‘Henry?’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘Mmmm. Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I would like everybody in the world to be as happy as we are.’
‘Oh, yes? Now is that everybody, my sweet, or do you have anyone particular in mind?’
‘Joan,’ said Catherine. ‘She is very lovely and so unhappy.’
‘Joan who? Belknap?’
‘No.’
‘Courcy?’
‘No.’
‘Not the old trout?’
Catherine gave a little squeal of laughter. ‘Oh, Henry! How can you call her that! Poor Troutbeck! No, not Joanna. Joan. Joan Beaufort, your uncle Henry Beaufort’s niece. Margaret’s daughter. Your kinswoman. My kinswoman, too, by marriage. I am concerned for her.’
Henry raised himself on his elbow and looked at her in the dim light. ‘Ah, but she wants to marry James of Scotland,’ he said, ‘and I have expressly forbidden it.’
‘But why, Henry? They are both very much in love and they could be as happy as we are.’
‘Because, well, because … because there was a time when he refused to bear arms under my banner. Insolent young puppy. Needs to be taught a lesson.’
‘But he has a great deal of respect for you, Henry. He said so only this afternoon.’
Henry was quiet for a moment. ‘Did he really?’
‘Yes, he did. Talk to him tomorrow. For my sake. You could make him the happiest man in Christendom.’
‘Next to me.’
‘Next to you, of course.’
Henry paused then, after a moment, he said: ‘Very well, you sweet witch, you have beguiled me yet again. As long as James has come to his senses, I don’t really mind him marrying. I’m not against the marriage in principle but he’s still very young. It won’t hurt them to wait a year or so. Anyway, I will discuss it with him tomorrow since you have asked me so prettily. In the meantime …’
Henry reached for her again and didn’t see her little smile of triumph as she slid her body obligingly under his.
Chapter Six
Leicester, Easter 1421
March had turned very cold, just when Catherine thought that spring was coming at last. No sooner were the catkins dancing on the hazel trees to gladden the heart than winter delivered one last stab in the back, riming the reed beds with hoar frost, freezing the cart tracks on muddy roads, and making life well-nigh impossible for travellers. Still, Henry had sent for her and she was glad to go to him, even though it meant an arduous journey from London to Leicester.
It had upset her that he’d wanted to leave Westminster within a few days of her coronation. Why? She didn’t understand. Was he in any way displeased with her? Perhaps he was, because he was clearly irritated by having to explain to her that he now needed to make contact with his subjects again as a matter of urgency. He had been away in France too long. The people would forget what he looked like unless he went out to meet them and how else would he persuade them to finance his army?
Catherine had tried to argue that there were plenty of people in London who saw him very regularly but Henry had countered her argument by pointing out that, though it was crowded, London was quite a small place. The real money lay with the big landowners outside London. Those were the people he wanted to talk to. Those were the people whose money he wanted, the people who would send their tenants to swell the ranks of his army.
So he left with a small retinue headed by his confessor, Bishop William Alnwick, a man who had served him well throughout his time in France, a man on whom Henry relied for spiritual guidance and Christian fellowship. Alnwick rode behind the King as they left Westminster heading west towards the town of Bristol. From there they would strike northwards through the Welsh marches, first to Hereford and then on to Shrewsbury.
Catherine felt surprisingly lonely without him. She would like to have a companion of her own age and social status. There was Margaret, of course, but she was old. Nevertheless, Margaret stayed close by Catherine’s side and nothing would dissuade her from visiting Leicester and spending Easter there, particularly while her husband Thomas was still in France, looking after his brother’s interests. So the women travelled together in some style though Catherine did wonder why Margaret thought they needed a retinue of over a hundred people, including knights, baggage handlers, four choristers, and ten priests as well as Anton, the royal chef.
As the royal party rode through the magnificent Turret Gate of Leicester Castle on the eve of Palm Sunday, Catherine was overjoyed to find Henry waiting for them. Royal protocol precluded an emotional reunion in public but she had no doubt of his pleasure at seeing her again. At every turn she saw him gazing at her with hunger in his eyes and he lost no opportunity of touching her hand, of whispering an endearment or squeezing her thumb as the secret sign of their physical need for each other.
So it came as no surprise that he strode through her dressing-room and into the bedchamber just as Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were unpacking her boxes and coffers and helping her change out of her travel clothes.
‘Out!’ he ordered them, clapping his hands loudly and with a broad grin on his face. ‘Go, get out of here at once. I can no longer endure the parting from my wife, no, not for one moment longer. Out!’
He chased them out of the room and they went, squealing with laughter, still clutching combs and mirrors, dropping shoes in their hurry, leaving their mistress clutching her shift to her breasts, her hair un-braided and falling over her shoulders. Henry turned the key in the lock behind them, then leaned back heavily against the door.
‘Catherine, it’s only been a few weeks … but …’ He looked at her dumbly for a moment, his smile fading, shaking his head in wonder, his need for her draining the colour from his face. She held out her arms to him and he moved towards her.
He buried his head in her shoulder. ‘I have dreamed of this moment, Catherine. I have lived it, re-lived it.’ With his face against her neck, the dear familiar scent of lavender almost overwhelmed him.
‘Don’t talk, Henry, please. Just let me feel you close to me. Close to me, Henry. Please, Henry, please …’ She pulled him towards the bed.
It was with great urgency that he took her and, though she arched her back and responded to him with a desire that matched his own, he wondered afterwards whether he had been just a little brutal, hurting her perhaps.
‘Catherine, I’m sorry. I have never felt so great a need. Did I hurt you?’ He was lying on his back still panting slightly, his forearm on his forehead, his passion spent. ‘My sweet love, please forgive me. Soldiers can be rough brutes.’
Lying naked beside him, Catherine breathed a dramatic sigh and smiled an age-old female smile as she looked up at the pattern in the fabric of the canopy above them.
‘My Lord,’ she said solemnly, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to walk in tomorrow’s Palm Sunday procession!’
The royal family spent much of Holy Week on their knees in full religious observance of Easter in the little stone church of St Mary-de-Castro.
At Henry’s side, Catherine watched the consecration of the holy oils and the commemoration of the Blessed Eucharist and by Easter Sunday she permitted herself the sacrilegious thought that, surely, God was at last satisfied with her devotions. She had said ‘Attende Domine’ so many times that she felt sure she had persuaded the Almighty to attend to her most fervent prayer and grant that, before too long, she should conceive a child, a male heir to the throne of England.
All too soon Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were packing her clothes yet again because Henry, who always found it difficult to relax, was impatient to move on. The court was to be based next at York while the King and his Queen, with a smaller retinue, made pilgrimages to Beverley and Bridlington. Henry’s father had placed him under the patronage of St John of Bridlington when he was a young boy and it pleased him greatly that the date of St John’s day of translation, the twenty-fifth of
October, was also St Crispin’s Day, the very day on which he had won his most celebrated battle at Agincourt six years previously. Though he would vehemently deny that he was at all superstitious, Henry felt he owed a great deal to St Crispin and to the intercession of St John. He was always keen to go to Bridlington.
What Catherine looked forward to most was a few days’ rest since, never the best of travellers, she had found the jerky movement of the royal carriage had given her a feeling very akin to seasickness and she was very tired. She awoke in York the following morning to the sound of Henry’s squire coming into their bedchamber to rouse his master. She had been sleeping deeply. Henry dropped a kiss on her forehead and followed the squire into his dressing room. Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the great bed, Catherine reached for the little bell she kept by the bedside which would bring Guillemote to her at any time and for any reason. When Guillemote arrived moments later, she heard her mistress being violently sick in the latrine.
‘Dear God, Guillemote,’ she said in a weak voice. Guillemote held her forehead as she leaned forward and retched again. ‘I have never felt so ill.’
Guillemote’s mind was racing. The oldest of thirteen children, she had often observed that when her own mother vomited before breakfast, there’d be yet another baby later in the year. But she didn’t want to raise Catherine’s hopes, not just yet.
‘Can it be that you have eaten some English food which has upset you, my Lady? Or I wonder if it could perhaps be the effects of the long journey?’
‘I wish I knew. But until I feel a great deal better, I won’t be making any more journeys, not for a few days, anyway.’
‘Come, my Lady. Let me help you back to your bed.’ Guillemote was fussing with cloths and rosewater, trying to clean Catherine’s mouth. ‘I’ll fetch the Lady Margaret. She’ll know what to do.’
‘Yes,’ Catherine agreed, climbing back into the great bed and pulling the covers up under her chin. ‘Margaret will know what to do.’
Coming back into the bedchamber, Henry was alarmed to see her looking so pale. He took the maid to one side. ‘What is it, Guillemote?’ he asked.
‘I don’t rightly know, Your Highness. She seems calm enough now but she has been quite ill.’
‘Then I won’t leave for Beverley until tomorrow. There’s no pressing need.’ Henry turned back to the bed and stroked a tendril of damp hair away from Catherine’s forehead. ‘Don’t worry, my sweet, I’ll tell Alnwick to send a messenger to Beverley and Bridlington to inform them of the delay. But perhaps we should consult a leech-doctor. I’ll have one sent for.’
The Duchess of Clarence found Catherine sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows with her knees drawn up to her chin, drinking a hot posset which Guillemote had made for her.
‘So, Catherine, my dear. Might it be that you are with child?’ Margaret greeted her, getting straight to the point.
‘With child, my Lady?’ Catherine looked stunned. ‘But surely …’
‘Well, you have been very sick this morning, Henry tells me; he’s even asked Bishop Alnwick to send for a leech doctor.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I have every hope that a leech doctor will not be needed, though it will do no harm to bleed you a little, I suppose. Now remind me, when was it that you and Henry were together in Leicester? How many weeks ago?’
‘But that was during Holy Week!’
‘And what has that got to do with it?’
‘Well …’
‘Are you telling me that meat was not the only thing that was denied to Henry during Holy Week? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you denied him his pleasure, too?’
‘No,’ said Catherine in a small voice, her eyes wide.
A broad smile on her face, Margaret looked at her young sister-in-law with affection. She seemed so small in the great bed, vulnerable, little more than a child herself. ‘Babies can be conceived in Holy Week, Catherine, just like any other time of year. Whatever makes you think they can’t be? They are our Saviour’s greatest gift to any woman, especially a queen.’
Catherine shook her head in disbelief. Queen Isabeau had been right. She had spent far too long in the company of nuns.
Henry was overjoyed. Margaret had gone to find him, to tell him that Catherine had some very special news for him, news which she really should tell him herself. He knew, of course, that there was only one situation which was important enough to make Margaret say that.
‘She’s not …? Margaret, are you saying that she might be …?’ He couldn’t bring himself to use the word.
‘I’m saying nothing,’ Margaret beamed, ‘even though it would give me the greatest pleasure to be the bearer of good news.’
Henry almost ran out of the room, so anxious was he to get to Catherine. He burst into their bedchamber to find Guillemote helping her into a loose robe.
‘Catherine! Margaret says that … you might be … you could be …’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ she smiled. ‘It does seem reasonable to suppose that I am with child.’
Henry covered the distance between them like a hound, half-leaping to envelop her in a huge embrace. Guillemote instinctively raised her arm to restrain him.
‘Oh, Your Highness! Be careful! You mustn’t be too rough with her.’
‘Of course, of course. I’m sorry. Oh, Catherine, you cannot possibly know how happy this has made me!’ He seized both her hands and covered them with kisses.
Catherine, feeling better, was of a mind to tease him. ‘I think, perhaps, that you are now the happiest man in England?’
‘No, Catherine.’
‘No, my Lord?’
‘No. I am the happiest man in the world!’ He seized her hands again then frowned suddenly. ‘It will be a boy, won’t it?’
They spent the evening as a family, over a modest meal in the private solar, Catherine, Henry, and Margaret, waited upon by Guillemote and entertained by only two of Henry’s musicians whom Margaret ignored completely as she prattled on about the prospect of a Christmas baby. All the signs and portents were good, she said excitedly, pointing out that the child had probably been conceived in Leicester Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Lancaster. He would be a fine young man and a great king, continuing the traditions of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, the wise and powerful John of Gaunt. Henry listened, beaming indulgently.
Catherine sat back in her chair, her hands resting lightly on her belly. With a fixed smile on her face, she watched Henry beaming with pleasure and listened to Margaret’s exited chatter as though from a great distance, while her own mind was filled with trepidation. The hopes and fears of the entire English royal family were vested in that small scrap of humanity which was growing in her womb and her overwhelming feeling was that there would be testing times ahead. Despite the sophistication of her life in royal circles, she couldn’t quite shake off her convent upbringing. A phrase from the Book of Genesis niggled at the back of her mind: ‘In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.’ Though she would never have admitted to her anxiety in front of Margaret and Henry, she did wonder how much giving birth to a baby would hurt.
They retired early to bed and Henry held her gently in his arms as though she was something very precious indeed. Feigning sleep, with her head on his shoulder, she prayed silently that her baby would be a boy so that she could give Henry the one thing he desperately wanted; an heir to his throne. Though she would have to endure the curse of Eve in order to do it, this would be the culmination of everything that she and her mother had worked for.
The King was awake before cockcrow, slipping his arm gently from under her head in case he should wake her. He intended to make a very early start this morning. Now it seemed likely that Catherine was pregnant, he wasn’t going to take any risks with her health. Needs must make this pilgrimage without her but he was more anxious than ever for the blessings of St John and St Crispin. They would, he was certain, grant that Catherine was carrying a
male child.
Before setting out, Henry had asked Sir Walter Hungerford to remain with Catherine and Margaret in York, confiding in him that there was now an added reason why the Queen needed his protection. He had every faith in Hungerford, a mature man in his middle forties. Devoted to King Henry, as he had been to his father before him, Hungerford was a royal councillor and had been steward of the King’s household for several years. Sir Walter smiled and said he would be both honoured and delighted to be responsible for the safety of the Queen and the Duchess of Clarence.
Now Margaret really came into her own as Catherine’s adviser. She was a good deal younger than Catherine’s own mother but still an experienced older woman. Queen Isabeau had never concerned herself with any aspect of Catherine’s education, either religious or secular, with the result that her daughter was remarkably ignorant about the workings of her own body. The nuns at Poissy had confined themselves to teaching her the catechism and how to turn her mind to pious thoughts. Beyond telling her it was the will of God that all women must endure the loss of blood each month and explaining the practicalities of dealing with that, they had studiously ignored every other aspect of the female body. Of course, Catherine was well aware of how the child had been conceived but she had no idea of how her pregnancy would affect her or what changes she could expect as it progressed.
So she plied Margaret with eager questions which Margaret did her best to answer, excited at the prospect of Catherine bearing Henry the baby which would become heir to the throne of England and, in time, the throne of France.
Despite the misery of her morning sickness, the time passed quickly enough for Catherine while Henry was away and it didn’t seem long before a swift horseman in the King’s livery brought the message that the royal party would return from their pilgrimage the following day. Catherine decided that there would be a special feast to celebrate Henry’s safe return and it was not the only thing they had to celebrate. She had no doubt that rumours were flying around the court already. After all, they had talked quite freely over supper in front of two of Henry’s musicians, the worst of gossips, but no official announcement about Catherine’s pregnancy had been made, so this seemed to her a very appropriate occasion on which to make it.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 8