The Tudor Bride (58 page)
I noticed that she had not included any fears for her own health or that of her unborn child or mentioned the sinister existence of the wax dolls and the threat of image magic. As any mother would, she was protecting Henry’s youthful sensitivity and only wanted to tell him enough to make him mistrust the duchess and to keep his distance.
‘Why do you not discuss witchcraft with Master Aiscough?’ she suggested. ‘He will tell you that sorcerers conspire together in evil. I do not believe their evil spells can harm you because you are devout and pure and the saints watch over you, but they cannot protect you against poison and if you go to Greenwich you expose yourself to Eleanor’s hospitality and to her food and drink. I beg you, as you love me, Henry, do not go there.’
Catherine’s earnest entreaties had drained her energy and her face was now as white as her veil. The king took her hand. ‘You look faint, my lady mother. Please, do not overexcite yourself.’ He beckoned to me anxiously. ‘Come, Mette! Help the queen mother.’
I scurried to the buffet table where a flagon and cups were set out. After she had sipped at the rich red wine, a little colour returned to her cheeks. Meanwhile King Henry had taken time to consider her appeal, pacing slowly around the room, fingers pensively stroking the fur trimming of his gown. He returned to Catherine’s side, gazing at her anxiously, as if fearful that she might already be in the throes of labour.
‘How do you fare, my lady? I hope the wine has restored you.’ At her silent nod he bowed his head. ‘Very well, I will talk to Master Aiscough, but I do not believe Lady Eleanor is a witch. Witchcraft is a serious charge. It would have to be tested by the Church and I do not think you would wish to bear witness in a consistorial court. But since you are so against it I will not go to Greenwich and I will take care not to eat anything not tasted previously by another. Will that content you?’
Catherine heaved herself to her feet and took his hand to steady her descent from the throne. ‘God be thanked,’ she breathed, forcing a smile. ‘May the Blessed Virgin and all the saints keep you safe, Henry. It is not important that you implicitly believe me, only that you remain safe and well. And now I must leave before word spreads that I am here, for I suspect news of that might bring the Lady Eleanor running.’
‘But you will not leave at this hour surely!’ The king was aghast. ‘It will soon be dark. You cannot travel until tomorrow. I will have rooms prepared for you.’
‘No,’ said Catherine firmly. ‘We lodge tonight at the Abbey Hospice. They do not recognise me there and I do not want my presence here becoming common knowledge. You must prise an assurance from Master Aiscough that he will not speak about my visit. The monks at the abbey are kind and we must start for Hadham first thing tomorrow, else this babe will be born by the wayside.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘It would not do for the king’s brother or sister to be whelped in a field like a mongrel pup, would it?’
She still held her son’s hand in a tight grip, as if reluctant to let him go. ‘But I must ask one more boon of you, Henry. If I die before Humphrey of Gloucester do not, I beg you, tell him of my Tudor family. He is loyal to you as his brother’s son, but he hates me and would be furious to learn that I have defied him all these years. He and Eleanor might try to prevent my younger sons’ advancement. You know my plans for them and the Earls of Somerset and Suffolk will ensure that my wishes are fulfilled. Will you continue to keep my secret, Henry?’
Catherine looked so frail and vulnerable at that moment that I wanted to put my arms around her but instead, restricted by the circumstances, I willed her son to give her that comfort.
To my surprise he did lean forward and gently kiss her cheek, then drew back in alarm as tears began to spill down her cheeks, prompting words of reassurance to tumble from his lips. ‘You already have my promise to keep your family secret but I will reinforce it if that will make you happy. And I pray that God will preserve you for many years to come so that you live to see them grow to adulthood. But now you must rest. You are right, they will take good care of you at the abbey. God go with you, my sweet mother, and may He grant you a safe delivery.’
He looked at me expectantly and I took Catherine’s arm and led her from the room, almost blinded by weeping and weariness. Slowly we retraced our steps, following the same supercilious squire back to the palace gate. Black clouds had gathered in the meantime and drizzle had slicked the cobbles of the main courtyard. Walter and Thomas were waiting with the horses under the gatehouse arch and we pulled up the hoods of our cloaks to walk to meet them. Halfway across, Catherine lost her footing and although I held her arm I was not strong enough to prevent her falling to the ground with a sickening thud and a cry of pain.
I dropped to my knees beside her. ‘Mademoiselle, forgive me, I could not hold you!’
There was a strange, sour smell that stirred my memory and a fine mist began to rise around her tumbled skirts. She turned anguished eyes to mine. ‘Oh, Mette, you must help me now. My waters have broken.’
I
n the early hours the abbey bell tolled, muffled but relentless and between its clangs came the sound of shuffling feet as sandalled monks made their way from the dorter to the church for Matins. As they passed down the cloister in the fog of sleep they must have wondered about the muted moans they could hear coming from the hospice. In deference to her condition, rather than expecting Catherine to lie among the pilgrim travellers in the long public dormitory, the hospitaller had given us one of the small cells reserved for visiting clerics and, conscious that giving birth within the walls of a monastery was somehow inappropriate, Catherine was desperately trying to stifle her cries of pain. Even so, only the deaf or unconscious would have been oblivious to the plight of the distressed lady in their midst.
After her fall in the palace courtyard, Walter and Thomas had somehow settled Catherine in the side saddle on my Genevieve but she had swayed alarmingly, even with two of us alongside to support her. When we reached the hospice and the men had carried her in and laid her on the narrow bed, I suggested to Walter that he go to Tun Lane and tell his father where we were and the circumstances in which we found ourselves, while brave Thomas undertook to make a night ride to Hadham in the hope that Owen had at last returned from Wales.
‘I am worried about this birth,’ I confided to him out of Catherine’s hearing. ‘The queen is exhausted and weak. I fear she may not survive the ordeal ahead. If Owen were here, her spirits might be boosted. Pray God he is at Hadham. And may the Almighty protect you, too, Thomas. Do not take any risks.’
I did not tell them, as I had not told Catherine, what I had seen as we rode away from the palace. Glancing down an alley which led to the river, through the mist of rain I had spied a scarlet-painted galley pulling into the palace dock, torches glimmering at stern and bow, lighting up the royal standard of quartered lions and fleurs-de-lys, its silver border designating Gloucester. Standing at the gunwale, ready to disembark, was the unmistakably glamorous figure of Eleanor, Gloucester’s duchess. There must have been an incoming tide to bring her so swiftly upriver from Greenwich when she should have been making preparations for entertaining the king at her gloriously refurbished palace. Had there been time since Catherine was first sighted at Westminster for a fast horse to convey a court spy down to Greenwich and for Eleanor to have been rowed back? I was not familiar enough with the flow of the river to be sure, but with a dread feeling in the pit of my stomach I realised that Catherine had failed to extract a promise from King Henry not to reveal where she was lodging that night. In any case, if he told the duchess that he no longer intended to visit Greenwich it would surely not take her long to put two and two together. It felt dangerously as if we might be riding into a trap.
When Matins was ended, we received an august visitor, drawn by the sound of Catherine’s stifled cries, and at the sight that met his eyes the Abbot of Westminster quickly became a troubled man. Abbot Haweden was the very same abbey superior who had officiated at Catherine’s coronation. Then he had guided her through the solemn ritual and accepted, as a gift to mark a great occasion, the elaborately embroidered silk stole she had worn during her anointing. Now he gazed down upon her, lying great-bellied on the meagre hospice cot, and was bewildered by her desperate plight.
He turned to me, incredulous. ‘God alone knows how the queen mother has come to this sorry pass, Mistress, but she cannot give birth here. It is not a suitable place.’
‘We cannot move elsewhere now, my lord,’ I protested. ‘Her grace’s time is near.’
‘Yes, I realise that. What I meant was that we must find somewhere more fitting for her to give birth – more … discreet. There is a chapel off the infirmary and the walls are thick so that her cries will not be heard.’ The abbot thrust his hands into his sleeves, preparing to leave. ‘I will send bearers when preparations have been made.’
Before long four strapping young novice monks arrived, lifted the narrow cot with its swollen burden and carried it across the moonlit monastery court, past the looming bulk of the great abbey church and into the infirmary cloister. The chapel was a small lime-washed chamber reached through a separate entrance off this passage and proved to be a candlelit haven of peace and fragrance. An altar bearing a crucifix stood against one wall and a bed had been placed beneath a niche containing a statue of the chapel’s patron saint, appropriately St Catherine, holding a book and supporting a wheel, her beatific face frozen in a smile. On the bed a mattress was made up with clean sheets and a woollen coverlet and beside it wafts of steam rose from a tub of hot water, draped in white linen and accompanied by a pile of towels and napkins.
‘Father Abbot says to ask for anything else you need,’ said one of the young monks, staring in wonder at Catherine’s prone and gravid figure. ‘We have never had a birth in the abbey before.’
‘Please ask the brothers to pray for the mother,’ I whispered. ‘She is in a poor way. God knows if she will survive her trial.’
Gently I lifted her from the cot to the bed, horrified by her scant weight. Apart from her pronounced belly there seemed to be little of her. Outside in the night sky the clouds must have cleared, for bright moonlight suddenly illuminated a small stained-glass window above the altar, casting pools of coloured light across the white wall beside us.
‘Are those angels?’ cried Catherine. ‘Where are we, Mette?’ Her voice was alarmingly hoarse and weak.
‘In a chapel, Mademoiselle. It is quiet and private here and look – it is dedicated to St Catherine, surely a good omen.’
She made no comment as her body arched under another violent spasm and she bit down on the leather belt I had given her to stifle her cries. The four monks crossed themselves and made a hasty exit and I dipped one of the napkins in the water-tub and squeezed it out to wipe away the beads of sweat that had broken out on Catherine’s brow. When the pain eased, she reached for my hand and I noticed tears sliding slowly down her cheeks, glinting in the ‘angel’ light.
‘Do not leave me, Mette,’ she croaked. ‘I am so frightened.’
‘Shh.’ I stroked her head and gently took the belt from her. ‘I am here. There is nothing to fear. And you can make all the noise you like now, Mademoiselle. No one will hear. I have sent Thomas to Hadham to see if Owen is back. He may come by morning.’
To my surprise her tears redoubled and my knuckles cracked under the pressure of her fingers. ‘I hope he does not come. I do not want him to see me like this.’
She might have said more but another pain gripped her and she had no breath left to speak. All she could do was moan and, eventually, scream out like an animal caught in a trap. Her bony limbs made sharp angles of the bedclothes around the mountain of her belly. On the statue’s plinth I found a jug of wine placed on a tray with cups and poured her a drink, whispering my thanks to St Catherine for being a thoughtful patron. Inwardly I also begged Her to work a miracle, for I felt certain one would be needed before this fearful night was over.
Although a virgin herself, St Catherine proved that she had powers to aid childbirth, for despite the mother’s lack of strength the babe did not linger long between womb and world. When he came, however, the infant boy was tiny, apparently perfect in every way but worryingly small, as if he were one of a pair of twins. But there was no second foetus and I had no time to tend the child apart from tying the cord and wrapping him in a blanket because Catherine had given one last, enormous push to expel the babe and then fallen into a faint. Putting my head round the door of the chapel, I called for help at the top of my voice and returned to my charges. Catherine’s hands were icy cold and I chafed at them with both of mine, hoping to rub life back into the pale and senseless body. I had pulled the cover off, the more easily to deliver the baby, but now I flung it back on again, even though I knew that I must watch for the afterbirth. Although I had attended at least eight births, I had never before been solely responsible for the delivery of a baby and the recovery of the mother as I was now.
When help came it was in the form of the novice monk who had offered it before. ‘Is it born?’ he asked entering with caution, like Daniel into the lion’s den. ‘Is it all right?’
‘I need a knife,’ I told him. ‘A sharp one – to cut the cord.’
‘Oh – yes, of course.’ He turned away and extracted something from the purse he wore on the belt of his habit. It was his own knife – the one he presumably used to cut his food and trim his quills for writing. ‘Will this serve?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I took the knife and turned back to the bed. Testing the blade, I found it sharp enough for the purpose and was relieved that I would not have to resort to using my teeth, a macabre practice once gleefully described to me by a midwife, which had surfaced among my random memories of previous births.
I completed my task and adjusted the bundle, immediately handing it to the young monk and suppressing a wry chuckle at his evident alarm. ‘It is a boy and he lives, but not for long unless someone finds a wet nurse. And he should be baptised immediately. Tell the abbot his mother said to name him Owen.’