Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  She and Margaret summoned the royal chef from the kitchen to discuss what food might be served. Tomorrow would be Thursday, a flesh-day, so meat was permitted and Anton favoured venison. True, it had come almost to the end of its season but he knew of a carcass which had been correctly hung for twenty-one days and the haunch and the shoulder would both be delicious cooked slowly in red wine and served with a juniper sauce. Chicken, too, he thought. It was a pity that grapes were out of season since he liked to serve his roasted chicken stuffed with grapes. Still, it was the best time of year for lamb, now at its youngest and sweetest, so they would certainly spit-roast two or three depending on their size but, for this special occasion – and here Anton grinned broadly because he’d heard the gossip and already knew the reason for the celebration – he would be very happy to serve dressed peacock.

  ‘But you must not carry it to the table, my Lady,’ he warned, wagging his finger dramatically, ‘the way the English ladies do. Mais non! It will weigh too much. It is much too ‘eavy for you now that you are, er, enceinte!’

  ‘Oh, Anton!’ Catherine laughed, pretending to be scandalised. ‘You must not say that to anyone else. It is still a secret!’

  ‘No secrets from Anton,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Anton, ‘e knows everything! I myself will bring the peacock to the table.’ He mimed the way he would present the peacock, bowing extravagantly to them both. ‘It will be beautiful, the most beautiful peacock you ‘ave ever seen! His ‘Ighness the King will marvel at the size and the colours of the tail feathers and it will taste –’ here he paused to kiss the tips of his fingers in a Gallic gesture, ‘mmm … divine!’

  They couldn’t but approve Anton’s suggested menu and, leaving them laughing at his antics, the chef went back to exercise his tyranny in the kitchen.

  Henry and his small retinue had reached Wicstun, where they were to spend the last night of their pilgrimage before undertaking the final twenty miles of their journey back to York the next day. Henry retired early, soon after nightfall, so as to make best use of the morning light to get the journey under way. He wanted to reach York as soon as he could, if only to take Catherine in his arms again; Catherine, his queen, who carried the heir to his throne within her womb. He had prayed earnestly to St John of Bridlington that she should bear him a son. He knew the saint would not let him down.

  The slightest sound in the night always had Henry reaching for his sword, on the defensive in an instant, and it seemed to him that he had only been asleep for a matter of minutes when there was a scuffling sound outside his door accompanied by muffled whispers. He leapt up.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, wrenching open the door. ‘What’s all the noise?’

  Outside, his guards were restraining a messenger wearing royal livery. The man’s clothes were dishevelled and his boots were caked with mud.

  ‘Beg pardon, Your Highness,’ muttered a guard. ‘Can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Of course, of course. What is it?’

  ‘This man says he’s got a message for you, Sire, from the Duke of Gloucester. Says he’s got to give it to you personally. Says it can’t wait ‘til morning. Messenger reckons he’s been riding for near ten days to get here, what with havin’ to find out where you were and everything.’

  ‘Where have you ridden from?’ the King demanded as the messenger delved into a large leather scrip which was strapped around his neck and under his arm. Henry snatched the message from him.

  ‘From Windsor, Your Grace, an’ I been ridin’ since the first day of April. I came quick as I could. I must have wore out about eight ‘orses, I reckon …’

  ‘Alright, man, alright. Go now, go to the kitchen. One of the guards will show you where it is. Get something to eat and a night’s rest. I’ll see you’re well paid in the morning for your trouble. Guard, go to it. Leave two men outside my door and bring more candles.’

  Henry kicked the door closed as he tore at the royal seal on the letter. He felt a sudden throb of fear. With trembling hands he tried and failed to read the message in the dim glimmer of a rush lamp burning in a wall sconce near the fireplace.

  The guard returned with two lighted wax candles which he placed on Henry’s table. Bowing, he backed out of the room. Now Henry spread the letter on the table and arranged the candles so that he could read it.

  A moment later, the guards outside his door heard a dreadful sound. It was neither a cry nor a shout. It could have been the yowling of a dog fox with its paw in a trap or the anguish of a soul in agony. It chilled their very bones to hear it. They looked uncertainly at one another.

  ‘Best fetch Bishop Alnwick,’ said one. ‘Sounds like he’s had bad news.’

  William Alnwick found Henry slumped over his table, motionless, his head on his arms.

  ‘My Lord, what is it? The guard said it was bad news …’

  Henry shuddered. ‘Thomas,’ his voice was muffled against his sleeve. ‘My brother … Thomas …’

  ‘The Duke of Clarence?’

  Henry raised his head and stared ashen-faced at Alnwick. ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘The Duke of Clarence, yes. My brother, Thomas, yes. Dead. Dead since before Easter. And I never knew! Dead all the time I was in Leicester, dead all the time I was in Beverley, in Bridlington. I could at least have prayed for him if I had known. Dead all that time … and I never knew!’

  ‘How could you know? He’s in France.’

  ‘Was in France,’ Henry corrected him in a dull voice. ‘Was in France. Keeping the peace, looking after my interests. I should have known that the French wouldn’t honour the truce. You can’t trust them, I should have realised that. I should have brought Thomas home. He’d still be … oh, God, he’d still be …’

  ‘What happened, my Lord?’

  Henry held out the letter and, in silence, Bishop Alnwick read the brief message. It begged to inform His Highness that his brother Thomas, Duke of Clarence, had been killed in battle on the twenty-second day of March, having bravely sought out and attacked a Franco-Scottish force at Baujé in Anjou. The English force had been heavily outnumbered and the battle was lost. The message ended with a request that Her Grace, the Duchess of Clarence, should be informed of her husband’s death.

  ‘How am I to tell her?’ Henry whispered. ‘What can I say?’

  Bishop Alnwick paused for a long moment. ‘Perhaps I should tell her,’ he said. ‘It will not be easy but I’ll do what I can.’ He crossed himself slowly. ‘The Duchess is a deeply pious woman. She will understand that it is God’s will.’

  Anton was supervising the roasting of lambs. The kitchen at York was not laid out to his liking but he was so genuinely delighted at the good fortune of his royal mistress that he would put up with a few inconveniences, just to help her celebrate the announcement of her pregnancy in style.

  He himself was dressing the peacock, stepping back every now and then to judge the effect of his artistry. He needed to adjust … those two tail feathers just … so! He stepped back again, onto the foot of someone standing just behind him.

  ‘Quel crétin! Get out of my way, you stupid …’ Anton stopped and turned around. ‘Oh, Sir Walter! I’m so sorry. I thought you were one of the scullions, they are always getting under my feet …’ His voice trailed off as he saw the look on the face of Sir Walter Hungerford. ‘What ‘as ‘appened?’

  ‘Something dreadful. Dreadful. The King has not returned. He has ridden on to Pontefract. But Bishop Alnwick has returned and has brought the gravest news. I come to tell you that there will be no celebration today, no feasting. The King’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, has been killed in battle in Anjou.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’

  ‘Bishop Alnwick is with the Lady Margaret now. At the moment, food is the last thing the royal ladies want to think about, though the rest of the household has to eat, of course, so not everything will be wasted. Perhaps you could use up the lambs at least. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been to a great deal of trouble.’r />
  Sir Walter turned and left the kitchen. Anton crossed himself and sighed. Then he looked around him at the huge quantity of food which had already been prepared and was ready to be served; breads, salads, vegetables, sauces and purées, fruits in spiced wine, jellies, flans, and cheeses. The long trestle tables pushed against two walls of the room groaned with the weight of it.

  Anton opened the kitchen door. There was the usual raggedy gaggle of beggars outside, waiting for the used trenchers and whatever food was left over from the table. Anton stood to one side to let them in to the kitchen.

  ‘Entrez, mes amis,’ he invited them. ‘Tonight, you shall eat like kings.’

  Chapter Seven

  Windsor Castle, England, Summer 1421

  These were bleak days for the King, bleak and despairing. He spent hours closeted with his advisers, discussing at length the best tactics for retaliation. Then when his advisers had left he would sit with his two remaining brothers, John and Humphrey, until well into the night, plotting retribution. His main worry was getting together sufficient money to raise an army. The royal coffers were all but empty and Parliament had refused to impose yet more taxes, forcing Henry to spend weeks begging and borrowing from anyone who would lend to him, promising to pay back with interest as soon as he had France obediently under English rule.

  Neither John of Bedford nor Humphrey of Gloucester was in any position to lend money but they had always been supportive. Henry watched them now, as they sat opposite him with ledgers, scraps of parchment, and ink horns spread out before them on the table, frowning in the candlelight as they discussed how an army of sufficient size might be raised. They hadn’t changed very much since they were small boys, he reflected. They might have been back in the school room, John with his round, earnest face and handsome Humphrey, absently pulling at a lock of his russet-brown hair and looking on while John crossed out yet another column of figures. But there was one person missing; Thomas should have been there, too.

  Henry was not a man who readily admitted to feelings of affection but, as the first-born, he had always been fiercely protective of his younger siblings, raising his fists to fight their childish battles, hiding their little misdemeanours from their parents. In later years, on the battlefield at Agincourt, he had saved Humphrey’s life, defending his badly wounded brother by standing astride him as he lay helpless on the ground and protecting him until he could be dragged away to safety. Humphrey had survived, with nothing more to show for his injured leg than an occasional limp. But Thomas was dead and there was nothing Henry could have done to save him. In his private moments, he was almost deranged with grief. He wanted to kill whoever had delivered the mortal wound. He wanted that more than anything. The King had never been a man to turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was his belief.

  Henry wanted revenge.

  ‘You know,’ said John with a frown of concentration, his quill pen poised in mid-air, ‘if we add Uncle Henry Beaufort’s monies to what we have here, there should be sufficient to pull together a decent number of men and horses and equipment.’

  ‘And keep them in France for as long as it takes to quell the French?’ asked Humphrey. ‘How much has he given?’

  ‘Seventeen thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, three shillings, and fourpence,’ said Henry promptly. ‘And it was readily offered. I’ll have to pay him back, of course.’

  ‘And with interest,’ John added. ‘It’s true he’s a man of God but he’s certainly familiar with Mammon.’

  ‘I don’t much care how he regards his wealth,’ said Henry, ‘as long as he’s prepared to lend it to us when we need it. And I’ll worry about paying him back when I’ve brought those French bastards to heel.’

  ‘Then our problems are solved,’ said Humphrey. ‘We go to France.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ John said, gathering his writing materials together, ‘we go to bed. Come, it’s late and the candle burns low.’

  ‘There’s little to tempt me to bed,’ said Humphrey. ‘Henry has the most beautiful woman at court to grace his pillow, even if she is with child. But my bed’s a cold and lonely place. So, I’ll have another goblet of wine.’

  ‘I thought your bed was being warmed by that young, er … what was her name?’ John started saying but Henry cut across him.

  ‘Ah! I knew there was something I had to tell you both. Talking of beautiful women … I’d almost forgotten. I have received a message from Calais to request permission for the Countess Jacqueline of Holland to visit England. It seems she has run away from her husband.’

  Humphrey raised his eyebrows. ‘John of Brabant? I’m not surprised, if what I’ve heard is true. Looks like a rat.’

  ‘Rotten teeth, too,’ said Henry. ‘They say his breath stinks!’

  ‘How very unpleasant,’ said John, curling his lip in distain, ‘particularly since she seems such a charming woman, if a little too vivacious for my taste. But I confess to having been quite taken with her at your wedding to Catherine.’

  ‘So, tell me, Henry,’ said Humphrey, ‘have you invited the Countess to come to court?’

  ‘Indeed I have. She’s Catherine’s kinswoman, of course, so she’ll be company for her while I’m in France.’

  Humphrey drained his goblet. ‘Do they know each other well?’ he asked, reaching for the decanter.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so. And of course, when she was a lot younger, the Countess Jacqueline was married for some years to Catherine’s brother, John. Before he died, that is.’

  ‘Yes, I’d forgotten that,’ said John. ‘And has she any money to add to your army funds?’

  ‘I imagine not. Not if she’s run away from her husband. No doubt she’ll be destitute, near enough. So I have arranged a small payment for her each month while she remains here as Catherine’s companion. She arrives from Calais sometime next week. Would one of you be prepared to meet her at Dover?’

  ‘I think I should be the one to do that,’ said Humphrey. ‘If nothing else, I should do it officially in my capacity as Warden of the Cinque Ports. I shall travel to Dover at the end of the week with a deputation to welcome her.’ He poured himself a generous measure of wine. ‘So, let’s drink to the prospect of another attractive woman at court. I’ve used up all the available ones under the age of forty!’ He raised his glass to his brothers with a lewd laugh.

  Now that there was to be an heir to his throne, there were some things that must be done before the King left for France. Henry would leave nothing to chance. He singled out the sour-faced Elizabeth Ryman, one of the older ladies of the court, and asked her to be wholly responsible for the physical welfare of his unborn child from the moment of birth. She would be given a small band of dedicated nurses to assist her and the gift of a sizeable manorial estate in recognition of her services to the Crown.

  Catherine was mortified by this decision and, a few nights later, found the courage to confront her husband as they prepared for bed. She had learned that, if she wanted a favour of any kind, the bedchamber was the place to ask it.

  ‘My Lord,’ she began pleasantly enough, ‘there is really no need for Mistress Ryman to concern herself with the baby, you know. That will be my duty. Indeed, that will be my pleasure. So, Henry, for my sake, please tell Mistress Ryman that her services will not be needed.’

  Henry regarded her with a flinty expression on his face. ‘Catherine, I will not have my judgement questioned. This is my wish and my decision stands. Mistress Ryman will assume her duties the moment my son is born. Oh, and Catherine, you will arrange to be in Westminster for the birth.’

  ‘In Westminster? By why, my Lord? I am very happy here in Windsor and …’

  ‘It is my particular wish, Catherine. My son will be born in the Palace of Westminster and he will immediately be placed in the care of Mistress Elizabeth Ryman. He will be the heir to the throne of England and his wellbeing is of paramount importance. It is imperative that he is given constant attention of the highest st
andard. My Lady, you will see to it that my wishes are observed.’

  She bit her lip and said nothing as he turned aside to sleep but she lay awake in the darkness for a long time, trying very hard not to feel hurt. It was bad enough that her husband was planning to invade her native country yet again, to kill her countrymen, without the fact that she had the bleak prospect of remaining in England alone. She had no real friends here, apart from Margaret, and Margaret could sometimes be quite distant since her husband’s death. Sleep evaded Catherine, nor did she particularly want to sleep. She’d had a vivid, frightening dream recently and could only pray that her childhood nightmares would not start plaguing her again.

  As she awaited the birth of her baby, Catherine was surrounded by people who were preoccupied with their own concerns. Henry was entirely engrossed in planning the invasion of France and Margaret spent most of her time kneeling at the prie-dieu in her private solar, praying for the eternal rest of her dead husband, not wanting to talk to anyone.

  So Catherine sewed and embroidered or practised playing her harp but did none of these things with much enthusiasm. Or else she would pick up a book, having become particularly fond of the tales of Geoffrey Chaucer, now that her command of English had improved so much. She was totally absorbed in The Parliament of Fowls when she felt the baby kick in her belly for the first time. Excited but alarmed she dropped the book and rushed to find Margaret.