A Royal Ambition

by A Royal Ambition (retail) (epub)

  “The Duke of Bedford to see you, my lord.”

  The Cardinal managed a thin smile. “Please be seated. You are welcome in my home at any time.”

  He more than half meant the words. He had a great respect for John’s integrity, though perhaps the man was a little too noble for his own good. John sat down.

  “I trust your health continues to be good?” John said sincerely enough, but the Cardinal shifted a little uneasily, remembering that it was Bedford who had successfully put a stop to the attempts that had been made on his life.

  “I am well enough; but perhaps you could come to the point of your visit. The abbey, you know. I must be there very shortly.”

  “I need your help,” John said bluntly, and the Cardinal coughed to conceal his amazement.

  “What sort of help?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We must have funds if we are to continue with the war. I thought you might persuade Parliament to grant me a decent allowance.” He stood up abruptly, and paced around the room. “The King is your flesh and blood also; do you not think he has the divine right to rule the French throne?”

  The Cardinal hesitated. It was true that he was great-uncle to the King, but money spent on food for the troops was to him money wasted! Indeed, he was beginning to think that some sort of compromise would be necessary in France. Just at the moment, however, such an opinion would be ill-favoured.

  “I will speak to Parliament myself,” he said magnanimously. And he would speak to them; instruct them to make a token payment so that no one could say help was refused. John of Bedford was popular and well respected. He must be given aid.

  “I must leave now,” the Cardinal said, and made a move towards the door. “But rest assured, I will do my best.”

  He omitted to say for whom – and smiled thinly, glad to see his nephew depart.

  * * *

  “There, my lady, we are almost ready.”

  Marie smiled at Catherine satisfied that the details of the Queen’s dress were beyond reproach. Of course, nothing could conceal the fact that she was pregnant, but then Catherine carried her burden as if she were proud of it. Her back was straight and her small head erect as she made her way to the carriage.

  The sun fell palely on the walls of the abbey, mellowing the stones and lighting the green around it. Westminster was a beautiful place, but unfortunately ceremonies bored Marie; indeed she felt herself yawning before she was even inside the doors.

  “Come, Marie, courage. If I can face it, so can you!”

  Catherine swept through the doors apparently oblivious to the stares of curiosity that followed her. Her dignity was unshakeable and the small ripple of gossip stopped as soon as she turned her dark eyes on the offenders.

  Marie felt pride burn within her. Catherine was magnificent. She seated herself calmly beside her husband, defying anyone to utter one word of censure.

  The Cardinal began to speak. He held on to his words as if afraid to part with them, and Marie had difficulty understanding him. She leaned back against the hard seat and closed her eyes.

  Catherine sat up straighter, leaning a little against Owen’s shoulder. The ache in her back had grown steadily, and she wished heartily that the long sermon would reach its conclusion. She glanced back at Marie and was amused to see that her head was rolling to one side, her eyes firmly closed. Lucky Marie; sleep! In fact, almost anything was better than that interminable voice going on and on. She moved again and Owen glanced down at her.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered anxiously.

  She nodded, though in fact, she was not at all sure she was all right. Her stomach felt hot and stretched, and there was a pain low down; it was, no doubt, due to strain, and would pass soon.

  She tried to concentrate on the Cardinal’s fine words, but they grew indistinct and she leaned forward trying desperately to clear the fog from her brain. The ache developed into a pain which grew and encircled her until she felt imprisoned inside a steel band. She shook Owen’s arm.

  “I think the baby is going to be born, soon,” she said.

  Frantically Owen signalled to Marie, and she took one look at the Queen and lifted her eyes to heaven.

  “Hurry,” Catherine said, “or the child will be born in public.”

  She closed her eyes feeling the fierce downward push of the baby. “Find me a couch. Anywhere, so that my child will not be born on a cold stone floor.”

  Marie, though pale, retained her composure. Calmly, she had sheets brought to a small side room and a large, polished wood seat was padded to make it more comfortable.

  “I should have stayed at home.” Catherine leaned back thankfully. “But the morning air tempted me, and I felt so well.”

  “That is often the way of it, my lady,” Marie said, rolling up her sleeves purposefully. “But if it is God’s Will that the little one be born on sanctified ground, we must make the best of it.”

  Catherine wanted to laugh, but the pain was engulfing her again. She could see Owen’s face, anxious and white, and she bit back a scream, praying that the child would make a quick, safe entry into the world.

  “Soon now, my lady. Just a little more effort, and it will all be over.”

  Catherine heard the words from afar and dimly saw Marie’s face swim before her. What did she know about pain and suffering? Had she ever struggled, straining every muscle until it seemed the heart must burst?

  But Marie continued to goad her.

  “Come on, my lady, push harder. The head is almost born.”

  Catherine growled low in her throat with the effort. The lower part of her body burned with pain, and she felt that in a moment she would give up the struggle and succumb to the blackness that hovered invitingly around her.

  There was one supreme moment of agony, and then she felt the child leave her body. She heard it cry but she felt too languid to look up. It was as if there were no bones in her body. She sighed softly, and gratefully relinquished herself to the darkness.

  * * *

  “Catherine, you must drink some of this; it will do you good.”

  Owen was leaning over her, his face drawn and his eyes dark-ringed. Catherine smiled at him, the pain now gone. She felt well again. Obediently, she drank some wine. It pierced her dry throat like a thousand needles, and brought some energy back to her. She lifted her head, and seeing the dark walls knew she was still at the abbey.

  “Have I been asleep long?”

  She held out her hand and brushed Owen’s cheek. He smiled, a devilish light brightening his eyes.

  “Several hours, Catherine. And you missed a great show. After we left the ceremony, it broke up in confusion. Each wanted to be the first to break the news that the Queen was giving birth to a child at Westminster Abbey!”

  Catherine smiled. “At least we continue to entertain our people. And what of the Cardinal? Was he absolutely furious?” Owen laughed. “He refused to leave the abbey until his sermon had been completed, even though he only spoke to a handful of old men. It was a sight to behold.”

  “And what of our child?” Catherine asked. “I heard the cry strong and outraged. We have another son, haven’t we?”

  “Another strong boy. You are a true queen, Catherine. He is a handsome little man.”

  “I did so want a girl, Owen, a little daughter to be a companion to us both.” She crossed herself quickly. “But God be praised that he is a healthy boy, like Edmund and Jasper.” A sudden thought struck her. “What if we give our new son to God?” Seeing the puzzled look on her husband’s face she hastened to explain. “It seems the right thing to do. Wasn’t I compelled to come here today? And didn’t the child come into life some weeks earlier than expected?” Tears came to her eyes. “It will be hard to leave him here, but I feel it inside me; I’m sure it is the right thing to do.”

  * * *

  Marie sat in the gloom of the small bare room, holding the sleeping infant in her arms. Tears rolled along her cheeks and splashed on to the red hair th
at grew in profusion on the little head.

  “We are to leave you behind, my little one.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “And what would I give to have one such as you for my son?”

  The baby stirred and thrust his pink fists into the air, pushing aside the wrappings that covered him. Marie kissed the bunched, tiny fingers, and the child opened his eyes. They were blue and clear, staring up as if the understanding of the world was in them.

  “Perhaps your mother is right after all. You will be safe here, free from matters of state and politics; free from the fears of war.”

  The baby regarded her soberly, his eyes watchful.

  She laid him down and covered him carefully. “You will be well cared for. You are still the son of a queen, even if your duty now is to God.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catherine lay languidly against the pillows. The mellow afternoon sun warmed her cold hands, and rested gently and pleasantly on her face. She felt better today, she decided. The ache in her bones had almost vanished, and she didn’t feel quite so tired.

  From outside the window she could hear the cries of the children as they played together. She smiled, imagining Jasper running on fat, unsteady legs after his brother Edmund. And today her son, the King, would be joining them for a short rest.

  Catherine moved uneasily. John of Bedford seemed anxious about the boy. He was “picky” with his food and too fond of his books. Still, he was only a child yet. There was plenty of time for manly pursuits, and perhaps some weeks in the company of Owen and the boys would be good for the King.

  She looked down fondly to where Owen was lying, his bright head in her lap. Almost unconsciously, her hand ruffled his curls and he turned to her, his eyes warm and tender. “Feeling better, my love?” He kissed her fingers happily. As she nodded, she knew he had been worrying about her.

  “I’m not so young any more, Owen. My middle thirties are almost here.” She smiled to soften her words. “It is natural that I should be tired and listless on occasions, so don’t look so dejected.”

  He kissed each of her fingers in turn. “You’ll never be old to me, Catherine. You are even more beautiful than on the day I first saw you.”

  She was touched, knowing that he meant it. He didn’t see how thin she’d become, how her clothes hung on her bony frame. He hadn’t noticed the lines that imprinted themselves around her eyes, and on the corners of her mouth.

  She felt tears rush to her eyes and wished with all her heart that she could regain some of her former vigour.

  “My lady.” Marie was panting in the doorway. “My lord Bedford is here, with the King.” She gave up her attempt to be correct and laughed excitedly. “His Majesty has grown so tall, I can hardly believe my eyes.”

  Catherine smiled. “Send them in immediately. I can’t wait to see my son again.”

  Henry had grown. His shoulders were becoming stronger and more square, his face had lost some of its childish roundness. He came to Catherine and dutifully kissed her cheek.

  “I am happy to see you again, Mother.”

  He hesitated, unsure of his reception. Catherine felt a pang of pity for him. He was king, and yet had nowhere to really call home.

  “You are looking fine and strong, Henry,” she said with more enthusiasm than truth, because his hands were still shaky and his young mouth trembled as if at any minute he would break down and cry. He brightened at her words and immediately his whole aspect changed. He sat at his mother’s side as if he’d never left it, his young face filled with happiness.

  John bowed to Catherine, and nodded in a friendly manner to Owen.

  “I trust you are feeling well, Madam?” he said, taking Catherine’s hand, and smiling into her eyes. It was obvious that he had heard about the chaos caused in Westminster some months ago when her son was born there. “I believe you are again to be congratulated? I hope you are quite recovered.”

  Catherine indicated that he be seated. “I have a certain listlessness at times that will not move; but other than that, I do not have cause for complaint.”

  She studied John carefully. He himself did not look in such robust health. He was thinner, and beneath the tan, his face was pinched and drawn. He was a man who took his responsibilities very seriously, indeed.

  “What is the news from France?” she said knowing that John scarcely thought about anything else.

  “Not good, Your Majesty; not good at all.” He sat still for a moment, his look encompassing Owen Tudor and the young king. “We desperately need more funds. I cannot continue to fight if we are not adequately supplied with provisions; and yet no one seems prepared to listen.”

  His voice rose a little at the injustice of Parliament, and Catherine felt a deep pity for him. John was a good man, dedicated to his cause, but was it a lost one? She knew that Phillip of Burgundy, as soon as it was politic, would desert the English without a trace of remorse.

  “What about your brother, Humphrey? Surely he is with you?” she said gently.

  John grimaced. “Yes, he is with me; just so long as he doesn’t have to exert himself too much. I don’t know what the country is coming to.”

  Catherine smiled. “We shall have some refreshments; that will make you feel better. Try to forget your concerns for a while. Otherwise you will be worn out by worry.” She put her hand gently over his. “I know that what you are doing is for Henry, and for your dead brother. But have some thought for your own life, John; I beg of you.”

  He took the wine gratefully, but even as he drank, his thick brows puckered. Catherine tried desperately to change the subject, but John was single-minded, and had not finished with the matter.

  “Debts in the country amount to £164,000. Do you realise that it is three times the normal revenue!”

  Catherine shook her head. “I never did have a grasp of such matters, my lord.”

  She caught Owen’s eye, and he understood the message immediately. He rose, and smiled at the young king.

  “Would you like to come into the garden, Sire? And you my lord Bedford? Try your hand at the archery range, and meet the children.”

  Before any protest could be raised, Owen kissed Catherine’s hand. “You need your rest, my love. Shall I send Marie to help you to your chamber?”

  Catherine nodded gratefully. “Yes; would you forgive me, my lord?”

  John rose to his feet, and bowed. “I hope I have not tired Your Majesty?”

  * * *

  It was pleasant on the green, and John allowed himself to relax and enjoy the sun. The King strode forward and the red-haired Tudor boys rushed to greet him.

  “You have fine strong sons,” John said enviously to Owen. “If only Henry had lived to father more boys like this, he would have felt happier about the throne. You served with my brother, I believe,” he said, suddenly feeling homesick for the good days, when the late king had imprinted his strong hand on France, and beaten her into submission.

  Owen nodded. “A fine soldier. I am proud to have been one of the number with him at Agincourt.”

  John shook his head. “If only young Henry were a bit stronger. Sometimes I fear for the boy; he is so easily led.”

  Owen sighed. He loved Henry. He was Catherine’s son, but he could not help agreeing with John – the boy would go any way, following the one who pulled the hardest.

  “He is young yet, my lord,” he said comfortingly. “It may be that he will change as he grows older.”

  He didn’t really believe it himself, but so long as the King always had wise council, he should survive.

  They stood in silence for a moment, both of them watching as the young king chose a bow and took aim. The arrow fell just short of the target, and John clapped his hands.

  “Try again, Sire. Let me show you how to stand.”

  He hurried forward eager to help, but the King, now that it was no longer a game, lost interest and his young shoulders drooped.

  “Come, Henry, show the boys how to do it,” Owen coaxed softly.
“You know how they copy everything you do.”

  Henry smiled, then, and planted a kiss on the shining faces of the two tiny boys, watching him so intently.

  “Look, Edmund. And you Jasper. Sit still a moment. Watch how I aim this arrow.”

  With a supreme effort, he drew back the bow until it was almost pulling him off his balance; and then the arrow was flying in a true line into the target.

  “Well done!”

  Catherine, watching the scene from the window, was touched almost to the point of tears. She thought suddenly of her fourth son, little Owen, who would grow up to be a monk. The pain of leaving him behind was still with her, for months her breasts had ached with the milk full and plentiful; but the pain of that had been nothing to the pain in her heart.

  Yet she had done God’s Will. She knew that, without a shadow of a doubt. She moved from the window and climbed listlessly into bed, the slanting sun spreading warm fingers over her, and she laid her head on the warm bolster.

  Hearing John talk had reminded her of home; as it used to be in the days before her marriage. The gaiety and hot sun, the laughter and happiness of the court ladies; all these things seemed to come to her mind.

  And yet she hadn’t forgotten her mother’s spiteful tongue, and the way she had of belittling her daughter, so that Catherine felt little more than an imbecile. She shuddered. Her mother was old now and ill; her body once the most voluptuous in France was diseased and twisted. Suddenly Catherine began to cry; tears rolled down her cheeks, and silent sobs racked her thin frame.

  She pulled a sheet over her head. The future had seemed so bright, and now she felt as though she were entering a dark avenue of trees, from which there would be no escape. It must be John’s visit. It was his talk of war that had depressed her. She tossed and turned and finally called for Marie to come and make her comfortable.