Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  Margaret crossed herself before taking a highly ornate silver casket from a coffer which she was carrying and opening it with great reverence. She took out a small piece of what looked like old leather. ‘It is Our Lord’s foreskin. Here, take it in your hand. Don’t be afraid. It is renowned for its mysterious power to help women in labour. You won’t need Our Lady’s girdle as well.’

  His Royal Highness Henry of Windsor pushed his small, sticky head into the world on the sixth day of December 1421, his indignant, newborn wailing almost drowned in a babble of joyful welcome from Queen Catherine’s ladies.

  ‘A boy!’ they called excitedly to each other, ‘Oh, God be praised, it’s a boy!’

  ‘A boy!’ said Margaret with tears in her eyes as she watched the midwife cleaning the child before handing him to his mother. She returned the holy relic to its silver casket, crossing herself fervently. It had done its work. It had given Catherine a relatively easy birth and she had produced a boy. A boy! Thanks be to God! Margaret crossed herself again and muttered a few words of gratitude to her Maker.

  ‘A boy!’ said Catherine in wonder. Her ladies were helping her to sit up in bed, propping her up on pillows as the midwife placed the baby in her waiting arms. She looked down at the little wrinkled pink face, the eyes tightly closed and knew a moment of the purest imaginable love. ‘My son!’ Her pain almost forgotten, she touched the baby’s face and traced the line of his mouth gently with her little finger, smiling as he instinctively tried to suck it.

  ‘A boy!’ said Jacqueline, aware of a curiously strong emotion. ‘The heir to the throne of England!’ Though she would have denied it strenuously, jealousy had her heart in its cold grip.

  ‘The heir to the thrones of England and France,’ Catherine reminded her gently. ‘He looks very small to have all that responsibility, don’t you think?’

  ‘He looks … he looks beautiful.’ The words caught in Jacqueline’s throat.

  ‘Jacq,’ said Catherine quietly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Jacq, will you be his godmother?’

  ‘I? But, I … yes, of course, Catherine, I should be very, very honoured. And I know that Humphrey will be pleased.’

  In London, the bells rang out from every bell tower and Te Deums were sung in every church. Flags were flying and the taverns were full of noisy, elated citizens celebrating the birth of young Prince Henry, the heir to the throne.

  In Windsor, all was quiet as Catherine slept, exhausted after the effort of giving birth. The baby had been taken away from her and handed to a wet nurse to be fed, his mother’s own full breasts denied him.

  In France, nearly three weeks later, a royal messenger spurred his sweating horse on towards the English encampment outside the besieged town of Meaux. It wasn’t far to go now; the animal could give him another two miles at full gallop.

  The King was with the Dukes of Exeter and Warwick and his chamberlain, Lord Fitzhugh, the four in deep discussion about how best to bring about an end to the siege. What food they had was rapidly dwindling, there were enemy marksmen lurking just beyond their lines, there was no sign that the French would surrender and the incessant rain meant they hadn’t had a decent, dry night’s sleep in weeks. Hunger and exhaustion were beginning to take their toll of the English troops and dysentery was rife.

  The messenger, still in his rain-soaked woollen cape and mud-spattered boots, was ushered into the royal presence and, on hearing the news that Catherine had given birth to a son, Henry gulped emotionally, not trusting himself to speak. He crossed himself then dropped to his knees where he stood, giving fervent thanks to God, to St John of Bridlington, and to St Crispin for granting him his dearest wish. His lips moved silently in a long prayer of thanksgiving while his companions stood with bowed heads. Then he got briskly to his feet.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, his eyes bright with tears but grinning from ear to ear, ‘but this is such good news. The best Christmas gift a man ever had. A son! My son, Henry.’ He turned and beckoned the messenger to come forward. ‘Tell me, my good man, do my son’s looks favour his mother or me?’

  ‘I have not had the privilege of seeing the child, Your Highness,’ said the messenger ‘but I imagine he is a handsome babe, whoever he looks like!’

  ‘Quite so, quite so!’ Henry laughed, clapping the man on the back. ‘A diplomatic answer, if ever I heard one! My son, Henry! I expect his arrival caused a real rumpus at the Palace of Westminster!’

  The messenger was silent for a moment, confused. Then he spoke in a low voice. ‘The child was born at Windsor, Sire,’ he said. ‘Windsor, not Westminster.’

  ‘Windsor? Windsor! But I expressly commanded that the court should remove to the Palace of Westminster for the birth. Why was my wish ignored?’ Henry’s face was flushed a dark red.

  ‘I … I don’t know, Sire,’ said the messenger, cowed by the King’s unexpected outburst, ‘I’m not certain but I believe … well, my wife said … and I expect she’s right, women are usually right about such things … and she was one of the midwives so she should know …’

  ‘Yes, man, what did your wife say? Spit it out!’

  ‘Well, my wife said that it was Her Majesty’s intention to lie-in at Westminster for the birth. She was quite sure of that. And the baby was expected at Christmas. But my wife said she was sure that the babe could not endure to wait in his mother’s belly for all that time. He was impatient to come out and get on with the business of following in his father’s footsteps.’

  Henry paused for a moment, then let out a great hoot of laughter. ‘Yes, my man, I expect your wife is right. And your diplomacy is second to none. Here, take this for your pains. And give my compliments to your wife; a wise woman indeed! I’m delighted … delighted … with the news you have brought me.’

  Pressing a purse full of coins on the messenger, Henry all but pushed the man out of the door. Then he sat down heavily, put his elbows on the table, and his head in his hands.

  ‘My Lord, you seem upset.’ Lord Fitzhugh was full of concern.

  ‘Mmm?’ Henry looked up at him and sighed. ‘Well, yes, just for a moment. You see, there was an old prophecy … nonsense really, I suppose … that I, born in Monmouth would achieve much but not live long and that my son, born in Windsor, would live for many years but lose everything I had fought for. That’s really why I wanted him to be born in Westminster, or anywhere but Windsor, to deny that prophecy. But, as I say, it’s probably all nonsense.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to soothsayers, my Lord,’ said Warwick, ‘they’re nothing but trouble. You’re a man in your prime and will live for many years to come and lead England on to greater and greater glory.’

  ‘And I,’ said Exeter, ‘am already planning how we will celebrate your fortieth birthday, Sire, five years hence, when you are king of both England and France!’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Henry, ‘possibly. Given that my father-in-law is dead by then.’ Then he threw an arm around the shoulders of both dukes, smiling broadly. ‘But you’re right of course, all of you. I shouldn’t listen to soothsayers. No one but the Almighty can possibly know what the future holds. But, thanks be to God, the future of the English throne is secure, now that I have a son. So, come, let us go and tell our commanders to convey the good news to the troops, God knows they’re demoralised enough after all this rain. Then we’ll call for wine, the very best wine of France, so that we can wet the head of the little one who is destined, one day, not only to become King of England but also King of France. And let us redouble our efforts to subdue this quarrelsome country for the sake of my son’s inheritance!’

  Chapter Eight

  France, May 1422

  With a fair wind astern, the Trinity Royal was in full sail and bound for France. Below decks, a large contingent of royal servants, guards, and domestic staff lolled about, telling jokes, amusing each other with guessing games and indulging their enthusiasm for the new craze of playing cards to pass the time. On the top deck, John
of Bedford, knowing that his sister-in-law was a poor traveller, offered her marchpane and sips from a beaker of wine. Catherine wanted neither and refused both. She was determined to defeat the distress of mal de mer by using the old sailor’s trick she’d been taught by the captain of the Grace Dieu. Huddled in her miniver-lined cloak, she stood a little apart from her ladies and other members of the royal party, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the French coast, recalling all the things which had happened to her since she last crossed the channel. She tried very hard not to worry about her baby son.

  It was strange, she reflected, how a baby took over your life. She had never known such overwhelming love as she felt for that one small human being who had not yet even learned to call her Mother. Perhaps she should teach him to call her Maman, she mused, he was half French after all.

  She knew she’d miss him dreadfully while she was in France but she was torn between leaving the baby and seeing Henry. Still, when they both returned to England, the baby would be old enough for his father to take a real interest in him. Perhaps he would even be old enough to recite that little finger-naming rhyme, the one Henry had shown her the very first time they met, all that long time ago at Pontoise. All she could remember was that the little finger was ‘jolie’ something. ‘Jolie cwt bach’, was it? She wasn’t sure. Still, ‘jolie’ was a description that certainly suited the baby. He was so beautiful that sometimes she would want to kiss him all over, on top of his soft, downy head, behind his ears, on the smooth skin inside his chubby elbows, on his plump little rump, behind his knees, on the soles of his little feet, just to enjoy the delighted way he wriggled and laughed, enjoying it just as much as she was.

  That was usually when Elizabeth Ryman made an excuse to take him away from her.

  Of course, the baby had no lack of doting women around him, making soft cooing noises over his crib and encouraging him to grip their fingers with his little hand. Foremost among them was the Countess Jacqueline, who had formed a deep and lasting affection for the child from the moment she had stood at the christening font, holding him in her arms ready to hand him to Archbishop Henry Chichele for his baptism. On either side of her stood his two other godparents, his uncle John of Bedford and his great-uncle, Bishop Henry Beaufort. Catherine, having not yet been churched after the birth, was absent from the christening ceremony.

  So when it came to leaving the baby behind in Windsor while she journeyed to visit her husband, Catherine had no doubt at all that she had left him in good hands. Jacqueline had given her every assurance. She would look after the baby, she promised, even if it meant elbowing the frightful Ryman woman out of the way. Catherine need have no fears about that!

  Henry, free of his military duties after the eventual surrender of Meaux, met Catherine at the Château de Vincennes, a short distance from Paris. Their sumptuous private accommodation was on the second floor of the huge, square donjon which towered above the rest of the château. Here they had everything they needed and, soon after they arrived, Guillemote had served them with a simple meal and a jug of wine then left them alone to spend their first evening together exactly as they wished. Apple wood burned in the grate for, though the sun was high and warming during the day, the nights were chilly. But Catherine, alone with her husband at last, didn’t intend that Henry would remain chilled for long.

  He looked pale and had lost a considerable amount of weight. She fussed over him, feeding him small mouthfuls of food with a spoon, much as she might have fed his baby son, and he let himself be pampered, smiling wanly. She babbled about the baby and how he had nearly said ‘Maman’ a few days before she left Windsor. He was only six months old, of course, and couldn’t be expected to say very much at all, but it was plain to see that he was a very intelligent baby and she was quite sure that if Henry had been at home, his little son would be calling him ‘Papa’ by now.

  Henry smiled and put a gentle finger on her lips. ‘Hush, Catherine,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me about my clever son tomorrow. I am tired to my very bones, sweetheart, and I need to sleep. I wouldn’t do justice to a woman tonight. Not even you.’

  ‘But, Henry …’

  ‘Tomorrow, my sweet. You can’t possibly know how the prospect of a warm, dry, comfortable bed can beguile a soldier after months of damp and wretched discomfort. We endured incessant rain and very little food before Meaux surrendered. I lost many of my men to dysentery because of it. The flux. A horrible, stinking disease. And, believe me, it is no respecter of kings.’

  ‘Is that what troubles you, my Lord?’

  ‘It is, but at least I have a few days of warmth and rest to look forward to, and decent food to give my bowels something to grip. Anton is sure to know what is best for that.’ He turned towards her, suddenly anxious. ‘He has come over from England with you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he has,’ said Catherine. ‘I made sure of that. I knew you would appreciate his cooking after months of soldiers’ victuals.’

  ‘Then I’ll eat whatever he suggests,’ said Henry, pulling back the covers on the bed and climbing into it. ‘But let me sleep tonight, my sweet love, please. It’s all I really need. Blessed, blessed sleep.’

  Well, there was nothing for it, thought Catherine, but to accept the situation with good grace. She curled up against Henry’s broad back and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

  She woke with beads of sweat on her forehead, her heart hammering. The room was as black as pitch and it took her a moment to realise where she was. She reached out a hand and felt the warmth of the mattress where Henry had been lying. She’d been dreaming again but it was not a pleasant dream. There were horses, several horses, going too fast, and there were men shouting. Children too, screaming in terror. She lay on her back, staring wide-eyed into nothingness until her heart resumed its normal beat. Then she heard the sound which must have awakened her, the piercingly beautiful and haunting sound of a blackbird singing in the darkness outside the window. But there was another sound too, ugly and disturbing. Catherine turned onto her side, pulled the bedclothes up over her shoulder for warmth, and listened to her husband groaning in the latrine.

  She slid out of their warm bed early the next morning, taking the little bedside bell out into the corridor to summon Guillemote so that it wouldn’t wake Henry. Guillemote, still barefoot, came running at her mistress’ command.

  ‘The King is ill, Guillemote,’ Catherine whispered. ‘He was up several times in the night.’

  ‘What ails him, Ma’am?’

  ‘The flux.’

  Guillemote’s eyes widened in alarm and she crossed herself swiftly. ‘The flux! Then we must pray for him, my Lady.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, but he seems to think that all he needs is some solid food to settle his stomach. Would you ask Anton’s advice, please? He probably knows what’s best.’

  ‘Certainly, Ma’am.’

  Guillemote dropped the slippers she’d been carrying, pushed her feet into them, and bustled away towards the kitchen. Catherine returned to the bedchamber where Henry was still fast asleep. She looked down at him for a long moment then knelt at the side of the bed, studying his face. It was very drawn and there were more lines around his eyes than she remembered, more grey in his hair and in the stubble on his chin. His skin had taken on a translucent quality and the scar tissue below his right eye stood out lividly, knotted and tight. She wanted to reach out and touch it, make it whole again, make him better; but she was afraid of waking him. He needed all the rest he could get. Still kneeling, she crossed herself, closed her eyes and prayed for him.

  Later that morning, Anton climbed the spiral stairs of the donjon and was shown into the royal solar. He was confident that he had the answer to the King’s problem.

  ‘Hare,’ he said, emphasising the aspirate.

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Oui. Hare.’ Anton, anxious that the King should understand his meaning, held up two fingers at either side of his head in imitation of a hare’s long ears. �
��Jugged hare, Your ‘Ighness. And Anton will make a delicious sauce with ‘is insides and mix ‘is gall with pepper. And your pain – it will go. Phut!’ He clicked his fingers.

  ‘You can rid me of the pain, Anton?’ The King’s face brightened.

  ‘I will try, Sire,’ said the little Frenchman, bowing low again, ‘with some help from Monsieur Lièvre, the clever Mr Hare.’

  ‘Then get to your kitchen, man, and work miracles for me,’ Henry said, smiling as he lay back on his pillows. He remained in bed that day and for the rest of the week, letting Catherine pamper him and eating as much of Anton’s delicious jugged hare as he could force down his gullet.

  While her husband remained confined to his sickbed at the Château de Vincennes, Catherine took the opportunity to visit her parents at St Pol and was shocked by the sight of Queen Isabeau, who had finally begun to look her age. She was now fifty-two years old and had grown very fat. Her skin had yellowed and all that remained of the once-handsome Queen’s beauty was her remarkable eyes.

  The King, her father, cried when he saw Catherine at his bedside but had no idea who she was. He spent most of his time in his bedchamber and his wife craved companionship and gossip.

  Absently stroking the small white dog on her ample lap, Isabeau was greedy for information about her grandson and Catherine was only too pleased to boast to her mother about the baby, how handsome he was and how clever. She recounted the stories of her coronation, too, and her mother was much amused to hear of the miracles which Anton had wrought with the fish.

  For her part, Catherine was keen to hear news of her siblings. The Dauphin Charles, Isabeau told her, had retreated to Bourges with his tail between his legs at around the time of the Treaty of Troyes. He had been there ever since.

  ‘And I hear he’s about to be married,’ she added.

  ‘Really? To whom?’

  ‘To Marie of Anjou,’ said Isabeau. ‘No doubt her mother forced them into it. She’s fearfully determined and she seems to have taken him over completely since he left here and fled south. I know her of old. Dreadful woman!’