, did you not think it strange that he should chose a girl who was merely one of his captain’s daughters? As a mistress perhaps – you are old enough now to understand these things – but not as a wife. The other council members unanimously disapproved of the match, yet you gave it royal approval.’

I saw Henry shift a little on his dais step. ‘I thought it odd, but when I met her I realised that it was a love match, like yours with Owen.’

Touché
, I thought, wondering how Catherine would react to that. She made a dismissive sound.

‘Tcha! Ours is a true love match. Theirs is a marriage contrived by witchcraft. Eleanor obtained love potions from a known sorceress and practises charms and spells to keep Humphrey enthralled. Outwardly she appears to you beautiful and kind but, in truth, she consorts with the devil to achieve her ultimate ambition – the consort’s crown. The marriage and your royal approval of it brought her to within one single step of her target. Henry, my sweet son, my lord and king, since the death of your uncle of Bedford only your precious life now stands between her and the fulfilment of that ambition. Humphrey of Gloucester is now your heir and I fear that Eleanor would do anything to put her husband on the throne and make herself Queen of England. While he is here, the very presence of Gloucester keeps her in check but your visit to Greenwich while he is away will be, for her, a devil-sent opportunity.’