* * *
“I would cheerfully kill him!” Owen stood with his hands on the knife at his belt. “I wish to God I had been here when he came.”
Catherine smiled up at him from the pillows.
“Just as well you were not. I’ve enough to do without separating two such bitter enemies as you and Humphrey have become.” She waved her hand to him. “Come here, and stop behaving like a fighting cock! Your wife needs some sympathy.”
He sat beside her on the bed, and took her hand. The child moved vigorously inside Catherine, and Owen laughed.
“I see we have a strong son inside there,” he said, and laid his hand over the swell of her stomach, tracing the child’s movements.
Catherine smiled indulgently, and drew his head down to her breast.
“You are a child yourself on occasions.”
She smoothed the red gold hair away from his face, love shining in her dark eyes. His arm closed tenderly around her and their lips met in a passionate kiss.
* * *
From behind the shadow of some trees, Owen watched Humphrey ride through the great gates of the palace, and towards the town. As usual, he was accompanied by a group of courtiers, but that did not trouble Owen. It had been no trouble at all to bribe the groom to add a little something to the horses’ fodder.
He held his horse back, keeping a fair distance behind the royal party, well content to bide his time.
From the sounds of jollity, Humphrey was well filled up with drink. No doubt this little foray was intended to provide fresh feminine company. Humphrey tired so very quickly of lady-friends these days.
Eventually, as Owen had expected, Humphrey’s animal staggered under him. Very quickly, Owen drew level with the half-drunk duke.
Some of the others began to turn back, but Owen waved them on.
“It is nothing, go on ahead!”
Not recognising his voice, they obeyed and Humphrey staggered down to the ground kicking the animal in his fury.
Owen began to laugh. “I was going to beat you within an inch of your life,” he said, “but now I’ve a much better idea.” Humphrey stared at him stupidly. “Who is that? What do you want, fellow?”
Owen laughed again. “Take your clothes off, my lord duke. We’ll show the people of London that you are just a man after all.” Humphrey tried to run, but Owen twisted a cord around his wrists, then urged him with the point of his sword, up on to the still-dazed horse.
“You can’t do this to me. I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole of England.” Owen turned and grimaced at the picture Humphrey presented. His fat white stomach hung over the waist of his underdrawers, and his chin wobbled freely, with no collar to restrain it.
“You need to be taught manners, my lord. I’ll teach you to offend my wife.”
At the edge of the town, Owen released the horse and urged it forward into the busy streets. People stopped and stared with open mouths; then someone recognised him.
“It’s the good Duke Humphrey!” someone shouted.
“Who could have done such a thing?”
Owen mingled with the people to watch the horse move slowly forward, with its ludicrous burden.
“I heard it was an angry husband who did it,” Owen said, to a woman standing gaping at the roadside. Immediately she began to run among her friends and Owen laughed aloud knowing that in an hour it would be all over the town.
When he was safely away from the crowds, he pulled off the dark hat that had effectively concealed his red curls.
* * *
Catherine had heard about Humphrey. In fact no one seemed to stop talking about the incident. But she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. For too long he had dallied with other men’s wives, now apparently an irate husband had caught up with him, it was justice!
She put her hand to her aching head. She was far more worried about Joan of Arc, as everyone was calling the Maid from France. There was talk now about burning her as a witch. Catherine wondered if Charles would make any attempt to rescue the girl, but in her heart she knew that her brother had no wish to fight, even for the one person who had managed to secure for him the throne of France.
With a lift of excitement, she heard the sound of horses in the yard, and as she looked through the window, she saw the small figure of her son, Henry, cross towards the door.
He was shown into the room, and she made him a token curtsey before kissing him. He had grown a little, though his arms remained thin and bony at the wrists. His face now was sombre; almost sulky.
“What is wrong Henry? Who has displeased you?” She sat beside him, attempting to take his small hand in her own.
“You are going to have a child, Mother. They told me so, but I didn’t believe it. Not with my father, the King, dead.”
Catherine shook her hands in the air with exasperation. “If only people would mind their own business, and leave me to mind mine!” She turned his young face towards her. “Remember Owen Tudor? He played a great deal with you when you were little, teaching you to ride and shoot. Do you remember those things Henry?”
He nodded unwillingly, his face troubled. Catherine smiled at the memory.
“He was so good to you and will be again, Henry. We are married now and it is right and proper that I bear my husband a son. Your father, the King, was glad enough when you were born.”
Slowly the frown disappeared from Henry’s face. “Well, Mother, you must tell them all that you are married, and then everything will be all right.”
Catherine shook her head, and moved away. “Enough trouble goes on my son, without me adding to it. Let the people of England believe that Catherine of France remains a widow. They would prefer it that way, believe me.”
Henry didn’t really understand, but he knew that it was not shameful for his mother to have a child so long as she was lawfully married. And he liked Owen Tudor. The big Welshmen had always been kind to him.
“Well,” he said happily, “I think I would like a brother to play with me. Do you think it will be a boy, Mother?”
Catherine ruffled his fine blond hair affectionately. “I have a feeling that it will be, but we must just wait and see.”
Henry came to her arms willingly now, and she was torn by pity, for his nature was so weak that it could be swayed like a straw in the wind.
“My poor son,” she murmured, but Henry was happy again because all the unpleasantness was gone.
* * *
Catherine felt the first pain in the early hours of the morning. She shook Owen’s arm, and he sat up immediately.
“Our son is going to be born today.”
She turned and leaned her face against the broadness of his chest. His hands smoothed her hair from her hot forehead, and they lay silently, over-awed by the happiness that surrounded them.
When the next pain struck, Catherine cried out.
“Bring Marie,” she gasped to Owen, when the agony had receded a little.
His face was white and Catherine smiled and touched his lips with her fingertips.
“It is not so bad, Owen. Please do not worry about me. I’ve been through this before.”
The labour was brief, but difficult. When at last the cry of the newborn infant rang out fierce and strong, Catherine was almost dazed with exhaustion. She fell back as pale as a lily against the sheets.
“We have a son, Owen,” she said, happiness flickering like lighted tapers in the deepness of her eyes.
He knelt beside the bed, his strong hands warm on hers. “A fine boy, Catherine. I am very proud.”
She closed her eyes then, in a happy, healing sleep.
They called him Edmund. He was a happy boy from the first; and handsome, his hair red and curling like his father’s.
By now, rumours of the marriage were spreading like wildfire, and many of the younger ladies were touched almost to the point of tears by the wonderful romance. Catherine was so delicate and lovely. And Owen was strong and virile. It seemed a triumph of true love over
barriers of politics and protocol.
Marie doted on the child. She had become resigned to the fact that she herself was doomed never to hold a child of her own in her arms. Instead she lavished the magnitude of her maternal love on the Queen’s newborn son.
“My precious little prince.” She leaned over the crib, causing the nurse to raise her hands in exasperation, and softly touched the baby’s cheek. “You are the sweetest boy in all the world.”
There was a stir behind her, and Marie bobbed a swift curtsey as the young king came forward to peer curiously at the infant.
“He is so small,” Henry smiled in wonder. “And just look at his pretty red curls.”
He leaned closer, and at that moment the baby opened his eyes and waved a tiny fist in Henry’s face. The young king was delighted.
“He knows that we are brothers, don’t you think so, Marie?”
Marie felt tears in her throat. “I’m sure he does, Your Majesty. He is a very bright child.”
Suddenly the King looked grave. “How is my mother, Marie? Is she well enough to see me, do you think?”
Marie nodded. “My lady especially asked for you to be brought to her bedside. She is well and strong, and anxious to see you.” Marie longed to hug Henry, he was still a little boy for all that he was king. “Come, Your Majesty, we will go to her now.”
Catherine had recovered quickly from her confinement, and leaned against the pillows, looking beautiful and rested.
“Henry, come and give your mother a kiss. I am so happy to have another splendid son. Have you seen him?”
The King went to his mother’s side and held her hand in his. “Yes mother, he almost smiled at me.”
Catherine encircled him with her arm.
“He will love you very much Henry; but then everyone loves you.” Joyfully, she relaxed once more, still holding her son’s hand. “You must promise me one thing, Henry,” she added, “that you will always be kind to little Edmund.”
Henry frowned earnestly. “That is an easy thing to promise, mother. I love him already.”
Catherine was satisfied. Love was a powerful emotion, even in one as weak-willed as Henry, and who knew when the day might come when Edmund would depend on Henry’s goodwill? She smiled fondly at her firstborn.
“You are a good son, Henry, and I’m sure that one day you will grow up to be a saintly king.”
Chapter Eleven
“They have burned the Maid, then.” Catherine stared solemnly at Owen, and he returned her glance with compassion. “Poor girl. And Charles did nothing at all to help her.”
Catherine walked over to the window. England was lovely in the soft spring air, but she could see the leaping flames around the young French girl and the holy men, like black crows of death, standing to witness the event.
“Charles stayed in the beautiful orchards at Chinon, amusing himself with his mistress. How could he be so heartless?”
Owen moved over towards her, his hands resting comfortingly on her slender shoulders. “Don’t distress yourself, Catherine, the girl had a choice and she preferred death.”
Catherine turned and leaned heavily against him, her face pressed against his doublet.
“It worries me that Henry is in France at this time. He is not yet ten years of age, and yet Bedford intends to have him crowned in Paris. The time could have been better chosen, I think.”
“Come Catherine, all this gloom is not good for you. Smile a little and I will play some music to lighten your spirits.” Catherine turned her face towards him, regardless of the ladies’ curious stares.
“Kiss me Owen. I feel strangely apprehensive, as if something dreadful is about to happen to us.”
Owen held her close, his hands strong and protective.
“You are not well. You must rest more. I promise that nothing is going to happen, except that we will live a full and happy life.” He bent towards Catherine, and their lips met. “Come along to the bedchamber. We will be alone, and I will comfort you.”
Owen played a soft, haunting tune, and sang an accompaniment in his native Welsh, while Marie assisted Catherine into bed. Child-bearing had not spoiled the smoothness of her skin, or taken the firmness from her rounded breasts.
“You are beautiful, Catherine.”
Owen stood staring down at her until Marie discreetly withdrew from the room, and then warming to the invitation in her eyes, he joined her under the sheets.
“Catherine, my lovely little wife. I can’t have enough of your sweetness,” he said, and kissed her smooth shoulder and the hollow of her throat.
Her hands small and sensuous caressed him. “Owen, you are so wonderful. Never take a mistress. I couldn’t bear to share the joy of you with any other woman.”
He buried his face in her hair. “Catherine, my wife, my queen, I could not look at any other woman when such love as yours is mine for the taking.”
They moved together, like a poem with flowing liquid lines.
Outside the door of the chamber sat a young lady newly come to the court. Her cheeks flushed at the sounds issuing from the royal bedroom, but she was forced to remain where she was. She had been given an order by the senior lady-in-waiting to guard the Queen’s privacy, and whatever her own personal feelings might be, she dare not disobey.
At first, young Margaret walked restlessly to and fro, trying to close her ears and mind to what was going on behind the closed doors. But then she began to think of Owen Tudor, how strong were the lines of his body and how charming his smile beneath the red-gold hair. Suddenly she wondered how it would be to have such a man make love to her. The flush on her pale cheeks became deeper, and she hung her head in case anyone should read her thoughts. But her heart continued to beat rapidly for a very long time.
* * *
The streets of Paris were thronged with silent crowds and Henry shuddered, looking to his Uncle John, who rode beside him for reassurance.
“Why do the French hate me so? They do not even know me.”
John of Bedford eased himself into a more comfortable position in the saddle. “They have suffered a great deal of poverty, Your Majesty. Have patience; they will grow accustomed to you in time.”
Henry looked down at the sullen faces of the people and doubted it. He sat up straighter. The crown was becoming increasingly heavy, making his head ache. He wished that the whole thing was over. The heat and the flies and the strangeness of the land was repugnant to him. Oh, to be back in the coolness of England once more.
He shuddered, remembering the girl who had been burnt at Rouen. He hadn’t been there of course, but he had heard all about it in detail, several times over. Everybody thought that the death of the French maid was some great victory. He couldn’t understand it, himself.
He wished his mother was with him. She was from France. She would know how to make the people smile and be happy. He thought longingly of the little family at home, baby Edmund in particular. He always smiled so warmly, as if he really meant it. So many people had polite smiles, when really their eyes were cold and calculating.
“Will it be much longer now, Uncle John?”
He noticed the quick frown of irritation, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing again. It seemed he was always displeasing someone however hard he tried to do the exact opposite.
Then to his relief, John of Bedford smiled. “Not much longer, Henry. I know it’s an ordeal, and I tend to forget how young you are.”
His hand pressed the boy’s shoulder, and Henry felt cheered and sat up straighter, disregarding the ache in his head.
* * *
Owen lay in the sweet grass, his hand shading his eyes from the glare of the sun.
Before him he could see the tiny figure of the sweet young girl who had recently joined the court. Her hair was like corn in the sun and her eyes large and sea-green. A lovely child, with tiny breasts, and the soft innocence of girlhood about her.
She was dipping before him now, her eyes lowered and a pulse beating ra
pidly in her white neck.
“Is there anything you require, my lord?” she said, and did not meet his gaze.
He smiled indulgently at her shyness. “I would very much like a long cooling drink.”
He said it more to please her than because he really wished it, and he laughed good-naturedly as she swept quickly away to do his bidding. She was a sweet child, so pretty and untouched. It would be amusing to tease her a little.
He lay back and closed his eyes, seeing behind the lids the dark fierce eyes of Catherine, his wife, and suddenly he remembered the way in which the poor girl Jayne had been treated because he had made her with child. Hustled off into a marriage that meant exile from the gaiety of the court and before that, humiliated, made a laughing stock. He could not do that to a child so young as Lady Margaret.
“My lord, I have brought your drink.”
She knelt beside him and as he opened his eyes, he met the adoration in her green ones. He took the goblet and hardly tasted the drink. The sun was striking hot against his skin and the girl was golden and lovely. She saw the desire written in his face and for a moment looked startled as if she would run; then she sank down like a golden rose beside him, docile and waiting with an eagerness that surprised both of them.
“Tonight,” Owen said softly, “I will meet you here.”
She nodded delicately, and a warm colour suffused her cheeks.
* * *
That evening, Catherine was especially warm and loving. She took Owen’s bright head in her lap and smoothed the red-gold curls.
“I sometimes can’t believe how lucky I am,” she said softly, her small white teeth nibbling at his ear lobe. “It is not very common for a queen to be married to the man she loves.”
Owen stretched up his hand and caressed her cheek affectionately. “I consider myself the most fortunate man on earth to possess such a wife.”
A Royal Ambition Page 10