She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “You have given me a token.” She placed her hand meaningly over her stomach. “I believe I am going to have your son.”
“Marguerite, how will you explain it to your family? You will be disgraced!” He took her hands in his. “As soon as possible, I will send you money, I promise you won’t be deserted.”
“Don’t worry about me, Owen. I have friends who will help me with a plan I’ve formed to make myself a widow of the battle. How can anyone disprove it with so many dead?” She smiled. “Don’t have regrets Owen, I have none. Go now, the King will be displeased if you keep him waiting. God be with you.”
When she was alone, Marguerite threw herself on to the bed still warm from his body, and cried as though her heart would break.
* * *
In the grey light of the morning the weary army pushed on towards Calais. Tom’s neck ached and his feet were sore and blistered inside his boots, but worse than all the discomfort was the pain inside him because at each village they passed, there were groups of weeping women and fatherless children.
He caught sight of Owen Tudor riding proudly at the roadside and he envied him for the strong horse beneath him. The boy looked as fresh as if he’d spent the night alone instead of in the bed of some wench. Tom grinned, it must be fine to be endowed with such charm of person that the women just clamoured for your attentions.
The sun was rising as they entered the town of Calais, the people stood and watched in dumb hostility as the army, with banners waving, marched through the streets.
Tom tried not to see the dark angry faces. The air was warmer now, and the pain in his head and neck was worse. He’d give a year’s pay for a cool glass of ale, and a green field to lie on. Soon the tangy smell of salt was in the air and then the sea came into sight, dazzling a rich sapphire blue.
It was good to be going home. Owen helped Tom to slip the bow from his shoulder and the grey goose feathers fluttered in the breeze.
“We’ll have a hero’s welcome all right,” Tom said, glancing up at the sky, “but how long will the joy of the people last when they know that many more battles must be fought before England can be sure of keeping the ground already gained?” He glanced at Owen. “Not that I’ll fight again; my right arm has lost its power since I received that wound. I never did thank you for getting me out of there.”
Owen waved his thanks aside, and went below to see if the King needed anything.
“You have brought me luck, Owen Tudor, and yours must be one of the first faces the crowd will see when we return home.”
Owen bowed smiling at the King. “I am honoured Your Majesty.”
When he stood again, he realised that now, he was as tall as Henry, if a little thinner.
“Well, young Tudor, it seems we have made a man of you. Or could it be the work of the French maidens, I wonder?” He smiled indulgently. “Remind me to keep my favourite mistresses away from you!”
Chapter Three
The noise and chatter of the ladies tired Catherine. She rose to her feet abruptly, and left them to their interminable stories about various amorous adventures. It set her teeth on edge to listen to them.
She shivered as she entered the coolness of her chamber.
“Marie, are you there? I would like a wrap please.” She moved across to the window. “September is fading fast. Soon winter will be here, and I am still not married.”
Marie placed a shawl carefully around Catherine’s shoulders. “My lady, you should take more care of your health. Henry of England would not want to marry an invalid, would he now?”
Catherine shrugged and leaned over the window ledge.
“It is four years since Agincourt. Henry has conquered much of France, and still he hesitates to make me his bride. That is not very flattering is it?” Suddenly the tears rose and spilled down her cheeks. “How long do I have to suffer this humiliation? Why doesn’t my mother try and make some other match for me before I am too old?”
The sound of horses’ hooves drew Catherine’s attention to the window. To her surprise she saw her brother Charles rein his horse, and offer a mock bow.
“Tears Catherine? Our mother does not deal well with you, I see, but I may have a good husband for you before long.”
He was immediately hushed by his friends, and he glanced quickly around, the colour rising in his thin cheeks.
“God go with you Charles,” she said softly, leaning as far out of the window as she dared. She saw him grimace.
“I hope He is with me now because I have to see our lady-mother on business!”
He waved and spurred his horse forward and Catherine watched until he was out of sight.
“Here is your drink, my lady.” Marie held a cup brimming with a thick golden liquid and tentatively Catherine tasted it.
“It is quite pleasant,” she said smiling her thanks. “I hope it is effective too.” She drank deeply. “The Dauphin has just arrived to see the Queen. That will put her in a bad humour for days. You know how she hates him.” Already she felt her taut muscles begin to relax and swiftly she drained the cup. “Had you been born in some other time, you might have been an apothecary, Marie. I think I’d better get into bed.”
It was comfortable and warm between the sheets, and Catherine felt a sense of well-being as she lay on the scented cloth that Marie had thoughtfully provided. She wondered idly what plans Charles might be hatching to marry her off. She was tired of being a virgin-princess, and in any case it seemed that life was passing her by.
“Marie,” she said sleepily, “what is it like to have the love of a man?”
She lifted herself on to one arm, her dark hair spread about the bolster like shining silk. She saw the uncertainty on Marie’s face and read the changing expressions well.
“I don’t want a romantic story, I get quite enough of those from my ladies. Tell me the truth.”
Marie grinned. “When I loved Michel, my lady, it was sweet and wonderful like true love is supposed to be, but since he’s left me, I have found no one to give me the same feeling.”
Catherine looked at her steadily. “Then you think there is just one man for one woman?”
Marie frowned in an effort to concentrate. “I don’t think that, my lady, but sometimes one love will come along that will outshine all the others. It is difficult to explain.”
Catherine smiled, and fell back against the pillows. “Never mind. I’m too tired to think any more. Put the covers over me Marie. I must sleep.”
* * *
Charles moved across the hall as if treading on eggs.
“I have arranged to meet the Duke of Burgundy on the bridge at Montreau. It has become necessary for me to negotiate with him.” He was aware that his mother was watching him, a contemptuous smile on her hateful face. “Someone has to make a move, Mother.”
Isabel’s laugh, thin and hard, echoed along the corridors.
“Charles, if I did not know you better, I would imagine you had come to this decision on your own.” For a long moment, she gave her attention to the reflection of herself in the mirror. “As I do know you, I assume you have powerful friends – not that it will do you any good. Burgundy will not raise a finger to help you.”
Charles felt the colour rise to his thin cheeks. “I don’t see you make any helpful suggestions, Madam, and you are being absurdly short-sighted in this matter. Why not help me? I am your son, am I not?”
Isabel turned on him fiercely. “It is to my shame that I must agree with you. You are my son, unfortunately. Remember, I have repudiated you. I have no time for your foolish ideas. You will never be King of France. Now please leave before I have the guards throw you out.”
As Charles stared at her in bitter enmity, the Queen felt a pang of fear. It was true that Charles had a large following in the southern parts of France, though she couldn’t understand such loyalty herself. Perhaps it would be wise to speak a little softly, just in case anything came of his wild schemes; after
all, she could not always hold men with her looks.
Charles had not seen her uncertainty, just the cold implacability of her face as she stared at him. He quivered with anger. His mother had always made him feel less than a man, and once more her icy contempt had diminished him. He left the palace under a cloud of anger and misery, but she would see, oh yes! something must come of the meeting tonight.
“Let us ride!” he shouted to his men, and galloped his horse as if a thousand devils were after him.
* * *
Catherine seemed to be swimming through a sea of sticky honey. She wanted to sleep, but voices, loud and insistent, were penetrating her dreams. She sat up with difficulty and saw the moon was silvering her chamber. The voices rose again, almost like a wave, and Catherine forced herself to get out of bed, tottering slightly, still half under the influence of the potion Marie had given her.
Fear began to churn inside her; something must be wrong. She was used to the sounds of laughter and gaiety that swept along the corridors of the palace during the night-time, but this was different. There was the voice of a man, young and obviously hysterical, raised in anger.
Quietly, Catherine made her way along the cold corridors and unnoticed, slipped into the large chamber. It seemed to be crowded with people and the attention was turned upon young Phillip, his face streaked with dirt, and his eyes red-rimmed and weary.
Isabel was at her most regal, standing erect, her hands clasped to the bodice of her red silk gown. She saw Catherine and gestured imperiously for her to come forward.
“Charles has murdered the Duke of Burgundy!”
The words rung around the room and Isabel allowed a glimmer of a smile to linger around her lips for a moment, well pleased with the effect she had created.
Catherine swayed a little. It must still be a dream. Her brother Charles couldn’t kill anyone. As if reading her thoughts, Isabel shrugged her white shoulders.
“Oh, I doubt if he had the courage to do the deed himself, but in his name murder was done.”
Phillip made a strangled sound of grief and anger, and put his head down on his hands. Isabel spun towards him.
“Phillip, remember, you are Duke of Burgundy now. You must behave with courage.”
After a moment he regained his composure and lifted his head, looking around at the assembled company with determination.
“We will make Charles suffer for this, and the first step will be for an alliance between England and France. Catherine must marry Henry, and we will agree to his terms that their heirs shall rule France, but only after the death of our beloved king.”
Startled, Catherine looked at her mother, but Isabel had eyes only for Phillip. A look passed between them, and it was clear that he was saying just what the Queen wanted him to say.
“I will not betray my brother in that way!”
“Go back to bed child. These are matters for others to discuss. You will be advised of our decision later.” Turning from her, Isabel placed her hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “Come, we will discuss this in more comfortable surroundings.”
She laughed softly and as the ladies dipped into a curtsey, Catherine heard one of them murmur, “The Queen likes them from the cradle these days, it seems.”
Closing her eyes against the shame and pain she was feeling, Catherine somehow found herself back in her chamber; quickly she climbed beneath the covers, shivering in every limb. Her brother Charles had turned murderer, and because of that she would marry the King of England, after all.
* * *
The June sunshine bathed the city of Troyes in a mellow haze encouraging the thirsty citizens to drink deeply of the sweet wine that was all the better for being handed out free in honour of the marriage of their beloved princess Catherine and Henry King of England. The flow of wine coaxed the people in the street to forget that the same Henry had ridden across France leaving devastation and death behind him.
“God bless Catherine de Valois.”
The roar went up among the crowds, and hearing it Catherine shook with nerves. Her gown, encrusted with pearls, was hot and heavy, and her head was beginning to ache with the effort of standing erect. She risked a glance at the man at her side and was not displeased. Henry was every inch a king; a mature and well-formed man. And Catherine knew she was lucky not to be married off to an old and ailing monarch, a fate common to a princess! She would probably cease to be in awe of him once the interminable ceremony was ended, and she was truly his wife.
She caught a glimpse of Isabel and Phillip standing close together, a look of satisfaction on their faces. Once the marriage service was over, Isabel swept forward to embrace the King of England, placing both her hands on his arms and reaching up to kiss him in a far from motherly manner.
“I must be allowed to salute my son,” she said smoothly. “Wine, bring wine!”
Catherine was grateful for the respite; soon she would be led with Henry to the royal bedchamber. The prospect frightened her, and she looked shyly down at her hands as she heard one of the courtiers make a far-from-tasteful joke.
Suddenly she became aware of someone bending over her hand. She looked up at a tall handsome man; his hair shone like red gold in the sunlight, his eyes looked directly into hers so that she suddenly felt weak as if a great sea wave had washed over her, turning her like a pebble on the beach.
He murmured some pleasantries, but he had a strange accent, and she didn’t know what he was saying; but she was stingingly aware of him as if he had put a spell on her. It was a foolish and dangerous way to feel, particularly now that she was Queen of England.
The ceremony of leading the couple to the bedchamber was soon over, and Catherine stood passive, waiting for her husband the King to make some sign that he cherished her, or at least had some regard for her as a woman. Instead, he drew her rather impatiently towards the large bed and then she felt his weight press against her and she was no longer in possession of herself. She was being invaded, and the physical pain was nothing compared to the pain that had come to rest in her heart.
To Catherine’s humiliation, Henry spent only one day with her.
“I have to go on and conquer the rebellious regions of France, you understand Madam; it is for our heirs.”
He spoke abruptly as his attendants helped him into his armour, and then he lightly kissed Catherine’s cheek signalling that he was ready to leave. With mixed feelings she watched him ride away.
There was a stir in the room behind her, and she turned to face her mother who had swept into the royal chamber unannounced.
“What is wrong Catherine? Why is your husband riding away so soon? He will not beget heirs that way!”
Catherine shook her head, wincing at Isabel’s outspoken vulgarity.
“Nothing is wrong; in fact the King is convinced that I must be already with child. He is a man of great vigour.”
Isabel scrutinised her face.
“You certainly look exhausted. I trust that you have proved yourself worthy to be called my daughter, though I still think it strange that Henry leaves so soon.” She sat herself down on the bed. “In any case, it is no longer any concern of mine, because this must be our goodbye. The King has left instructions that you be removed to Windsor immediately.”
Catherine turned away quickly so that her mother would not see the distress her words had caused. Henry had not chosen to give her the information himself, and she hadn’t bargained on the move coming so quickly.
“Mother, I would like to take Marie with me,” she said at last, and saw immediately the hesitation on her mother’s face. It wasn’t that she wanted Marie herself, it was simply instinctive to deny others what they wanted. Before the Queen could frame a refusal, Catherine drew out a brooch that Henry had given her. “This is for you, my lady-mother. I hope the King will be even more generous when I bear his child.”
Isabel understood the implications at once. Catherine was now the Queen of England, and as such could be very useful.
�
��Of course you may take her. I would not dream of parting the two of you. She has been your friend since childhood. She will be informed.”
Isabel rose and gave Catherine a light peck on her cheek.
“I must instruct the servants to prepare for the journey.” She hesitated a moment. “I trust you will be comfortable in England.”
It seemed for a moment as if she would say more, but she turned and began berating her ladies for stepping too close to the fine hem of her dress.
“And that is the way I will always remember my mother,” Catherine murmured and unaccountably there were tears in her eyes.
* * *
Marie was constantly sick as the ship tossed its way across heavy seas, and spent most of her time below decks bathing her forehead in rose water; but Catherine felt no ill effects, on the contrary she enjoyed the strange feeling that being afloat gave her. Part of her contentment was the fact that the handsome gentleman with the red hair was among her escort to England. She discovered that his name was Owen Tudor, and that he was a gentleman of Wales; that he was quick of mind, witty and intuitive; in fact, everything she had ever dreamed of in a man. It was foolishness, and she knew it! But all her time was spent in his company, and even now, her ladies were beginning to gossip.
Marie fortunately was too indisposed to notice.
The sun was a crisp clear orb over the swelling seas. Catherine breathed in the fresh air and flung back her head in pure joy. She became aware of the tall figure at her side and the colour rushed to her cheeks.
“Your Majesty.” Owen Tudor bent over her hand, his blue eyes looking directly into hers. “Land has been sighted; soon you will set foot on the shores of England.”
Catherine allowed him to take her hand, and for a moment she enjoyed the feel of his lips against her fingers. She wanted to fling herself into his arms to beg him to hold her close and teach her the true meaning of love; and for an instant it was as if he could read her thoughts – his grip tightened and he moved fractionally closer to her. She turned from him abruptly.
A Royal Ambition Page 3