Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘How strange!’

  ‘Not at all strange. Everything has its value. Hywel Dda made laws about women too, I’ll have you know, Madame!’ Owen added, playfully patting her bare rump. Catherine squealed in mock terror and ran around the room, jumping onto the bed to escape him. But he was quicker than she was and, collapsing with laughter, they rolled around on the big bed, playful as puppies, Owen easily gaining the advantage.

  Suddenly he relaxed his grip and looked down at her with infinite tenderness. ‘And in Wales, Catrin, we value our women very highly. We respect them as people, we don’t treat them as chattels. You should thank your God, cariad, that you are loved by a Welshman!’ He grinned at her and made as though to let her go but she wriggled and squirmed her way under him, pulling him down towards her, her mouth searching for his. Cariad he had called her; his own dear love. She was too preoccupied to tell him so, but she already thanked God that she was loved by this particular Welshman.

  Spring is always a good time for making a fresh start and it was on a bright day of sunshine and showers that Catherine, with some of her ladies and a small retinue of guards, embarked on a journey down river from Windsor. As the royal barge drew level with the great Priory of the Black Friars, she saw the walls of Baynard’s Castle rising steeply, almost sheer out of the water. They put her in mind of the white cliffs which rose vertically out of the sea at Dover and she immediately had a strong feeling of new beginnings, of imminent happiness.

  Stepping onto the landing stage and climbing the steps into the castle itself, she felt oddly welcome, a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on, except that she had taken an instinctive liking to the great, solid, square bulk of the place. She felt she would be safe and secure within its walls. It was not a new building but the rooms which had been allocated for the private use of the Queen and her staff had been cleaned thoroughly and the walls hung with new tapestries. She could almost have sworn that Guillemote had been there before her, fussing and filling vases with spring flowers, just to make her feel at home, except that Guillemote had remained in Windsor with an unpleasantly heavy cold.

  The Queen’s ladies exclaimed in delight at the elegance of the furnishings and admired the graceful reception rooms in the twin hexagonal towers with their panoramic views of the Thames. To one side of the castle a charming garden was bordered by the river and behind it, a maze of little cobbled streets and alleyways clustered at the foot of the hill which led up to the parish church of St Andrew. Just to the north of the church was the huge outline of the building which housed the Great Wardrobe of the royal family. Between them, the Castle and the Wardrobe dominated the whole area and the little church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe seemed to unite them. Catherine was captivated. Here she and Owen could be together almost as much as they liked. He would be as pleased as she was by the prospect of moving to Baynard’s Castle and she could hardly wait to tell him all about it.

  By the time the homeward-bound royal barge took the final bend in the river, the great round tower of Windsor Castle was outlined against the glowing red of the setting sun dipping towards the horizon in the west. Catherine, her eyes closed, was allowing herself to look forward to the future, day-dreaming contentedly until Joanna Troutbeck tapped her arm to draw her attention to a flurry of activity on the river bank.

  ‘My Lady, look! We’re almost home but there’s something going on.’

  Catherine sat up with an immediate feeling of foreboding. She shaded her eyes and looked in the direction of Troutbeck’s pointing finger. There were foot soldiers, archers, and buglers milling about as though they were waiting for something to happen.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked. ‘What livery are they wearing?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Ma’am,’ Troutbeck replied. ‘It’s getting dark and my eyesight is not what it was. I’ll ask one of the boatmen.’

  ‘I think it’s the livery of the Duke of Gloucester, Your Highness,’ said the boatman, resting on his oar. ‘Looks like he’s back from Holland.’

  ‘But he can’t be! He can’t have come back so soon! Can he? Oh, I do hope it’s good news!’

  Catherine was the first to alight from the barge as soon as it had been moored. She hurried into the castle and immediately went in search of her cousin. Guillemote, her poor nose red and streaming, intercepted her.

  ‘My Lady, it’s the Duke of Gloucester,’ she said, sniffing piteously. ‘He has returned from Holland.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Guillemote, so I see. So, where is the Countess Jacqueline? Where is my cousin?’

  ‘She is not with him, Ma’am.’

  ‘Not with him? Nonsense! She is his wife: of course she’s with him.’

  Guillemote shook her head and sneezed violently. ‘She is not, my Lady. Really. He has been here for three or four hours now and she is not with him. He and his retinue arrived unexpectedly and he’s arranging for the last of his soldiers to be paid. That’s what they are waiting for. But the Countess Jacqueline is not with him.’ Guillemote sneezed again. ‘Really, my Lady. She is not here.’

  Catherine was amazed. Why on earth would Humphrey have left Jacqueline behind? Was she still in Holland? Surely not.

  ‘Guillemote, take my cloak, please. And take an infusion of lemon balm for that sneezing. I must go and find His Grace the Duke and ask him when my cousin Jacqueline will be arriving.’ Catherine undid the clasps on her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders. Guillemote caught it and folded it over her arm as she watched Catherine hurrying away, in search of her brother-in-law. She sneezed again and shook her head. Her mistress would find out soon enough that Humphrey of Gloucester had returned home with Eleanor Cobham in tow.

  Owen looked in at The Swan that same cool spring evening, hoping to meet Gilbert there. He was on his way back to Windsor from a visit to the royal cordwainer, with whom he had been haggling over the price of leathers for Her Majesty’s summer shoes. But, sitting in his familiar place on a bench by the table in front of the peat fire, there, large as life, was his cousin Maredydd. He looked tired and travel-stained.

  ‘God, this is good,’ he said, quaffing a long draught of ale. He set the tankard down on the table and gave Owen a huge smile. ‘That Dutch beer is as weak as priest’s piss. Sut wyt ti ‘rhen gyfaill?’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, as he always did. It was as though he had never been away. ‘How are you?’

  Owen was grinning with delight at seeing him. ‘What the devil are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be fighting with the Duke of Gloucester in Holland?’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it! You wait ‘til I tell you what a complete waste of time it all was. But while you’re on your feet, get us another mug of ale, I’ve finished this one.’ Maredydd drained his tankard noisily and wondered where on earth he’d begin to tell Owen the story, the saga of impetuosity and mismanagement which had governed Duke Humphrey’s fruitless campaign to lay claim to his wife’s lands in Holland.

  He watched Owen take the empty tankard to the alewife, chatting and laughing with her while she replenished it. He had done well, Maredydd thought, to have risen so high in the service of the Queen in such a short time: and he was much better off than he would be as a gentleman-at-arms. That could be heartbreaking.

  Maredydd mulled over the events of the last few months. He had set out with high hopes, feeling like a mercenary but proud at the same time that his skills as a professional soldier had been recognised. The pay had been good to start with and the Duke had promised yet more money in the event of a triumph in Holland. Triumph? What a joke! Gloucester had made a real pig’s ear of the whole campaign. There was no preparation, no leadership, and absolutely no discipline at all. Naturally, rumours were rife among the soldiers who wanted to know why they were being kept hanging around idly instead of fighting. They heard the rumour that the Duchess Jacqueline’s own people had turned against her, questioning both the wisdom and the legality of her marriage to an Englishman, particularly when that Englishma
n had brought an army with him to strengthen his claim to her lands. As the troops waited for orders that never came, they heard a buzz of gossip from the messengers that the correspondence they were carrying between Gloucester and Philip of Burgundy was bitter and vindictive. So the soldiers started laying bets on whether Burgundy would come to Gloucester’s assistance and those who had wagered against the likelihood won hands down. Then, to cap it all, came the news from Rome that Pope Martin V had issued a declaration that the Duchess Jacqueline’s marriage to the Duke of Brabant was still binding, which meant that her subsequent marriage to the Duke of Gloucester was illegal. All in all, it had been a fine kettle of fish and doomed to failure from the start.

  ‘But what I found most difficult to understand,’ Maredydd added, having told Owen the whole story, ‘was that Gloucester was always thought of as a good soldier. They say he excelled at Agincourt, before he got an axe in his thigh. But in Holland, he was like a dithering virgin. He had absolutely no control over his troops. We senior ranks were entirely without leadership, waiting for orders that never came.’

  ‘So where was he?’

  ‘Enjoying a dalliance with a certain Madame de Warigny, from what I understand, the wife of an equerry.’

  ‘I thought he was enjoying a dalliance with Eleanor Cobham?’

  ‘He was: still is. Perhaps she had to be with the Duchess when they were over in Holland. I don’t know. But she was certainly hanging around him all the time on the journey home. A real slut, if you ask me. Persistent, too.’

  ‘So where’s the Duchess now?’

  Maredydd shrugged. ‘She’s still in Holland. Under house arrest in Ghent, apparently, and not allowed to leave. That’s the story, anyway. But I don’t think it mattered much to Gloucester, to be honest with you.’

  ‘Heartless bastard!’

  ‘Dangerous bastard,’ said Maredydd. ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch. He might have been a great soldier once upon a time but he certainly isn’t now. He’s weak in some ways but he’s also an arrogant, ambitious arse-licker. That’s a lethal combination.’

  Humphrey never mentioned Jacqueline’s name in Catherine’s presence and she kept out of his way as much as she could but he had no sooner set foot over the threshold of Windsor Castle than he was back to his old, imperious ways again, dictating how things were to be done, ignoring her wishes, and undermining what little authority she had. She wondered whether he would have been quite so domineering if John of Bedford had not returned to France.

  The King’s large staff of protective women, under the command of Elizabeth Ryman, never left Henry’s side and Catherine was always painfully aware that every time she tried to pick him up or hold his hand to guide his footsteps, one of them would approach her and offer to take him, as though generously sparing her the effort of looking after her own little boy. Her frustration knew no bounds and she often had to guard her tongue against an entirely unladylike refusal of their kind suggestions. Day by day, she saw less and less of her son and she found herself longing for the day when she, and all the members of her household, including her Clerk of the Wardrobe, could move to Baynard’s Castle.

  In the meantime, the King was required to attend the State Opening of Parliament and this was the one place where no one could question either Catherine’s authority or her relationship to her son. She was the Queen, the King’s mother, and she always accompanied him on State occasions.

  He no longer needed to sit on her lap because by now he had been taught to sit up straight in his own chair. She watched the Duke of Exeter lift her little boy onto the huge Throne of State and had to admit that Dame Alice Boteler had achieved miracles with her young charge. Henry sat without fidgeting through an interminably long speech given by his great-uncle Bishop Beaufort.

  He looked a little more interested when his uncle, Humphrey of Gloucester, addressed the Members, though he couldn’t possibly have understood the veiled remarks which Humphrey made about Henry Beaufort, criticising legislation which the Bishop had sanctioned while he, Humphrey, had been away in Holland and implying that His Grace’s allegiance to the throne was not what it might be, hinting at disloyalty and treachery. There were rumblings of dissent from the floor of the House but Humphrey seemed remarkably unconcerned. As the ceremony drew to a close, he smiled as he lifted his royal nephew off the Throne of State and set him on his feet. He then led him out into the sunshine where a crowd of people pushed and shoved each other to get a glimpse of their young sovereign.

  Not wanting to get too near Humphrey because he didn’t trust himself not to punch his nephew’s arrogant face, Henry Beaufort let the procession move ahead of him. He was seething with anger. A group of the Bishop’s closest friends hung back with him, cautioning him. Gloucester was not to be trusted, they said, even more so since the debacle in Holland. They had heard rumours that he meant Beaufort actual physical harm. He was stirring up trouble, they warned, and it could end in bloodshed.

  Outside, the sun glinted on the little coronet of gold on the King’s head as Humphrey of Gloucester bent down and lifted his nephew up as far as he could, moving him to right and left to acknowledge the approbation of the crowd which had gathered to catch a glimpse of him. Then he set the child astride a piebald horse, an animal of seemingly uncertain temperament, which rolled its eyes alarmingly. Grooms on either side of its head kept it under control.

  Catherine saw what was happening and she was terrified. She pushed through the group of people surrounding the King and tugged at Humphrey’s sleeve. ‘My Lord, that animal is far too nervous to have a young child on its back.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my Lady, he will be perfectly safe.’ Humphrey busied himself with checking the girth of the saddle.

  ‘But he hasn’t learned to ride! This is not his hobby horse in the nursery, you know.’ A note of hysteria had crept into Catherine’s voice and she tugged again at Humphrey’s sleeve. ‘He has never been astride a real horse before!’

  Humphrey turned and patted her shoulder condescendingly. ‘Oh, but he has, my Lady. You must not concern yourself about such things. Since the King has no father to guide him, I have personally seen to it that he learns horsemanship from an early age. And, aye, this horse is a fair courser, but he’ll have to get used to the feel of a decent mount under him. He is the King. It will be expected of him.’

  He gave her a wintry smile then turned and waved again to acknowledge the shouts of the crowd. Catherine could do no more than clench and unclench her fists in anger and frustration. Her son had been taken out of her hands yet again and she had been made to feel foolish and fussy. Her natural maternal concern for the child’s safety had been ignored by those who claimed to know better.

  ‘But, my Lord …’ her protestations were drowned out by the shouting of the excited crowd.

  ‘God Save the King! God bless our young King! God bless Harry and St George!’

  Humphrey slapped the horse’s rump and it started forward nervously, restrained by the grooms. Henry’s legs, much too short to reach the stirrups, were splayed out on either side of the saddle and he clung on to it for dear life with a terrified expression on his face. The crowd elbowed each other out of the way, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the King. ‘Look! Look!’ they called to each other. ‘He’s just like his father! A born horseman!’ Humphrey walked ahead of his nephew, waving at the crowd, goading them on to even more excitement while the piebald horse tossed its mane, champing at the bit.

  The Duke of Exeter was well aware of the danger facing the King, though he didn’t challenge Gloucester’s actions: he merely positioned himself alongside the horse. Catherine thanked God and crossed herself when she saw that Exeter’s arm was raised protectively behind Henry’s back to support him if he should fall. In this way, the ragged procession made its erratic way through Cheapside in the direction of Kennington, where the royal party was to pay a short official visit.

  Catherine demanded that a horse be found for her and kept up with
the procession every step of the way. If her son was going to fall off that skittish animal, she was going to be there to pick him up and comfort him. Mercifully, he didn’t and the royal party arrived safely at the Palace of Kennington. The Keeper, Sir John Waterton, awaited them, ready to greet them formally but Henry was still astride the horse, clinging to the saddle, and Catherine would make small talk with no one until he was safely on the ground, however rude they considered her behaviour. It was only when she had seen him slithering off the skittish mount and into the waiting arms of the Duke of Exeter that she could relax. She ran to Henry and hugged him.

  ‘Did you see me ride, Maman?’ he demanded, his trepidation having quickly evaporated in the excitement of the moment. ‘My uncle of Gloucester says I will be a great horseman one day. But the horse wasn’t going very fast.’

  ‘It was going fast enough, my little soldier!’ she said. ‘You were very, very brave.’

  ‘Your Royal Highnesses,’ said Sir John Waterton, bowing extravagantly to Catherine and Henry. ‘You are most warmly welcome here at Kennington. It is a great honour you do us in staying for a few days.’

  Despite an aching back, Catherine straightened up and gracefully extended her hand. ‘Thank you, Sir John. I look forward to being here with my son the King who, as you see, is developing great skills as a horseman. He has surprised us all. Now, if he and his governess and his nurse could be shown to his rooms, please, he will need to rest before supper. He has had a tiring day.’

  She, too, was exhausted and once Guillemote had helped her out of her outdoor clothes and into a comfortable robe, she sat for a moment in her room and took stock of events. She worried desperately that little Henry was being moulded into a soldier king while he was far too young to know what was happening. He was a quiet, sensitive child and could well grow up to inherit his father’s fondness for books, rather than his skills on the battlefield. She also knew that she herself had been relegated to the shadowy fringes of her little boy’s life. There was no longer a role for her in the upbringing and education of her firstborn.