“I am ready, my lord, except for my hair.” Catherine ran her slim fingers through the dark glossy strands voluptuously. “Would you care to comb it for me, Owen?”
He came and stood behind her, his hands caressing and tender. He lifted her hair, and kissed the nape of her neck.
“Come on you two, you will never get out at this rate!” Marie ushered them away as if they were children; and laughing, hand in hand they left the chamber.
Once she was alone, Marie quickly cleared away the Queen’s toilet articles, and then went to her own quarters. It was good to rest and be away from the prying eyes and gossiping tongues of the court ladies.
The ache in her back was unpleasant, but not desperately so; perhaps some leaf tea would help a little. As she rose there was a strange sensation, low in her stomach. She gasped, her baby was about to be born!
She quickly lay down again and loosened her clothing, trying to fight the panic that was rising inside her. Perhaps Tom would come and find her. Or Catherine send for her services. But the child was impatient, this was no time for hysterics. Marie drew up her knees and stoically pushed her bawling healthy son into the world. And in this the greatest moment of her life, she was alone.
* * *
The small room gleamed in the cheerful firelight, filled with the homely smells of clean linen and fresh baking. In the bed, in the centre of the room, lay Marie, her newborn infant in her arms. At her side was Tom, his face illuminated with happiness and filled with honour because next to his wife sat the Queen of England, with her husband and children at her side.
“How on earth did you manage it all alone?”
Catherine stared at Marie in genuine concern, her slim hand resting lightly near the baby as if longing to touch him.
“There was no choice my lady. And in any case, the birth was an easy one. Over in a few minutes.”
Catherine shook her head. “I envy you. I pray my own will be as good. I have had enough of difficult confinements!”
She smiled up at Owen as if to assure him that he was not to blame in any way, but that the fault, if any, rested in her own self.
He touched her cheek softly, his eyes tender. “I hope this time, Catherine, you will have the daughter you’ve longed for.”
She nodded. “I will. I feel it inside me.” She rested her hands protectively over her skirt, as if she could really feel the child. “She will be pretty and healthy, a joy of a girl.” She smiled suddenly at Marie. “But this is your day, and you have borne a good strong boy for your husband, just as a good wife should.” She turned again to Owen. “We must see that there is an endowment arranged for him. I owe that much, at least, to Marie.”
The baby began to cry, loud piercing sounds of anger. He doubled up his fists and his small face reddened.
“He cares nothing for endowments!” Owen laughed. “The little boy wants to be fed.”
Catherine rose and took the hands of her sons. “We will leave you now. Rest and get well quickly, Marie. I shall be lost without you.”
* * *
The days passed peacefully for Catherine. She felt well and happy, and as her pregnancy advanced, her feelings of melancholy left her altogether. She laughed a great deal and played constantly with Marie’s baby, who was a cheerful boy, very much like his mother in appearance.
“It is good to see you this way, my lady.” Marie sat sewing more royal baby clothes for the new girl child.
“You seem as you were before…” She stopped speaking and looked at her mistress in confusion.
But Catherine merely smiled. “Don’t be afraid to speak of the death of my baby girl, Marie.” The Queen’s eyes were clear and untroubled. “God chose to take one child from me, but I am to have another, so He is good to me.”
Marie sighed with relief; the Queen was indeed well again. Her cheeks had filled out and there was a healthy sparkle to her dark eyes. If only her child was a strong healthy girl, everything would be wonderful.
“Jacina,” Catherine said suddenly, “isn’t that a pretty name?” She smiled and stared out of the window across the green fields. “Yes, I think Owen will like that very well.”
* * *
The marriage was arranged so quickly that Margaret scarcely had time to think. It was not what she wanted her wedding to be like at all, but speed was necessary before her condition became too obvious.
A few days after the wedding, Lord Kilbourn hurried into her apartment, his face filled with an almost malicious humour. She shuddered, and drew her wrap more closely around her shoulders.
“What is it my lord?” She made way for him to sit beside her and was surprised when he took her hand in his.
“My dear Margaret, I’ve heard some news. Queen Catherine is with child once more.”
Margaret felt a momentary pain inside her. So Owen had transferred his affections once more to the Queen, and with very little delay.
Lord Kilbourn got to his feet, and stood before her. “The Queen will have sympathy with a woman in the same condition as herself; and by the same man too! It really is quite amusing.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “I couldn’t; the Queen hasn’t been well. The shock, it could do her harm.”
Kilbourn waved his hand impatiently. “That is for Owen Tudor to worry about.” Margaret looked at him in bewilderment. “Why are you doing this? You don’t need the money. Is it revenge?”
Her husband smiled. “Let us say, I like to see justice done.” He caught her arm tightly. “You will see him tonight. I will arrange it.” He bent forward and kissed her lips. “I will give the little Welsh brat my name, but Owen Tudor will pay dearly for the honour I do him.”
* * *
“My lady Margaret, it is good to see you looking so well and as beautiful as ever.” Owen bent over her hand. “It was very kind of you to invite me to your home. I am happy to see how comfortable you are as Kilbourn’s wife.”
She gestured for him to sit down. “I will send for refreshments, and then perhaps we may talk, my lord?”
There was a thickness in Margaret’s throat. She felt her hands shake and wondered how she could ever make herself ask Owen for more money. She closed her eyes in anguish.
At last, when he was drinking the wine and staring at her with his eyebrows raised, she knew that the moment could be put off no longer. She looked deep into her cup, anywhere but at him.
“My husband has instructed me to ask about the child’s future, my lord.” She glanced at him quickly and then lowered her lashes once more so that he couldn’t see the expression in her eyes.
“I don’t understand you, Margaret. I made an ample allotment of money on you at your marriage.”
“I don’t know anything about it, my lord,” she said, softly apologetic in spite of herself.
“It was very generous, I assure you. I am very grateful to you, and in your debt.”
His tenderness and courtesy brought tears to Margaret’s eyes.
“It’s not for me, my lord. I would rather go away and forget all about it, but my lord Kilbourn, he feels…”
The door opened suddenly, and it was obvious that Lord Kilbourn had been listening outside.
“I feel that it is not enough, my lord.” His tone was almost insolent and Margaret saw Owen stiffen. She knew that softness would gain what threats would not.
“The child, my lord,” she said quickly, “will need an income so that when the time comes he can set up in a home himself.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please Owen, for the child.” She saw him waver and then Lord Kilbourn strode across the room.
“There are other things to take into consideration now, my lord.” He smiled unpleasantly.
Owen looked at him in bewilderment. “What other things? Speak your mind! I don’t like riddles.”
Lord Kilbourn didn’t answer immediately; he looked across at his wife, and then stared insolently at Owen.
“I hear the Queen is to have a happy event quite soon; isn’t it a coinciden
ce?”
Owen flushed red with anger. He picked up his hat and strode to the door.
“Threats will not make me hand over any more money to you. The Queen knows about Margaret, so you are wasting your time. Good-day to you, my lady.”
Margaret stood in stony silence, listening to the dying hooves outside. She knew that her husband would not be bested. He would tell the Queen now, even if there were no gain in it for himself. If only he had left matters in her hands; she could have won Owen around, she knew it. She glanced across at Lord Kilbourn, and to her astonishment he was laughing!
“This is what you wanted all along,” she said in fury, “it wasn’t the money; you wanted to see him humiliated. Well, he was more of a gentleman than you’ll ever be!”
He struck her sharply across the face. She stared at him in cold dignity, and he struck her again; then suddenly he took her in his arms.
“If blows won’t melt you, I know something that will.”
He picked her up and carried her into the bedchamber and even as she despised herself and him, she felt excitement rise and flow like wine through her veins.
* * *
Cardinal Beaufort rubbed his hands together in an expression of what could almost be called glee. His old enemy was at the door, and there was little doubt that he had come to ask some favour.
“Show Duke Humphrey in, and then bring some wine,” he ordered his servant, and seated himself in his tall backed chair, his hands folded, his features composed.
Humphrey bowed briefly and then sat hands on knees facing his uncle. His cheeks were flushed, though whether from drink or exertion it was hard to tell.
“Is there something I can do for you, my lord Duke?”
The Cardinal spoke quietly intoning the words as if conducting a service. He had observed the way Humphrey’s hands trembled and was pleased to see that a great deal of the man’s force and personality had deserted him. It was indeed a long time since he had dared to attack the person of himself, Henry Beaufort, but he would never be allowed to forget it, not for one moment.
“My brother John is ill. It is feared he will not recover,” Humphrey said bluntly, well aware of the Cardinal’s hate; but he needed him now. He had strength and position and most of all, great wealth. “In which case, my lord as you must realise, I will be Regent to the King; he is still very young and needs a firm hand to guide him.”
The Cardinal narrowed his eyes, and lifted the cup to his dry lips. Humphrey, as Regent, was an entirely different prospect to Humphrey, the younger duke, squandering his health on women and wine.
“Pray continue,” the Cardinal said, cautiously. “You have my full attention.”
“I suggest we combine our forces on this issue, and settle once and for all our policy in France,” Humphrey said briskly. “You know as well as I how much money can be made from war.”
The Cardinal lifted thin eyebrows. Bold statements were likely to be misconstrued if overheard by the wrong people.
“I’m not sure I quite follow, but please do not allow me to distract you from your line of thought.” He poured more wine, and Humphrey immediately drank deeply.
The Cardinal allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Give this one a little more time and he would surely make an end to himself with over-indulgence.
“We must send money and provisions, in order that the war may continue.” Humphrey’s eyes seemed to protrude with the urgency of his feelings. “We cannot allow the French to become too strong, or they will endanger us all.”
The Cardinal put down his drink and arched his fingers, tip to tip. He liked the gesture. It appeared to indicate that he was deep in thought, when really he was playing his favourite game of cat and mouse.
“Personally, I feel the time has come to compromise,” he said at last, and his eyes were sharp as needles, as they rested on Humphrey’s face. His nephew stared back at him uncomprehendingly for a moment; then it dawned on him that the Cardinal was refusing his help.
“But it is as much in your own interests as mine,” Humphrey said, falteringly. “How can you refuse? The King is your own flesh and blood!”
The Cardinal rose, indicating that the meeting was at an end. Humphrey leapt up from his chair in a fury.
“The people of England will not like your attitude my lord.” He was a gross man, dissipated by excess, but now in his righteous indignation he almost had a sort of dignity.
“When the people find they have food in their bellies they will thank me on bended knees,” the Cardinal smiled unpleasantly. “My servant will show you out.”
Humphrey strode to the door.
“I should have killed you years ago. You do not care for the people, only for yourself!”
He staggered suddenly, and slowly toppled to the ground, clutching his chest. For a moment Henry Beaufort was tempted to leave him there to die, like a dog; but then he remembered he was a cardinal, and it would not look right if Humphrey should die while within his walls; their enmity was too well known.
“Bring a physician,” Cardinal Beaufort called to his servant. “Duke Humphrey has been overcome by the heat; and perhaps a little too much wine.” He held his hand up as the servant turned to go. “Wait, it may be better to take the Duke to his home, and leave it to the members of his own household to see to his well-being. I’m sure he will be quite recovered in a few hours.”
Chapter Eighteen
“How are you feeling now, Humphrey? Very much improved, I trust?”
Catherine sat beside the bed, appalled at the change that had come over the Duke since the last time they met. He was propped against the pillows, his face sunken, and with a frightening bluish tinge to his lips. She was pleased now that she had overcome her disinclination to make the journey at all.
“I am well enough, Madam, but none the better for seeing you. And in such a state!”
He pursed his lips like a truculent boy, and in spite of her anger at his rudeness, Catherine could not help but feel indulgent towards him. He obviously was so used to giving the women of his household the sharp end of his tongue, that he had forgotten to whom he was speaking.
“Gently, my lord Duke,” she said severely. “I will ignore that remark. Now, I understand you were taken ill at the home of the Cardinal. Is that not so?”
She could not help smiling. No doubt the dried up little churchman had been in a fine dilemma, having his bitterest enemy at his mercy.
“You have spies everywhere, I see. So there is not much point in my denying it.” Humphrey slumped back petulantly.
Catherine rose. “I have come at a bad moment, my lord. Perhaps you are in pain, and conversation is difficult for you?”
He turned and hoisted himself up with an effort.
“Yes, I have a pain, Your Majesty,” he said fiercely. “I have a hurt that is nothing to do with my illness.” He stared at her swollen figure vindictively. “My brother John of Bedford is stricken, and lies near to death in France. I lie here helpless; and you, who are mother to the King, breeds bastards by that Welshman!”
The veins in his temples stood out, and Catherine thought he would drop back into a fit at any moment.
“How could you allow him near you after my brother was your husband? You were married to the King of England and France, Madam, and yet you let that pig into your bed.”
“Enough!”
The word was spoken low and yet it silenced Humphrey’s tirade. He sank back and stared glassily at her.
Catherine stared at him, her eyes glittering darkly. “If you ever speak to me that way again, I will kill you myself,” she said, with such conviction that Humphrey could not fail to believe her.
“And I will kill the Welshman one day, Madam; with every bit of my strength I will hound him. He is only safe while he shelters behind your skirts.”
Catherine stepped forward, and struck Humphrey across the face.
“It would pay to remember that I am still the Queen of England. Once the King is out o
f tutelage, where will be your power then?” Her eyes sparkled with triumph. “Be afraid Humphrey, it would be wise of you.”
She turned and left him, her heart thumping painfully. She had never before wished for the death of anyone, but now she prayed that the Duke would be carried away by another attack; and then she would know that Owen and their sons were safe. Shaking, she climbed into her carriage.
“Take me home quickly,” she said, and sank back wearily against the seat.
It was several days before Catherine regained her serenity of mind. The man was ill, obviously demented; the best thing by far was to ignore his threats. What could he do? Make an attempt on Owen’s life? She smiled with pride. He would have to be up very early in the morning to catch Owen unawares.
“Come along, my lady, have some of my special broth.” Marie was at her side, anxiously fussing over her. “You must think of your baby, that lovely daughter you mean to have. Eat now, and forget anything that disturbs you.”
Marie was well and strong, and her son was growing into a fine handsome boy, with black curly hair. She took him everywhere, setting him down always close at hand, so that she could continually keep an eye on him. He was very content and never seemed to cry, and to Marie, he was the sun and moon rolled into one.
“Marie, will you make me a promise?” Catherine smiled as Marie nodded eagerly. “You do not know what I ask yet.”
“Anything that will make you happy! I will promise it, my lady,” Marie said.
“I want you to promise to look after the children, should anything happen to me.” She raised her hand as Marie made to protest. “I’m not being silly and fanciful. I just want to know that you will care about my children.”
There were tears in Marie’s eyes. “I do care, my lady, haven’t I helped bring them up? I would guard them with my life.”
Then Catherine nodded. “Good, that is what I wanted to hear. Now no more morbid talk. Bring out the needlework, and we will see how my Jacina’s clothes are coming along.”
A Royal Ambition Page 15