Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  Then half way down her middle finger, ‘… and of the Son …’

  And finally, fully onto her ring finger, ‘… and of the Holy Spirit.’

  Close to tears, Catherine resisted the urge to add ‘… and Jolie cwt bach!’

  There the ring remained. Catherine and Owen were man and wife.

  She wouldn’t able to wear the ring, except in private, but she was delighted to be able to show it off at the modest reception in Baynard’s Castle after the ceremony. Guillemote had been allowed to tell Anton, swearing him to secrecy, and the little French chef had excelled himself in the preparation of food for the occasion, so pleased was he to hear the news. He joined the guests at Catherine’s invitation. ‘It is very different from your first wedding, Your ‘Ighness,’ he said. ‘I remember it well.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but the food is even better, since there are fewer guests to cater for.’

  ‘It ‘as been my privilege to prepare it for you, my Lady.’

  He had been very surprised, he told Catherine, when Guillemote had confided in him, because even the scullions in the royal kitchens were placing bets on whether she would marry Edmund Beaufort. Owen, he thought privately, was a much better-looking man.

  ‘I will tell all my staff that the rumours are not true, my Lady, and that you are not in love with Edmund Beaufort.’

  ‘No, Anton, don’t do that,’ Owen said quickly. ‘It suits our purpose very well for people to think that the Queen and Edmund Beaufort are close. It deflects attention away from us.’

  ‘Mais oui! Yes. Yes, of course! So, I will say nothing. Nothing!’ Anton beamed, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Your secret is safe with Anton. I will tell no one. And please, let me wish you both every ‘appiness.’ He bowed deeply as they smiled and turned away to talk to Maredydd and Emma.

  Guillemote tapped Anton on the shoulder. The two had remained friends ever since coming over from France together in the royal entourage which accompanied Catherine nearly eight years ago, after her first marriage. For Guillemote, gossiping with Anton was like slipping her feet into an old, comfortable pair of shoes.

  ‘The Queen knows, does she, about what ‘as been going on in Parliament?’ Anton asked when they’d been chatting together for several minutes.

  ‘And exactly what has been going on in Parliament, Anton? And why should it worry my mistress?’

  ‘Well,’ he confided, ‘I only ‘eard about this the other day, when the scullions were blabbing in the kitchen about the Queen and young Edmund Beaufort. They were saying that the Duke of Gloucester ‘as been busy getting a new law through Parliament, forbidding any widow of the King to re-marry without special permission. Everyone thought it must be because of Beaufort.’

  ‘Ah, so the Duke at it again, is he? I know he’s already tried it once, in Leicester, but the Commons rejected it. Now he’s trying to get it through a second time.’

  ‘But this time, ‘e seems to ‘ave succeeded,’ said Anton. ‘One of my apprentices told me last week. He was quite certain. And it is more than ‘is job is worth to tell me a lie! I would dismiss ‘im from my kitchen!’ Anton paused dramatically and looked around him before whispering in Guillemote’s ear. ‘The Duke of Gloucester doesn’t know anything about the Queen and Master Tudor, does ‘e?’

  ‘No. Of course he doesn’t. Everybody who knows about it has been sworn to secrecy and no one would ever let the Queen down.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, I ‘ope not. I ‘eard that anyone who would dare to marry a dowager queen without the reigning monarch’s consent could lose ‘is ‘ead!’

  ‘The reigning monarch’s consent?’ Guillemote laughed out loud. ‘Ridiculous! The reigning monarch is only six years old! He won’t be seven until next month. I don’t think that’s much of a threat to Owen Tudor, do you?’

  Anton gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he said. ‘Small children will usually do what they’re told and the one who tells King ‘Enry what to do is his uncle of Gloucester. And I would not trust ‘im further than I could throw a pig by the soapy tail.’

  Guillemote woke with a raging sore throat on the morning of the King’s birthday and sneezed violently several times. The problem with living in England, she reflected, was that it was always so damp. She never had these wretched colds when she lived in France, where she remembered that even the weeks before Christmas seemed pleasantly balmy compared with the icy December winds which were howling in from the North Sea this morning, straight up the River Thames and into the dormitory she shared with Molly Betts and Madge Wilkin in Baynard’s Castle. She sneezed again.

  ‘Gesundheit!’ Molly had learned the word from her association with a corn-trader from Cologne.

  ‘Oh, Molly,’ Madge groaned, ‘don’t quote your lewd foreign friends from Queenhithe here, please. Go and tell Her Highness that Guillemote isn’t well enough to go to Windsor today while I make her an infusion of lemon balm.’

  ‘Merci, Madge,’ Guillemote croaked. She would be sad to miss the occasion of the young King’s birthday, such a significant one too, but she was better off staying where she was, trying to keep warm.

  The Queen agreed that a small boy’s birthday party was really no place for Guillemote that afternoon. ‘Not that he’s a small boy any more,’ she said to Owen, as she got ready to leave for Windsor. ‘He’s seven years old today, no longer an infant. Now officially a child. He’ll be jousting next!’

  Owen smiled. He watched as she removed her wedding ring and placed it carefully in the small tortoiseshell box on her dressing table where she always kept it when she wasn’t able to wear it. Then he helped her into a warm, hooded, coney-lined cloak for the river journey to Windsor. He’d like to be going with her but that wasn’t possible. He would have to content himself with seeing her off from the wharf at Baynard’s Castle and watching until the barge carrying the Queen and her ladies had rounded the bend in the river.

  As the familiar curved tower of Windsor Castle came into view, Catherine remembered the King’s first birthday. Strange, she thought, but that was the day when she had first met Owen, too, and so much had happened since. Who would ever have thought that the young man she had found playing finger games with her baby would become the father of her second child. And she remembered Jacqueline, trying to make the party go with a swing and only succeeding in angering Humphrey of Gloucester. Poor Jacqueline. She had received several letters from her, begging for news of Humphrey, and had done her best to answer them without mentioning Eleanor Cobham.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Humphrey rose from his chair to greet her when she arrived at Windsor, pressing her hand warmly to his lips, as he always did. She wanted to snatch it away.

  ‘I trust you are well,’ he said. ‘This is an important day for all of us.’

  ‘Birthdays are always important,’ she agreed. ‘Everyone loves a birthday.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, leading her to a comfortable, cushioned bench in the window embrasure. ‘But, of course, it is a particularly important milestone for the King. That’s the main reason why I wanted to see you privately beforehand. I wanted to make you aware of some decisions made by the Council at a meeting which took place only last week.’

  He sat down next to her. ‘You realise, of course, my Lady, that having reached his seventh birthday, His Highness must no longer be treated as an infant. So he will have no further need of the women who have been charged with his welfare up until now. The Council has decided to dispense with their services.’

  ‘You mean Dame Alice is to be dismissed? But Henry is very fond of her …’

  ‘Dame Alice and Mrs. Ryman, who has done a remarkably good job, incidentally, for which she will be amply rewarded. His nurse goes, too. What’s her name, er …’

  ‘Joan Astley, my Lord. Is Joan to be dismissed?’

  ‘She is. It is all for the best, I assure you. You’ll see. We cannot have the King being brought up as a little ninny, can we? He will share his studies in the schoolroom with o
ther boys and he will have men around him at all times to teach him by example.’

  Catherine hesitated. ‘And I? Where do I stand in all this?’

  ‘Well, naturally, my Lady, nothing can alter the fact that you are his mother. But I think you ought to try not to influence him unduly.’

  ‘But he is my son.’

  ‘Of course, and as I said, nothing can alter that fact. But he is the King and he must be trained for kingship. To that end, the Earl of Warwick, while remaining his legal guardian, will also assume overall responsibility for his education. He was always the right man for the job, loyal, knowledgeable, and wise. Comes from good English stock. Though, having said that, his command of French is excellent. That will be a useful advantage when the King is crowned and takes over the throne of France.’ Catherine swallowed hard but didn’t rise to the bait. She could have taught her son to speak French like a native, had she been allowed to.

  ‘But what of his personal needs? Who will make sure that he’s clean? Comfortable? Properly fed?’

  ‘His Highness will have four knights of the body and four esquires of the body. Good men, all of them, as they should be for what we’re paying them, but the Council deems it money well spent. His health will be the personal responsibility of Master John Somerset and the Frenchman, Anton, will remain in charge of the royal kitchens. The plans are all in place and, from Monday onwards, no one …’ and here he looked pointedly at Catherine, ‘… no one will be allowed to question them.’

  She felt quite faint. This hard, male-dominated regime would be immensely difficult for Henry, she knew, and there would certainly be no place for his mother in the new scheme of things.

  ‘I … I don’t think he’ll be happy, my Lord.’

  ‘Oh, you think not? Madam, of course he’ll be happy. He’s the King and that is the shape of his future from Monday onwards.’ Then he smiled one of his rare, remote smiles and lightened his tone. ‘But today is Saturday and we will celebrate with a small birthday party for His Highness so that he can get to know the boys who will share his lessons in the schoolroom. Nobly born boys, of course, every one of them.’

  Catherine smiled in return but immediately regretted dropping her guard when Humphrey turned to her suddenly. ‘Of course, you can have access to Henry at any time, you know. You have only to ask me … I could make life a lot less painful for you. You just need to return those feelings which you must know I could so easily have for you if things were different.’

  He had his hands on her shoulders now and his face was close to hers, too close, his lips a shade too red. She could smell his breath, a faint whiff of wine, barely disguised by tincture of myrrh. Her utter revulsion almost paralysed her as he bent his head to kiss her. Then, fury lending her strength, she shook him off, leaped to her feet, turned, and slapped him as hard as she could. He reeled back and his hand flew to his cheek.

  ‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you ever, ever, dare to do that again!’

  ‘But, Catherine …’ he began.

  ‘May I remind you, my Lord, that you address me as Your Royal Highness!’ She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her eyes ablaze. ‘And as for you, Your Grace,’ she snarled, ‘if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll … I’ll …’ She didn’t finish the sentence, partly because she could think of no threat severe enough and partly because her blind fury was subsiding. She swallowed hard but it was quite some time before she felt in control of herself again. Humphrey remained silent, rubbing his cheek.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said at last. ‘You were talking about arrangements for the King’s future welfare. Well, it all seems to have been arranged, doesn’t it? I dare say it’s all been thought out very carefully.’

  ‘It has,’ Humphrey sounded subdued. ‘And it is all for the King’s ultimate benefit.’

  He seemed to be expecting her to say more. She couldn’t. After several moments she took a deep breath. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more, I wish to see the King.’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

  She didn’t really know what to expect but she found that the nursery had been colourfully decorated and there was already a party atmosphere. Some boys of Henry’s age were playing a guessing game in the corner of the room and a big trestle table nearby was laden with jellies, cakes, and biscuits, including Henry’s favourite honey cakes and gingerbread men. She saw him before he saw her, across the room and in solemn conversation with young Thomas Roos. Her heart contracted painfully.

  ‘Your Highness!’ she called. ‘Henry!’ He turned towards her.

  ‘Mother,’ he said. He had never called her that before. She had always been his ‘Maman’. He was clearly learning his lessons and learning fast.

  ‘Joyeux anniversaire, Henri!’ She could easily have wished him a happy birthday in English but she wanted to keep one special thread of their relationship unsullied. Mother and son looked at each other uncertainly, neither quite knowing what to say next.

  ‘How are you, my Lady?’ Henry blurted out, at exactly the same instant as his mother said: ‘How is your kitten, Henry?’

  ‘Doucette? Oh, she’s not a kitten any longer, Mother. And she has been sent back to the stables to live with the other cats. My uncle Humphrey of Gloucester says I am to have a dog for my birthday. A setter. They are very good hunting dogs, Uncle Humphrey says.

  ‘Really? And what will you call your dog?’

  He looked uncertain. ‘I think I shall call him Gelert. It’s a Welsh name and one of the gentlemen-at-arms once told me a story about a dog with that name. He said it was a prince’s dog and I was the Prince of Wales before I became King, so it’s a good name for my dog. But Uncle Humphrey says I should give him an English name. So I don’t know what to do. My head hurts sometimes, when I have to decide really important things.’

  Catherine wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears and scream. If she heard ‘Uncle Humphrey says’ just once more, she was sure she would lose control.

  How she got through the remainder of the afternoon, she would never know. What she did know was that heading downriver towards Baynard’s Castle, towards Owen and home, was the best feeling she’d had in a day of huge emotional swings. Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift to the rhythm of the oars, thoughts of curling up with Owen in front of a cosy fire in her bedchamber. She might ask him to tell her the story of the dog … what was it … Gelert? She loved listening to him telling her stories of the old Welsh myths and legends as he lay on the hearth, his head pillowed in her lap while she twirled tendrils of his dark hair around her fingers.

  It was wiser not to tell Owen about Humphrey’s outburst, she decided: he would be too angry and, since he was powerless to do anything about it, there was nothing to be gained by it. But she would tell him all about the party and he would make her laugh and then he would pick her up in his arms and set her down gently on the deep goose-feather mattress. Then, when they had made love, they would find peace and sweet, restful sleep. She longed for the moment so much that she could almost smell the wood smoke spiralling upwards into the chimney.

  ‘My Lady, wake up! Wake up, Your Highness! Look, look, smoke! There’s smoke coming from the castle! It’s on fire!’

  Suddenly the smell of smoke was very real. She opened her eyes to see the outline of the Dominican Priory of the Black Friars thrown into relief by the eerie, red light which came from the building beyond it and lit up the whole river ahead of them. Her ladies were on their feet now and shrieking hysterically, in danger of capsizing the boat and the barge men were shouting at them to sit down or they’d all be in the water. The choking, acrid smell of smoke was everywhere and sparks cracked up into the black December night from the huge bonfire which had been Catherine’s home. Ignoring the oarsmen, she was on her feet and in the prow of the boat, screaming.

  ‘No! No! For God’s sake …! No!’

  She didn’t care who heard her. Dear God, she couldn’t bear it if she had lost Owen in the inferno which was Baynard’s
Castle.

  The wooden structure of the Castle’s own wharf had already collapsed and its charred remains were floating in the choppy water. Rowing furiously, the oarsmen took the boat further downriver and managed to tie up at Paul’s Wharf, safely out of the range of flying sparks.

  ‘Your Highness! Stop! Stop, my Lady! Stop!’ Joanna Belknap shouted at Catherine as she scrambled off the barge, missed her footing on the wharf, and slid in the mud of the river bank, soaking her feet and the hem of her gown. Hardly aware of it, she clawed her way up onto the path in the direction of Baynard’s Castle. Her heart was pounding in her ears and the one thought in her mind was that she had to get to Owen. He must be in there, somewhere. She must find him.

  ‘I wouldn’t, my Lady, if I were you!’ said a firm voice as a hand caught her arm and swung her round to a stop.

  ‘Let me go! Let me go, immediately. I must get to my home. I must …’ with a wild look in her eyes, she was beating her fists on the man’s chest.

  ‘You must do nothing that will endanger your life, my Lady. If you attempt to go any further, I will not be answerable for your safety.’ She looked distractedly at the man who held her arm in such a firm grip and tried to pull away from him again.

  ‘Please, please, you must let me go.’

  ‘Your Highness, don’t! The place is an inferno. No one will come out of there alive. The fire has been raging these several hours but I think most of your staff are safe.’

  ‘Most of my staff …? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Everyone who was able to escape has already done so and made for Chertsey House. Please, allow me to escort you there. It is in chaos, of course, but things are slowly being brought under control.’

  She saw that he wore a heavy cross about his neck, though in every other respect he looked like a wharf labourer. His round face was streaked with soot and what little hair he had was plastered down with sweat. He must be from the Benedictine Order of Chertsey Abbey in Surrey, whose London lodging was Chertsey House.

  ‘Father Abbot … I’m sorry … I didn’t realise …’