The Tudor Bride (63 page)

Within the hour I found myself standing alone outside the gate of Bermondsey Abbey and, despite my enduring sadness at Catherine’s passing, I felt a huge surge of relief, an intense feeling of deliverance as if from purgatory. During those five months of our shared incarceration she had deteriorated towards death, inch by inch, and I felt no further sense of duty towards the emaciated corpse I had so carefully laid out on the bed. The real Catherine, the true spirit of the child and woman I had loved and served, had withered along with her flesh until it vanished completely on that last long, final breath which I alone had witnessed.

Together with the deep-seated thrill of liberation, came a sense of satisfaction that not only had I escaped Eleanor of Gloucester’s clutches, I had succeeded in smuggling out Catherine’s legacy, the key to her altar, safely in my possession. As the abbey gate thudded shut behind me, I gazed into the grey sky over Southwark and took several grateful gulps of secular air before registering, in every part of me at once, that not only was I free, I was freezing. The road was empty and it was deep in snow and I wore only the summer kirtle and light woollen cloak in which I had ridden to London back in balmy July. It occurred to me that Eleanor may have been motivated to release me quickly from the abbey because she expected me to die of cold within a few minutes of leaving. However, when Hawisa searched me it had been a half-hearted effort because during the months of our enforced acquaintance we had come to an unspoken understanding. There was no friendship between us, but no deep enmity had been established either. We served very different mistresses, but we recognised each other’s servitude and lack of choice in our circumstances. There had never been any question of her finding the precious altar key but, whether by mistake or intent, she had also overlooked my letters from Geoffrey, which she could not read anyway and the few silver coins I had sewn into the hem of my chemise; more than enough to buy a place by the fire at the nearest inn, hot food and warm outer clothing.

Still thanking God for my freedom, I moved as swiftly as I was able through the new blanket of snow and was rewarded by the appearance of an inn. While I bolstered myself against the cold with a welcome bowl of his pottage, for the rest of my silver the innkeeper sold me a pair of old boots and a moth-eaten fur-lined mantle and told me that I did not have to use the congested London bridge in order to cross the Thames but could make use of a more direct path across the thick ice from Southwark to the Dowgate Steps.

‘The ice has borne the weight of ox-carts for more than a week now,’ he assured me and added, rather offensively, ‘so it should bear you all right, Mistress!’

I learned the next day that by taking this route I may have avoided death or injury, because that very afternoon the build-up of ice above London Bridge caused one of its supporting piers to collapse, throwing several buildings and a number of people violently down onto the frozen river below, a horrific event that was to delay the arrangements for Catherine’s funeral well into February.

However, I was unaware of this tragedy as I turned wearily into Tun Lane, where snow had been shovelled in shoulder-high heaps leaving only a narrow path along the thoroughfare and up to the door of each house. The innkeeper’s old boots and shabby mantle had prevented me freezing to death, but I was shivering uncontrollably. The House of the Vines, closed and shuttered though it was against the bitter cold, was a truly welcome sight in the smoky dusk.

When old Jem answered my loud knocking, he was so overcome with delight that he forgot all deference and threw his arms around me in a great hug. Never had I been more pleased to be gathered into such an impulsively loving embrace. There were tears in his eyes as he said with fervour, ‘Welcome home, Mistress, oh welcome home! The master has been pining away for you. Now all will be well again.’

The sound of his loud and enthusiastic greeting reached the ears of the household who immediately began to tumble down the stairs to the street entrance, practically falling over each other to reach me. There was a confusion of jubilant voices and such a jumble of eager arms reaching out to me that it was some moments before I caught sight of Geoffrey standing at the foot of the stairs, a wide smile on his face and a look in his eyes that, even in the dim light of dusk, told me all I needed to know about where I truly belonged.

Gently but firmly he pulled the children and the young people away from me and put his strong arm around my shoulders. ‘Here you are at last, Mette,’ he said gruffly, squeezing me tightly to his side as he guided me through the door. ‘Here you are at last.’

My head dropped gratefully onto his shoulder as we climbed the stairs and from behind us I heard the piping voice of little Margaret Tudor asking Alys, ‘If Mette is here, is my lady mother coming too?’ and Alys’s quiet reply, ‘We do not know, sweetheart. You can ask Mette when she is warm and made comfortable.’

Later, when I was seated nearest the hearth, the fire had been stoked to a blaze and I had stopped shivering enough to respond to their eager enquiries, of all the questions there were to be answered, of course, that was the most important. I lifted the little girl onto my knee and told her, as gently as I could, that her beautiful lady mother had died. I saw the unmistakable reflection of Catherine in Margaret’s bright sapphire eyes as they grew round and tearful and I hugged her as my heart ached, for I did not know how best to comfort her, but my love for her recalled me to my love for her mother.

Other than the sad news of Catherine’s death and a few details of our life up to that, there was really very little else for me to tell them, and besides, matters had moved on apace in the world I had left behind. Since they so hurriedly left Hadham at the end of the summer, all the family was gathered here at Tun Lane or nearby in Mildy’s dockside house. Geoffrey had vacated his ground-floor office in Tun Lane, in favour of rented chambers at the Middle Temple, so that Alys, Cat and Louise could move in there, leaving the upper rooms to Geoffrey, Walter, William and Margaret and, for a time, Agnes, Hywell and Gwyneth.

‘But after Owen and John escaped from Newgate and fled London, Hywell and Agnes decided they should also return to Wales and they left before the winter closed in,’ Geoffrey revealed. ‘Agnes will be heart-sore when she learns of Catherine’s fate, there is no doubt.’

‘Indeed she will,’ I acknowledged, ‘but at least she has her own family around her now.’

Once the initial excitement at my reappearance had died down, Geoffrey and I were able to shut ourselves away alone together in his library where another fire had been lit.

‘Tell me though, how did Alys take John’s departure?’ I asked. She was pining for him for weeks after he first went to Wales.’

Geoffrey shrugged. ‘She has said nothing about John. Even before he left I had the distinct impression that feelings were growing between her and Walter.’

‘Alys and Walter!’ There was no disguising the surprise in my voice at this development. I had gleaned no inkling of a relationship between them. ‘Is that where Walter went this evening – downstairs to be with Alys?’

Geoffrey nodded and I saw a familiar twinkle ignite in his eyes. ‘Yes, as far as I know. Why, do you have some objection?’

‘No, not me, none at all but I think the Church might. After all they are brother and sister, even though there is no blood relationship.’

Geoffrey steepled his fingers and assumed his lawyer’s face. ‘Yes, there is that. But marriage has not been mentioned. It may be that they would need a papal dispensation, which could always be arranged. I have given them my blessing. I hope you feel the same.’

I smiled. ‘I do, without question. I cannot think why this has not happened before.’

‘I gather that Walter would have liked it to, but John came between them. We shall have to await developments.’

W
hen the thaw finally came in the middle of February, Catherine’s coffin was brought to lie in state, first in the church of St Catherine by the Tower and then in St Paul’s, to allow as many people as possible to pay their respects to their sovereign’s mother. I went myself, of course, and took the children; William and little Margaret who was understandably confused, particularly when I picked her up so that she could see the effigy on top of the coffin which, as I had predicted, resembled Catherine barely at all.

‘Is that my lady mother, Mette?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘No, Margaret,’ I whispered back, glancing furtively about, hoping no one else had heard. ‘Your mother is in heaven.’

Her bewildered expression reminded me vividly of Catherine at the same age, when we were forced to say farewell to each other as she was taken off to the convent for her education. Margaret’s hair was not as fair and her nose not as long and straight, but those large blue eyes with their thick fringe of dark lashes showed the same sweet, unblinking earnestness as Catherine’s had on that day. It seemed to me that this little girl would face the world in the same way her mother had done, with curiosity and candour and a strong streak of stubbornness. I loved her for it and placed a kiss on her peachy cheek.

She wriggled out of my arms then and slid to the floor where I heard her whisper loudly to William, ‘Is she the Queen of Heaven now, then?’ and his solemn reply, ‘Well, yes, Margaret, I expect she is.’

They buried Queen Catherine under the Lady Chapel in Westminster Abbey church, only a few feet away from her first husband King Henry the Fifth. A memorial is being erected, as I write, but I do not anticipate any mention on it of her second marriage and family.

Owen Tudor was never actually accused of any crime but, despite the king’s written promise of free conduct to London, when he came he was re-arrested and held in various locations for more than two years, although fortunately never again in Newgate. He faced several council tribunals before he was finally released, after sureties were given for his good behaviour. How they thought he might misbehave was never made clear, but he was at last able to visit his sons at Barking Abbey, where he found them, aged ten and nine, well-fed, well-clothed and happy among their school companions. They did remember him, but three years absence is a long time in a child’s life. He also visited his little namesake at Westminster Abbey, a fair curly-haired infant, beloved of all the monks and already able to recite the Ave Maria. During these visits Owen stayed with us at Tun Lane and, much to my relief decided to leave all his children where they were, including Margaret who by now was a much-loved and integral part of our lives. For the time being, he returned to Wales.

The young king was officially declared of age to rule after his sixteenth birthday in December 1437, but over the next few years it became obvious that Henry was out of his depth among the warring factions of his council. The Duke of Gloucester campaigned fiercely to continue the war in France, while Cardinal Beaufort and the Earl of Suffolk constantly opposed his stance and argued for a peace treaty. At the same time, the French towns and cities that King Henry the Fifth had so painstakingly taken by siege were retaken, one by one, by the forces of Catherine’s brother, now recognised by most of Europe as King Charles the Seventh of France. England’s conquered territory across the Sleeve shrank by the month, so while Gloucester continued to lobby parliament to raise more fighting funds through taxation, his popularity among the people began to wane.

Then his influence suffered a hammer blow from a direction that surprised everyone, except me. In July of this year three men were arrested and held in the Tower accused of using sorcery against the king; the Duchess of Gloucester’s confessor was one of them. Within days Eleanor herself was also arrested and then Margery Jourdemayne was taken to join them, so it was not difficult to guess who had incriminated her. Eventually the confessor was released, but the other four were sent for trial and all of England was agog at the sensational evidence. Eleanor admitted to consulting Margery for potions to secure her marriage and conceive a child, but denied casting spells or practising sorcery against the king. For her part, Margery admitted selling the duchess cures and telling her fortune, but claimed any astrology and image magic was done without her knowledge. All four denied the treasonable offence of conspiring to predict the king’s death, but the trial judges found them guilty on all counts. Eleanor’s desperate desire to become queen had finally caught up with her.

Just as he had done with Jacqueline of Hainault at her time of trial, Humphrey of Gloucester deserted his wife, declaring total ignorance of her nefarious activities. Eleanor was sentenced to perform a public penance through the streets of London and afterwards to life imprisonment. Her marriage to the duke was annulled on the grounds that she had obtained it by sorcery. She was dishonoured, disgraced and deserted, but at least she was still alive.

The other conspirators fared less well. One of the astrologers died in prison before being sentenced, but the other was dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn and hung, drawn and quartered. Poor Margery was also found guilty of treason and, as a convicted witch, was sentenced to be burned at the stake. Her terrible punishment took place last month at Smithfield. We did not watch as many hundreds did, but we could see the smoke rising over the rooftops. Geoffrey said she would have been strangled before the fire was lit and I fervently hoped he was right.

I often think of Margery, irretrievably fettered to Eleanor and ultimately betrayed by her. She did not deserve her fate. Eleanor lives yet, imprisoned in some castle somewhere and no longer Duchess of Gloucester, yet granted twelve servants and an income to support them. I would not have had her condemned to burn, but there is no justice in that.

The Duke of Gloucester may have managed to remain clear of suspicion, but some of the mud has stuck and he no longer has the confidence of the king. He has retired to Greenwich to lick his wounds and the cardinal and the Earl of Suffolk now rule the roost at court. It seems inevitable that there will be peace across the Sleeve before too long, but King Henry still styles himself King of France as well as England.