The Tudor Bride (61 page)

The children pray for you and the queen every night and you are seldom out of my thoughts and prayers.

Your loving and longing husband, Geoffrey

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The last words were crammed up the narrow margin that Geoffrey had left on the page and I pressed them to my lips, my heart full but feeling lighter than it had for what seemed like years.

So at last, after weeks of isolation, we received our first visitor from the outside world. Not that calling on the lady whose beauty had enraptured him as a youth brought any joy to Edmund Beaufort, who was appalled by the frail, pale wraith who sat propped in her chair, swamped by the black Benedictine habit the abbot had supplied, her face a skull-like mask loosely framed in a white linen coif. While walking with him from the gatehouse to the guesthouse, I had warned the earl of Catherine’s appearance and condition, but my description had not been adequate to soften the impact of his first sight of her. Proud Knight of the Garter though he was, he could not suppress the profound shock that filled his eyes with tears.

Catherine saw his distress at once and her voice was surprisingly strong as she greeted him. ‘Edmund, how very good to see you. Pray do not weep for me; I do not deserve your tears.’

Despite her plea, the forbidden tears spilled down Edmund’s cheeks as he bent his knee before her. When he kissed her hand it must have felt like pressing his lips to bare bones. For several moments he could not speak and she let him struggle to compose himself before she continued, her voice gradually becoming huskier and weaker.

‘This is my penance for flying against the wind, my lord. I snatched at happiness with Owen when I should have been an obedient dowager and lived a life of charitable works and quiet preparation for eternity. I am trying to atone for it now but I get weary and must save myself for prayer. You speak, Edmund.’

Edmund took a deep breath and dashed the tears from his cheeks, then he stood up and took the seat I had placed opposite hers. ‘Forgive me, your grace,’ he said thickly. ‘I am foolish and waste precious time. The first thing I must tell you is that your children are safe. Young Edmund and Jasper are both at Barking Abbey with Abbess de la Pole and Margaret is with Mistress Vintner’s husband and daughter at their London house. The baby is in the care of a wet-nurse appointed by the Abbot of Westminster.’

Catherine had read Geoffrey’s letter and made an impatient gesture. ‘That much we know from Mette’s husband, but what of Owen, my lord? Is he still in Newgate?’

‘I am afraid so. Owen was desperate to visit you when he found out where you were but the monks would not admit him. They said you had given the order yourself. Can that be right, Catherine?’

A faint flush stained her cheeks. ‘It is true. The first time he took my confession I told the abbot that I wished to see no one. I let them admit you, Edmund, but look how greatly you were shocked by my appearance. I cannot bear for Owen to see me in the grip of this fearful malady. I want him to remember me as we were at Hadham, young and beautiful and happy. But tell me, does Henry know Humphrey has had Owen thrown into jail?’

‘I think not. Gloucester knows of your marriage now and I have to be careful in order to keep your other secrets from him. After his recent and lucrative chevauchées through Burgundy’s Flemish territories, he is much in royal favour at present. It is hard to get past him to the king’s private ear.’

‘And I do not believe the Duchess of Gloucester will have revealed to the king the gravity of his mother’s illness, my lord,’ I interjected. I was still reeling from realising that by choosing to shut herself off from all contact with her family, without telling me, Catherine had effectively enclosed me with her, away from mine.

‘Then I will tell him if you wish me to,’ Edmund offered. ‘Sooner or later I expect to get a private word with Henry. I am sure he would wish to visit you.’

‘No!’ Catherine’s voice cracked with alarm. ‘I do not wish it.’

‘But he should see you – before …’ the earl’s voice trailed away. After a pause he made a gesture of appeal, spreading his hands. ‘You cannot deny him the opportunity to say goodbye, Catherine.’

‘There will be time for that – later. I beg you, Edmund, just to do your best to help Owen.’ Her voice was growing weaker.

He digested her rebuttal in silence, then changed the subject. ‘The Abbot of Westminster tells me the baby he baptised Owen is thriving with his foster mother. Abbot Haweden asked me to request permission for him to remain at the abbey. He feels he is a gift to them from God.’

I held my breath; Catherine had barely spoken of the baby since his birth, ignoring me every time I mentioned him. After another long pause all she said was, ‘Yes, I give my permission. That is fitting. And now you must leave me, Edmund. I am sorry but I grow weary. Will you come again?’

‘Of course I will, I hope with better news of your husband. Meanwhile, may God preserve and bless you, Catherine.’ Lord Edmund stood and stooped to kiss her shrivelled cheek, dry like autumn leaves. I saw him out and as soon as he quitted the chamber he slumped down onto the cloister parapet, head in hands. Deep, wracking sobs set his chest heaving. I stood silently beside him, waiting for the storm to subside.

Eventually he knuckled the tears away. His eyes were red-rimmed when he raised them to me. ‘Sweet Heaven, Mette, how can you bear it? She was so vibrant, so beautiful!’

‘She says it is God’s will.’ I crossed myself. ‘And perhaps it is; either that or witchcraft.’

His brow creased in a frown. ‘Witchcraft?’ he echoed. ‘Do you have any evidence of that?’

I shrugged. ‘Is there ever evidence of sorcery? They burned Jeanne d’Arc on very little. It seems the only thing is to avoid it and I fear it is too late for Catherine to do that.’

Lord Edmund stared at me steadily for the length of an Ave, as if assessing my state of mind, then made the sign of the cross himself, his hand moving slowly and deliberately through the motions. He stood up. ‘I will do my best for Owen,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that will only be by providing him with the means of escape. Have you any message for your kin? I will be seeing your husband within the week.’

Glancing round for possible witnesses, I took from my sleeve pocket the letter I had written in anticipation of his visit and pressed it into his hands. ‘It is very short but it will reassure Geoffrey and give him something to read to the children. I tried to make Catherine write something for Owen but she refused point blank. She has changed, my lord. Attaining grace is more important to her now than earthly things. Poor Owen has lost her to the Church, I am afraid. One day perhaps I will be able to explain it to him.’

‘How long do you think she has to live, Mette?’

I shook my head slowly. ‘It is impossible to say. Some nights I do not expect her to wake in the morning.’

He gazed at me sorrowfully. ‘It must be hard for you.’

Tears, never far from the surface, welled now in my eyes. I took a long, deep breath, struggling to find my voice. ‘Nothing has ever been harder,’ I said.

O
n her thirty-fifth birthday in the closing week of October, Catherine had seemed too frail to live into December, and yet she did. She survived to see another celebration of Christ’s birth, while her skin grew thinner than paper and her bones constantly broke through, causing terrible sores which I had to bathe with willow water and wrap in fresh bandages every day. Meanwhile the growth in her belly distended her stomach to grotesque proportions. It had got to the stage when she could no longer leave her bed to go to the church, even carried on a litter and instead of praying for a miracle recovery, I began to beg the Almighty for an end to her suffering.

The Earl of Mortain made a second visit in mid-December, before being obliged to leave again for France at the head of another defensive army. He told us that he had managed to get weapons smuggled to Owen in Newgate, enabling him and his companions to take the keys off their gaoler and make their escape, but had no further news of them except to convey a rumour that they had fled to Wales under the continued threat of arrest or assault by Gloucester’s henchmen. Lord Edmund had also managed to obtain a private meeting with King Henry, when he had told him of Owen’s unauthorised imprisonment and also of his own visit to Catherine, though not of her illness, as she had requested. When he bid her farewell, they both knew that it would be for the last time.

‘I think you should let the king know of your grievous malady, Catherine,’ he urged. ‘You cannot protect him any longer. I truly believe he has a right.’

She did not speak but slowly nodded her agreement.

‘Shall I ask the abbot to write to him on your behalf?’ Edmund whispered as he kissed her wet cheek. Once again she nodded.

A few days later, the abbot came to say Mass and bring her the Host and he read her a letter he had composed to King Henry. ‘At present his grace is at Windsor but they are preparing for him to spend Christmas at Kennington this year, which is only a mile or so from here, and I am sure he will make all speed to Bermondsey. And when you think it is the right time to make your last confession, it will be my honour to come to you, your grace.’

Catherine chose to make her last confession on Christmas Day and I left her with the abbot for nearly an hour. Afterwards she was exhausted and slept. I could not remember a more sombre Christmas. Had the little wizened man not scratched on the door and delivered a letter from Geoffrey, I should have believed the whole world had forgotten me, but his love and the words of encouragement he wrote tipped me back from the brink of despair.

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My beloved Mette,

It is Christmas and the whole world is celebrating the birth of our Lord, but I cannot imagine there is any joy for you at this time. However, we are all thinking of you and praying for you and I am holding you in my heart until I see you again. There is now word spreading around town that the queen’s life is drawing to a close, so while I earnestly pray for her to find a peaceful end to her suffering, I also hope that her release will at last free you to come back to me and to your children and grandchildren, who all miss you and ask for you every day. If it is possible, give our love and loyal greetings to Catherine and remember that we are all thinking of you both. Be brave, beloved Mette, as I know you will be, and bring your tears to shed with those who love you, of whom the most fervent is your

Geoffrey.

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Towards the end of December, an icy blast hit England and sent everyone scurrying to their hearths for warmth. To my delight Hawisa and Edwin, the Gloucester spies, did not return from their Christmas break, kept away by snow drifts which obliterated the roads and piled up on the ice which had stopped the Thames from flowing. Catherine’s bed was moved as close to the fire as we dared, but even so I could not believe that she would survive the freezing nights that followed. However, her will to live was astonishing, driven by a new and consuming need.

Daily, almost hourly, she prayed that her son would come to say goodbye and, in due course, her prayers were answered. On New Year’s Day they managed to clear the road sufficiently to allow the king to travel the two miles to Bermondsey from Kennington Palace. He arrived unexpectedly at the hour of Sext, the abbey enclosure suddenly filling with the noise and colour of his royal entourage. Hastily summoned from performing the Office, the abbot accompanied him to the door of Catherine’s chamber, but when I opened it King Henry would not permit him to enter.

‘When she needs the last rites, I trust you to administer them, Father Abbot,’ he insisted, ‘but now I will see my lady mother alone.’

Catherine had heard the commotion of trumpets and horses’ hooves and asked me to prop her up on pillows and pin her white veil over the linen coif she wore. ‘He is here. At last he is here.’ In their sunken sockets her eyes shone with anticipation and her hands clenched and unclenched on the bedcover. ‘Stay with me, Mette,’ she whispered. ‘Do not leave me.’

‘I will be here, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘I am always here.’

I remained in the room but retreated to the farthest corner of the chamber so as not to intrude on the king’s last farewell to his mother. Being in his presence though, I was obliged to kneel, a position which, having passed my half century, I now found hard to maintain for very long.

His mother’s eyes were open wide as King Henry bent over the bed. Although it was not a month since he had celebrated his fifteenth birthday and he was visibly shocked at the sight of her, he did not weep but a throaty hoarseness betrayed his emotion. ‘My beloved lady mother,’ he said. ‘God be with you.’

‘And also with you, my liege – my dear son.’ Her voice was muffled, scarcely audible.

King Henry leaned in to catch her words and spoke softly back, his mouth close to her ear. ‘They said you did not want me to know of your illness but when the abbot learned I was at Kennington, he decided he should send word. I wanted to come as soon as I heard, but the snow has prevented travel until today. They said you cannot be moved or I would have you brought to the palace. Have you suffered grievously?’

‘It is nearly over, Henry.’ She closed her eyes as if those few words had taken all her strength. I saw alarm flare in his eyes and it occurred to me that he feared she was already slipping away.

‘She is very weak, your grace,’ I said, raising my voice to carry from my corner, half-hidden from him by the bed curtains. ‘But she can listen. Have you perhaps some words of comfort to give her?’

The king glanced across, appearing surprised to find me there. ‘What words would comfort her, Mette?’

‘The truth, my liege. What has happened to Owen Tudor and what are your intentions for their children? She needs reassurance.’

Henry placed his hand cautiously over his mother’s where it lay on the quilt, fragile as a robin’s claw. The fire was only a few feet away and the room was stifling hot but he frowned at the icy touch of her skin. ‘Owen is being sought, my lady. He escaped from Newgate, I suspect with help from outside. I knew nothing of his imprisonment and I can do nothing for him now unless he comes to court.’