A Royal Ambition

by A Royal Ambition (retail) (epub)

  “It is a great pity that I am the Queen of England, and have a duty to bring my husband heirs. I would much rather be free to choose my future; but instead, it is all mapped out for me.”

  She glanced up at him, drinking in his tallness, and the young lines of his face, as he stood beside her in the sunlight.

  “Do you know what I am trying to say, Owen?”

  He stared at her for a long time, and the lap of the waves filled the whole universe, almost drowning them both with its rhythm.

  “I know only too well what you are saying, your Majesty, and I will always be your most devoted servant. If you will excuse me, there are some details I must attend to before we land.”

  Catherine stood silently watching the shores of England draw steadily nearer, and in spite of the excitement of her ladies, and the bustle of activity, the impending landing caused, she had never felt so lonely in the whole of her life.

  Chapter Four

  “My lady, the King is here!”

  Marie’s round face glowed with excitement. Her mistress would have ample opportunity to show the cold, arrogant English ladies how quickly she would get with child now that her lord was home.

  Catherine rose from her chair, controlling the shaking of her hands with difficulty. She had been expecting Henry for some hours and the strain of waiting had given her a headache. She did her best to act like a joyful wife, but there was only sadness in her heart.

  “My lord, welcome home.”

  She dipped before him, noticing immediately how thin he’d become; his eyes had lines of strain around them, but in spite of everything, he looked every inch a king. His scarlet doublet glittered with gold decorations, and his cloak hung gracefully down from his broad shoulders.

  “Well, Madam, have you no kiss for your husband?” He drew her to him, and embraced her. “We will eat, and then I will tell you about my campaigns.”

  Catherine sat beside him at table, watching him pick at his food with little interest.

  “You seem tired, my lord.” She was grateful that she could find some genuine feeling for him even if it was merely compassion. “You must rest well before you return to France.”

  Henry smiled at her rather dryly.

  “I’m not an old man yet, my dear lady. Thirty-three is the prime of life, is it not my lords?” He put his arm around Catherine, and drew her close. “I will prove it to you as soon as possible, I must have an heir.”

  Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, laughed softly. “I envy you, brother; such a task is one of the pleasanter duties of state!” Catherine felt the colour rise hotly to her face, but she sat docile and outwardly calm, though deep inside there was beginning a sensation of trembling despair. She glanced sideways and met the blue, steadfast eyes of Owen Tudor. He smiled almost imperceptibly, and somehow she felt reassured.

  At last, the interminable meal was over. Henry rose and held his hand towards her, his stern expression forbidding any of the assembly to make an ill-favoured remark.

  Catherine rested her hand on his, and with her head held high she walked along beside him, her heart beating so rapidly it seemed as if everyone must be aware of it.

  Her ladies began to help her disrobe.

  Henry became impatient and waved everyone away.

  “As God is my judge, I believe they would help me with the act itself – if it was possible – or necessary!” He took Catherine’s hands and led her to the bed. “Come Catherine, soothe my aching head; and put me in a good humour. I’m tired of war and weary of seeing my men fall sick and die. Help me to forget it all for a short time.”

  She lay beside him and wound her arms around his neck. He was her husband, and he was distressed; and it was in her power to comfort him in some small measure, and her heart lightened at the thought.

  * * *

  Henry was in an ill humour. He paced around the large hall, and then spun angrily on his council.

  “Why isn’t the money forthcoming? I can’t fight a war without arms and provisions for my men.”

  Humphrey tried to pacify him.

  “Times are hard, Henry. The people at home are becoming discontented with the poverty they have to endure.” He saw the King’s brow tighten, and added hastily, “The money will be raised Sire, have no doubt about that.”

  It was illogical, but Catherine felt sorry for her husband. He really believed it was his divine right to rule the French throne, and for years he had fought hard only to be frustrated now by a lack of funds. For a moment she harboured a faint hope that now the wars in her country might cease, but then she realised that Henry was too determined a man to give in over such an important issue.

  “My lord, may I speak with you? It is a matter of great importance.”

  He looked at her as if he’d forgotten her existence.

  “Ah, Catherine. I will join you in a few minutes; wait for me in your chamber.”

  For a moment his hand touched hers, almost carelessly as one fondles a dog, but she warmed to him and her smile was brilliant as she left the room.

  She sat in the sheets and brushed out her hair. Henry liked her hair: not that he had ever said so, in fact in the four months since his return from France he had never once said he liked anything about her. But in the night, he would smooth out her hair until it spread across the bolster in untidy curls. It was probably his only act of tenderness, but then he wasn’t a man for sweet talk – he was a soldier for all that he was a king. She understood him better now and though nothing could make her love him, she was able to reach out and comfort him when he needed her.

  “In bed, Madam, are you ill?”

  Henry stood in the doorway, hesitating as if uncertain whether to enter or not. Catherine smiled and held out her hand to him, shaking her head.

  “No, not ill. I am happy to tell you, my lord, that I am with child. I pray to God it will be a son.”

  Slowly Henry came towards her, his face lit with joy.

  “That is the best news I have heard in a long time, Catherine, my dear queen.” He kissed her fingers and looked over her head, out across the green fields, as if seeing things that Catherine could not visualise. “It is a son, and a sign to me that I must redouble my efforts in France, so that my heir will be secure abroad.”

  Catherine curled her fingers around him.

  “Sire, could you not stay at home for a time? You are not well, and surely you have conquered enough ground already?”

  He pulled away from her sharply. “You do not realise what you are saying, Madam, or is it that your French loyalties are stronger than your duty to your child?”

  Catherine looked down at her hands. “I am French, my lord, and I hate to see my country beaten and in poverty, but the people here are desperate, too. They pay heavy taxes so that they can scarcely live. I am sorry for them.”

  Henry raised his hand imperiously. “Madam, silence! How dare you seek to instruct me in matters of state? You forget yourself.”

  Tears spilled over Catherine’s cheeks, and her shoulders shook with the violence of her sobs. At once, Henry softened and put his hand over hers.

  “You cannot be expected to understand these things. And you are carrying my heir, so you must take great care of yourself. I want you to remove from Windsor for the birth. There is a legend of ill luck, silly no doubt, but I would rest easier if you did not have my son here.”

  He kissed her fingers and rose to leave.

  “I will return to France as soon as possible, Catherine, but for now you must rest and take care of yourself, and my son.”

  She watched him leave with mixed feelings, and for a moment, as she thought of France, she wished she could go with him; there was no gaiety in England.

  “Marie!” she called suddenly. “Come and talk to me. I am lonely.”

  * * *

  It seemed that she saw Owen Tudor at every turn. He was extremely popular with ladies, and it was obvious that they admired his fine looks and his wit as much as she did. He was bending now o
ver the hand of a dainty, pink-skinned creature, and Catherine felt large and awkward in her full skirt that was designed to conceal her growing waistline.

  “Owen Tudor,” she said imperiously, “I wish you to walk with me. Women companions can be very tiresome at times.” She ignored the astonished glances that followed them, and breathed deeply of the cool air.

  “Have you any plans, sir?” she said carefully.

  He looked surprised. “Plans Your Majesty? What plans could I have? I am instructed to stay here and attend you, when the King returns to France.”

  Catherine glanced up at him from under her lashes.

  “I meant in your private life, Owen. Have you no wife in mind?”

  She held her breath, waiting for his reply. His eyes met hers, and at the look in them her colour rose.

  “I have only met one woman I could love, and she unfortunately is quite unattainable.”

  He smiled with such sadness that she longed to throw her arms around him and hold him close. Instead she looked down at the soft grass.

  “I am to have Henry’s child,” she said softly, feeling in some inexplicable way that she had betrayed Owen.

  “It is your duty, Your Majesty, and I am happy for you and the King. May I escort you back to the hall?”

  Henry was seated in his great chair listening with pleasure to his musicians; when he saw Catherine with Owen, he lifted his hand in greeting.

  “Young Tudor, let us hear some of your wild barbaric singing. Come Catherine, sit at my side. You have never heard anything like this before, I’ll warrant.”

  The Welsh words with their strange cadences melted into the music in a way that enchanted Catherine. She closed her eyes, and allowed herself to dream that the words were a love song to her alone. She imagined herself in Owen’s arms, living her life with him, and bearing his children.

  She opened her eyes again as Henry touched her arm, and she was once more Queen of England. She rose, excusing herself abruptly, and as she left the hall she heard the tone of the music change; it became happy toe-tapping melodies, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw that Owen was leading the new, blonde lady-in-waiting into the dance.

  * * *

  The preparations for Henry’s return to France were almost completed, and it grieved Catherine to think that soon fresh assaults would be made on her country. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she paced slowly to and fro, wondering if perhaps even at this late date she could persuade Henry to delay the attack.

  “Please, my lady, let me do something with your hair before His Majesty sends for you. And do sit down, otherwise you will be ill.”

  Marie bustled round like an old hen, and reluctantly Catherine allowed herself to be led to a chair. She was beginning to feel the discomfort of her pregnancy now, and her back ached intolerably.

  There was a bustle of movement among the ladies in the outer chamber.

  Marie whispered, “It’s the King!”

  Catherine struggled to her feet and made an effort to curtsey to Henry. Smiling, he took her hand and drew her to him.

  “Take care of yourself, and my son, Catherine. And please make ready for the move in good time. I don’t want the birth to take place here, remember that.”

  He kissed her cheek and then turned away, walking with purpose into the corridor.

  She watched from the window as he mounted his horse and led the army of men away from Windsor. The sun struck fire from his sword, and suddenly the sound of horses was ominous like the beginning of a storm when the thunder rolls across the sky. She shivered a little and crossed herself, drawing back into the warmth of the chamber.

  * * *

  Outside the sun sparkled, in spite of the cold, and Thomas Cooper rubbed his arm thoughtfully, forgetting that since the battle of Agincourt there had been no feeling in his deadened limb.

  “It’s a strange sad sight, Tom. I can’t help wishing we were riding among the King’s army.”

  Tom looked up, startled to see Owen Tudor standing alongside him. He wondered briefly why the young gentleman was not, in fact, going to France, but it wasn’t for the likes of him to question the doings of his betters, and he owed the young man a debt of gratitude that nothing could repay. Why, if it wasn’t for the bravery of Owen Tudor, he, Tom Cooper, would be lying still in France, rotted into the foreign soil.

  “It is sad at that, sir, and I’m off to drown my sorrows in some good ale. Would you care to come with me?”

  As soon as the words were spoken, Tom regretted them. It didn’t do to get too friendly with the gentry, even with one as decent as this one.

  “Though I ’spects you are more than busy, sir.”

  He half turned away when Owen spoke.

  “Thank you for the invitation. It’s the best one I’ve had in a long time. Courtiers are very fine fellows, but most of them know nothing about war, and it’s good to talk over old campaigns now and then.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, and at last Tom drew a map in the spilt ale on the table, trying to reckon how long the journey would take.

  “If only I had both my arms strong as they used to be, I’d be with them all the way.”

  “I think you did more than your share, Tom. Have you settled down to your new duties on the estate?”

  Tom liked the open air work, all right, but where was the excitement, the challenge that war had given?

  “I like it well enough, but something’s missing. You know how it is?”

  Owen suddenly became serious, “Oh, yes, I know how it is all right. I should be riding out with the King, and instead I stay at home with the Queen. I’m worried, because I want to stay behind if the truth be told.”

  Tom looked at him closely. “It seems to me that I worry too much about the past, and if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you worry too much about the future.” Owen threw some change on the table and walked out into the crisp air.

  “You are quite right Tom. But if a man hasn’t dreams, he has nothing. And now I think it’s time I was getting back.”

  The two men walked in silence both occupied with their thoughts.

  * * *

  “I’m ugly, oh! Marie, look how ugly I’ve become.”

  Catherine pressed her small hands against the swell of her stomach where her red velvet dress rucked into folds that were meant to conceal. Marie clucked her tongue in exasperation.

  “I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life. Your skin glows; and look at the shine on your hair! Your bosom has filled out too,” she said craftily. Catherine looked down at her breasts consideringly. “And usually the figure is much improved after childbirth.”

  Marie broke off a thread with her teeth and examined the tiny garment she had just finished sewing.

  Catherine laughed. “How is it you know all this, Marie? I don’t see you with a brood of children round your skirts.”

  Marie shrugged. “Oh, I’ve helped with a good many deliveries. You know how good I am with my remedies, my lady.”

  “There is only one remedy for me, and that is time. Already I feel as ripe as the fruit in autumn.” She seated herself with difficulty and gasped at the pain in her back. “Soon I must face the effort of moving. I am not looking forward to that in the least. I’ve grown to like it here.” Marie stared at her thoughtfully. “You are carrying the child very low, my lady. I wonder if the birth is nearer than it was first thought?”

  Catherine drew a deep breath. “I am most uncomfortable in this stupid chair. I know that much. It obviously wasn’t made for pregnant ladies.” She struggled to rise. “Help me to bed Marie. It might be better if I lay down for a while.”

  Deftly Marie helped Catherine to undress. A worried frown appeared between her brows, as she helped the Queen into bed.

  “Don’t look like that, Marie. I’m all right, but do try to keep those silly ladies from me, especially that little blonde one. I sometimes wonder if she deliberately sets out to irritate me.”

  M
arie smiled indulgently. “It’s just one of those strange feelings expectant mothers get. Jayne is quite a nice girl, really, once you get to know her.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. “Jayne, plain Jayne,” she murmured, but unfortunately it wasn’t true! The girl was very pretty, in an English sort of way, and Owen Tudor seemed to be in her company a very great deal. “I’ll try to sleep, Marie.”

  Catherine yawned and turned carefully on her side. The bed was soft and comforting to her aching body, and it was good to relax.

  It was dark when she woke and someone had placed a candle near her bed. Grotesque shadows leapt along the walls and Catherine turned over on her back wondering what had disturbed her. Then it came, the fingers of pain crushing her bones and pulling strongly at her stomach.

  “Marie are you there?” she said urgently. She heard the sound of someone moving in the adjoining room and then Marie came and stood beside the bed, her face rosy from sleep.

  Catherine struggled to sit up.

  “The baby is coming,” she gasped. “It is too soon. And I am still at Windsor. What will Henry say?”

  Dimly, she heard Marie issue instructions that the King’s brothers be sent for, and the physician brought from his bed.

  “Lay quietly my lady. Everything is going along nicely, just as it should. And a baby will come when it’s ready, not when it is a convenient time.”

  Suddenly the chamber seemed to be blazing with lights. The women scurried around with bundles of linen, and Marie held out a cup for her to take.

  “Drink it my lady. It will ease the pain.” Marie’s voice was the only comfort that Catherine wanted, but obediently she drank and sank back on her pillows wishing the frightened ladies to the devil.