Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘I expect he’s teething, Ma’am,’ she said as Elizabeth Ryman handed the child over to her.

  Joan knew exactly what the problem was, having explored the King’s painful gums with her finger only this afternoon. Tincture of white willow bark was the answer. She swore by it.

  ‘Hello, my little kinglet,’ she whispered, smiling and taking the vacant seat by the fire. She positioned the baby comfortably in the crook of her arm. ‘Who’s got nasty old toothache, then? Eh? Let Joanie make it better for you.’ She took a small glass phial from her apron pocket and shook it before removing the stopper. Dipping her finger into the liquid, she rubbed it gently on the baby’s painful gums, soothing the hurt, lulling him to sleep.

  This was how Catherine saw him for the first time in over six months. Having returned to Windsor with Jacqueline after Henry’s funeral, she went immediately in search of her baby son, without even stopping to remove her heavy, rain-sodden woollen cloak.

  ‘I must see him, Jacq,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how I have longed for this moment. Has he changed very much?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jacqueline, ‘he has. He’s a big boy now and quite heavy. Strong, too. Well, he’s nearly a year old.’ Then she stopped, her hand on the handle of the nursery door and a broad grin on her face. ‘Ready?’

  Catherine hesitated, then darted into the room as soon as the door was open. She couldn’t wait to feel her baby’s arms around her neck, to see his toothless smile. Surprised, Joan Astley struggled to get to her feet without waking her small charge. Seeing the newcomer with the Countess of Hainault, she assumed her to be the Queen but she couldn’t quite manage a curtsey while she was holding the baby.

  ‘Don’t worry, please don’t worry,’ said Catherine. ‘Just give him to me! Let me hold him.’

  ‘Careful, my Lady,’ said Joan, handing the baby over to his mother. ‘He’s teething.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care. I just want to hold him.’

  The baby opened his eyes and, seeing a stranger, screamed. Catherine held him tightly to her, thoughtlessly pressing his small face against the damp, scratchy fabric of her cloak, tears squeezing beneath her closed eyelids. She had tried so hard not to lose control at Henry’s funeral, clinging to the thought of this moment as her reward for maintaining her dignity. But her baby had screamed at the sight of her. It was difficult to bear. ‘Please don’t cry,’ she begged him. ‘Please, please don’t cry. Maman is home now, back with you again. Things will be different now.’

  ‘Shall I, Your Highness?’ Joan Astley stood, holding out her arms for the baby, who was bawling loudly. ‘Don’t upset yourself, please. And the King is upset, too. It’s a difficult time. Let me take him from you. I can calm him.’

  Jacqueline was all concern. ‘You mustn’t worry, Catherine,’ she said, ‘he’ll soon get used to you again.’

  Catherine was rooted to the spot with misery. ‘Yes, you’re right. It was too much to expect that he would know me after all this time. And I didn’t want to upset him. I’m sorry. I should have thought.’

  The baby – her baby, struggling and crying in his nurse’s arms – was a beautiful child with soft, creamy-white skin and brown eyes. Henry, she thought; he has his father’s eyes. Light, straw-coloured hair lay like threads of silk across his head. She gazed at the child in wonderment as Joan tried to pacify him. Eventually his frightened tears subsided and he blinked up at the three women’s faces above him, his nurse, his mother, and his godmother.

  ‘Has he stopped crying at last?’ Elizabeth Ryman asked as she came bustling back into the nursery. Seeing Catherine, she immediately dropped a deep curtsey. ‘Oh, Your Highness! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had returned from Westminster. I should have been here to greet you.’

  She rose and turned to Joan Astley. ‘Let Her Highness have the baby, Joan,’ she ordered. Joan hesitated and glanced at Catherine who shook her head.

  ‘Let me take him, Joan,’ said Jacqueline, holding out her arms to little Henry. ‘He knows me.’

  The child went to her without a murmur, nestling against her shoulder, his thumb in his mouth. Jacqueline looked over his head at Catherine.

  ‘I’m sorry, Catherine,’ she said.

  Closing her eyes and not trusting herself to speak, Catherine nodded. She felt she had reached the lowest ebb in her life.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to come back a second time.’ Sir Walter strode into the castle library shortly after ten o’clock the following morning with a ledger under his arm. ‘Do sit down.’ He motioned Owen to sit on a bench as he set the ledger on the table in front of him.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Walter.’

  ‘Now, young man, your cousin … er, Meredith, is it?’

  ‘Maredydd, Sire. Maredydd ap Owain.’

  ‘Yes, well, that,’ said Sir Walter. ‘He tells me that you have mastered reading skills and that you can recite your times tables up to twelve. Is that so?’

  ‘Indeed, Sire.’

  ‘Nine twelves are … what?’ Sir Walter shot at him.

  ‘Er … one hundred and eight,’ said Owen after only a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Good, good. Languages?’

  ‘Welsh, Sire, my native tongue. And English, of course. I have sufficient Latin to serve its purpose in church. Oh, and a little French.’

  ‘Really? And where did you receive this fine education of yours? Did you study with monks? At Westminster, perhaps?’

  ‘No, Sire, I was taught at home in Wales. But, yes, I did study with monks, with the Dominican Friars at Bangor. That is where I learned to read and write and they also gave me lessons in arithmetic. One of the itinerant bards taught me to play the crwth and I picked up the strict metres from him, too.’

  ‘Picked up the what?’

  ‘The strict metres, Sir Walter, the rules which govern the composition of poetry in Welsh. The bards will always teach them to anyone who is keen to learn.’

  Sir Walter’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? How very interesting. Well, you won’t be needing those in the English court. We don’t go in much for poetry, not these days, not since Chaucer died, God rest his soul. But, apart from that, my boy, I think you will suit our purpose very well. Now, let me show you this ledger and explain what I’d like you to do.’

  Sir Walter was a patient tutor. He took Owen through the columns of the ledger, showing him how he would like to see the figures presented and how he wanted to have certain domestic expenditures tracked in order to see where money was being spent unnecessarily.

  ‘I think there are significant savings to be made. Do you agree?’

  ‘I think you may be right, Sir Walter. If I can keep an eye on where the money goes over the next six or eight weeks, I’ll have a much better idea.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sir Walter, closing the ledger, ‘then I’d like you to start here next Monday morning. Be at your workplace immediately after morning mass. The seneschal of the Castle is Sir William Gifford and you will be answerable to him in all things. Including punctuality!’

  ‘Of course; thank you, Sire.’

  As Sir Walter was getting up to leave he turned back with another question. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what made you want to leave Wales and come to work in London?’

  Owen hesitated. There was no point in telling Sir Walter how everything changed after the family had become resigned to the death of Maredydd’s father, whose memory he hero-worshipped. Neither was there any purpose to be served by telling him about his scheming kinsman Gwilym ap Gruffydd who had gained control of the family lands in Anglesey. There had been a girl, too; but Rhiannon was betrothed elsewhere. He might as well move on.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he answered slowly, ‘perhaps a sense of adventure. I suppose I wanted to emulate my kinsman, Maredydd. He’s older than I am. And he was invited to enter His Majesty’s service after the pardon.’

  ‘Pardon? What pardon?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Walter, I thought you knew. He is Maredydd ap Owain, the son of Owain
Glyndŵr. Ours is an old and honourable family.’

  ‘So that’s who you are, the pair of you! Kin to Glendower, the self-styled Prince of Wales! I thought there was something about you both.’

  ‘Will that make a difference to my appointment, Sir Walter?’

  Sir Walter shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t really see why it should. But it’s difficult to forget the insurrection and the Welsh wars. Glendower and his followers were very persistent and very, very cunning.’

  ‘They were fighting for Welsh freedom, Sire. It was an important cause.’

  Sir Walter shrugged again, more eloquently this time. ‘Not everyone would agree with you. Frankly, I was rather surprised that the King seemed to favour a policy of conciliation towards the Welsh, after all the trouble they gave him, and his father before him. And Glendower, the so-called freedom fighter, never even had the good grace to acknowledge the pardon he was offered after the revolt had been quelled.’

  Owen was becoming increasingly irritated that Sir Walter couldn’t be bothered to pronounce Glyndŵr’s name correctly. But he really needed this job so he swallowed his pride and answered politely.

  ‘In the family, Sir Walter, we believe that he was dead by then but we can’t prove that. Anyway, there was a second pardon offered and Maredydd accepted that on his father’s behalf. That’s when he was invited to enter the service of the King. He served with His Highness in Normandy.’

  Sir Walter sighed. ‘And now you, too, are entering the service of the King. But a new king, King Henry VI. He’ll need all the help we can give him, poor little mite.’

  Owen smiled. It seemed such a strange thing to call the monarch. But then, that’s really all he was; a poor little mite, a small baby who was forced to rely on the integrity and genuine concern of those who had the care of him.

  ‘I’ll do my best to serve him, Sir Walter,’ he said. ‘As long as you’re sure that my background isn’t going to make any difference to my position as a clerk in his household.’

  ‘No. Not unless you want it to. Your cousin has already proved his loyalty to the House of Lancaster and you’re likely to do the same, I suspect. So it makes no difference to my decision. Good luck, my boy.’

  Sir Walter turned on his heel and left the room.

  Chapter Ten

  England, November 1422

  John of Bedford had been trying to find Catherine. No one seemed to have seen her and he’d almost given up when he spotted Guillemote. He thought he recognised the little French woman with the bright, intelligent brown eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you’re … er … you’re the Queen’s tiring woman, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am Guillemote, my Lord Duke, Her Majesty’s personal maid.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Then be so good as to tell me where she is. I wish to speak to her.’

  ‘I believe, my Lord, that she is with the Countess Jacqueline. If you would care to follow me, please, I will ask if she will see you.’

  The Duke found himself admiring what went before him. Guillemote had a pleasing figure with a trim waist and there was a look of organised determination about her. She was probably an excellent personal maid, he thought. She’d no doubt make some man a half-decent wife, too. Frenchwomen of her type were not always particularly pretty but he had found them to be diligent, intelligent, loyal, and, more often than not, possessed of a surprising sense of humour. Just the sort of wife he would have liked, he thought, the sort you knew wouldn’t stray or embarrass you in any way. Not that he’d ever had any choice in the matter. There had apparently been a suggestion many years ago that he should be married to the Countess Jacqueline but it had come to nothing. In retrospect he was rather relieved about that since she was a bit boisterous for his taste. In temperament, she was far better suited to his brother Humphrey and they did appear to be quite entranced with each other. He himself had no prospect of marriage. John often felt quite lonely.

  Guillemote stopped outside Jacqueline’s door and knocked it discreetly. ‘Just wait a moment, please Your Grace, I’ll see if Her Highness is here.’

  John crossed the corridor to sit on a windowsill in the embrasure opposite Jacqueline’s room. He didn’t have long to wait. Catherine emerged, alone, and gave him a watery smile.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘Guillemote says you are anxious to see me. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ John smiled warmly at her and got to his feet. He had become very fond of his young sister-in-law since they had been forced to spend so much time together during the last few dreadful months. Looking at her, he could see that strain and grief had etched tiny new lines in her face. And he could see she had been crying.

  ‘Catherine, my dear! You look upset. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No, John, thank you. It’s just that the baby has completely forgotten me. I should have realised that he wouldn’t know me after I’d been away from him for such a long time. It was stupid of me to think that he’d be exactly the same as he was before I went to France.’

  ‘They change very quickly at that age. Not that I have much experience of babies, of course.’

  ‘No,’ said Catherine with a ghost of a smile, ‘and, in truth, neither have I. Perhaps I should have insisted on taking him to France with me. Then he wouldn’t have forgotten me and at least his father would have had the chance to see him before … before …’ She bit her lip.

  ‘Catherine, please, don’t upset yourself any further. How were you to know that Henry would die? Now, come, let me tell you why I wanted to see you.’

  He took her hand and tucked it companionably under his elbow as they walked together back down the corridor. When they reached the library, John opened the door and ushered her inside, then settled her comfortably in a chair near the fire.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the decisions which Parliament has been making on your behalf,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘and you’ll be pleased to know that you are to receive the sum of six thousand pounds a year.’

  ‘That seems quite generous.’

  ‘Of course,’ John went on, ‘deductions of seven pounds a day will be made for your keep here in the King’s household at Windsor for as long as you reside with him. The remainder will be for your personal needs, clothes, shoes, your servants’ salaries, and so on and you will still have more than three thousand pounds for that purpose.’

  Catherine didn’t react. It was something she hadn’t thought about, assuming that things would just return to normal, that she would have a roof over her head and that food would appear on the table as it always had.

  ‘You will, in due course, inherit several of the dower palaces which are, by right, the property of the dowager queens of England.’

  ‘But I’ll be living in Windsor, won’t I? With the baby?’

  ‘Yes, of course you will. The other properties are yours to visit whenever you choose. But you must realise, Catherine, that crucial decisions have to be made about the King’s welfare and his physical well-being, his education, and so on. So a Royal Council has been established, with Humphrey in charge, to look after his interests.’

  ‘But I’ll be looking after him!’

  John nodded. ‘You are his mother, of course, but you can’t possibly do everything for him, Catherine. That’s where the Council comes in. But don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the concern on her face, ‘the decisions they make concerning the King will require the agreement of all the council members. So, in theory, no one will have any undue influence over him.’

  He knew that now he had to sound a note of caution. ‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘you have been very brave in the last few months but perhaps not nearly so brave as you’re going to need to be in the years to come.’

  She frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because your position in the royal household has changed. You’re still the Queen but you are not the King’s wife. You’re now the King’s mother and it’s not quite the same thing. He is too youn
g to champion you and protect you as a husband would. So if you are to serve him well you must be aware of every possible danger.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that his guards and nurses are untrustworthy?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. Just let’s say that I know enough about human nature to realise that there are those who would try to gain power for themselves by having power over him. He’s only a small child. One day he will learn wisdom, I’m sure of it, but it will be several years before he can make his own decisions and even then he will need guidance. I’m anxious that you’re aware of the situation from the beginning.’

  Catherine was becoming only too aware of the situation. ‘Yes, but who do you think would want to harm him? Apart from my brother, of course. He won’t bend the knee to a baby.’

  ‘Not just the Dauphin, my dear, the threats could come from much nearer home. I’m thinking about anyone who seeks self-advancement. And I’m not talking about doing the King any physical harm. I think we have more to fear from those who might try to influence him, to manipulate him, seek to change his attitudes. He is young and very, very vulnerable. You are his main ally so you must make sure you’re with him as much as possible.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult, John. He is my son. And I love him.’

  ‘Of course you do, and in a few days he will have learned to recognise you and will have come to love you again, as he used to when he was younger.’

  ‘Oh, Mon Dieu, I do hope so!’

  ‘Yes, of course he will, Catherine. And you must work hard to make him.’ He smiled at her. ‘You must enjoy being with him. Play with him, feed him, get him used to having you back in his life again. Don’t let Elizabeth Ryman have sole charge of him, nor any one of his nurses. You the King’s mother, after all, so you will have to accompany him to Parliament very soon and he must feel comfortable with you before that.’

  ‘Parliament?’ Catherine looked surprised.

  ‘He is the King.’

  ‘But he isn’t one year old until next month! Why does he need to attend Parliament? What if he cries?’