by Hilda Lewis
“So you're against me, too.”
“Not I. I've no reason to love Henry. I'm for you; for you and Harry. He's a strange little child. He's gentle and he's sweet; and then, suddenly, you come up against a queer, hard streak. I've puzzled over him so often. That gentleness. It isn't, I think, a child's gentleness that hardens with the years. It's a saint's gentleness, perhaps; maybe you've been right there! But then—that obstinacy, that hardness. It isn't, I think, a saint's strength but a child's weakness. Be glad he has wise men to help him. Leave him to them...and, Catherine, look for happiness in yourself.”
“You talk of happiness. They tear away my child...”
“And your hope of glory,” Johanne said, dry.
“What else have I to hope for? A woman must have something, Johanne, something. I'm twenty-four. And I must not look at a man, nor any man at me. As for wanting to marry—that's a crime, so it seems. Ask my lord of Mortain.”
“Oh Catherine, it's more than ever plain that you've no head for affairs. Mortain of all people! Exeter's son. A Beaufort, my innocent, a Beaufort. Did you think Humphrey would let you marry a Beaufort?”
“And the others who offered? Not a Beaufort among them! Am I never to marry?”
“Never. Unless it pleases Humphrey. And it never will please him! Marry into a powerful family and his own itch for power wouldn't tolerate it. Marry into a lesser family and his pride wouldn't stomach it. And then you must needs add to your difficulties by quarrelling with him about his whore.”
“So between his ambition and his pride and his anger I am to be crushed!”
Johanne looked at Catherine. “Did you care for Mortain?”
“I like a proper man.”
“Do you indeed? Then you will find your own comfort I don't doubt. Meanwhile—this next Parliament; make the most of it.”
Johanne was right. My lord of Exeter came to inform Madam Queen Catherine of the new arrangements. The King, he reminded her, had long had his own establishments, now he was to use them. Windsor had been chosen as his summer palace; but my lord King desired Madam his Mother to remain there at her pleasure. He was, at the moment, much occupied at Westminster; and, for his leisure he preferred Eltham. My lords in Council had ordered the heirs of all baronies in wardship to the Crown to be brought up at court. “Each will bring his own tutor,” Exeter told her. “A school, in fact, where my lord King will learn all that is fitting. It is not good for a child to live alone.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes.” And all the time her mind was busy about his new companions...The tough little York whose London house she enjoyed at this moment; Exeter's own grandson the little Beaufort...strong children, sharp as a sword. “Yes,” she said and prayed, without much hope, that they would be gentle with her slow little boy.
* * *
She was driving through London, the child upon her knees; and she did, indeed, feel like the Queen of Heaven. Let Johanne say what she would, the crowds, the cheering, were as great as ever. She could not believe it was for the child alone. Some of it must surely be for herself in the halo of young motherhood.
At St. Paul’s the two Beauforts stood waiting; my lord Exeter and my lord Bishop, smiling and bowing and ready to snatch the child from her, the child her joy and her glory.
He was kneeling before the High Altar. So little a child, so serious, so beautiful. He looked like an infant Christ. But from Christ's sorrows, she prayed, Christ shield him!
Out in the churchyard again the people crowded for a sight of their King—Harry of England's son. The beautiful little child with his grave sweetness seemed to them something adorable—a miracle. And he was their King.
She took her place in the open litter, waited for them to bring her the child. The King came out between Beaufort and Exeter; they brought him towards her...and past her where she sat, empty hands upon empty lap. The child made a movement towards her but the Beaufort brothers led him on.
A great white horse stood—empty saddle, royal trappings. She caught her breath. They would never put him upon that! So great a creature, so little a child.
She saw, unbelieving still, Exeter lift the King, put him upon the great beast. The child stiffened; his mouth worked. He was frightened; he was going to cry; cry before all these people.
She was swept by swift, fierce joy. Let him cry! Let them see, all of them see, how young he was, how tender. Let him be brought back to his mother for comfort! But...cry before the people;
shame the dead hero, his father; shame her care of him; shame herself? She was taken with sudden revulsion because pale, stiffened, frightened, he looked more like her own father's son than Henry's.
She saw him turn his head, look for someone—for Astley though she might hold the whip; for Butler; for herself. She lifted her smiling face, raised her hand, waved it. The movement caught his widened eyes already spilling with tears; the down-turned mouth lifted, stretched to a faint smile.
Exeter walked on one side; the Bishop on the other. The great mild horse moved slowly like a ship upon a calm sea. The child began to smile; the little hands sought the reins. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. The small child upon the great beast. Harry's son. Harry come again in person of his son.
Westminster Hall. She sat upon the throne, the child upon her knee. Already she felt the way he stiffened, strained from her as if he wanted again the great horse and the strong hands of men.
CHAPTER XXV
She was at Windsor and she was alone. She missed the child unendurably. She had not got overmuch, she thought, out of her marriage. Once she had been the hope of England and of France; now she was nothing. Her husband had not considered her fit to rear her own child; her brother-in-law refused to let her marry again. The Queen was a pawn once more. She was twenty-five. That was not old; surely it was not old! But a day slips by, and another day and before one knew it one was thirty—half-way to the grave.
Did Humphrey expect her to be satisfied with the company of her women? They had as much sense between them as a gaggle of geese. She had thought, sometimes, she would like to talk to the steward; he had a kind, a sensible face. But—discuss her private affairs with him! Her uncertainties, her fears upon a servant's tongue! Jacque had said once that he was a handsome fellow. Jacque had a weakness for handsome fellows—though she hadn't had much luck with her own.
Poor Jacque. That business looked bad. Her letters were bitter with failure and with disappointment in love. She was a prisoner in Ghent—Philip's prisoner. Her subjects had turned against her because they hated Humphrey; they had asked Philip for help. Being Philip he had made his own terms—and they were not light ones. Hainault, Jacque's own Hainault, was to be handed over to the wretched John of Brabant, whence, of course, it would come to Philip himself. As for Jacque, she was to remain where she was until Rome had spoken. How did Jacque, with her high spirits, endure being a prisoner—and Philip's prisoner at that!
In her last letter Jacque had enclosed one for Humphrey. She had written so many letters, she said; could it be that he had never received them? Would Cat, her only friend, the one person she could trust, read it and then send it to him? Would she speak to Humphrey himself, plead with him, use her influence?
Her influence—with Humphrey or with anyone else! That bubble was quite pricked; her dream of power was so much poppycock. She saw now that she had been ambitious as a child is ambitious, desiring the sweets yet lacking skill and will to reach them. Johanne had warned her from the beginning and she had not listened. Now she must face the truth. She would never wield power because power was not in her to wield. Had she—like her mother—the mind and the will, nothing could have stood in her way. And, lacking these things, she could help no-one, least of all herself. Now she must write to Jacque confessing her uselessness in the matter...
She crossed the room, took the letter to Gloucester from a casket, frowned considering it.
...and I, the most ruined of women, the most treacherously deceived. My one hope is in you,
my love...
The letter would melt a heart of stone...supposing one had a heart. But, if one hadn't a heart?
...All my misfortunes have fallen on me because I love you. For God's sake have pity on me. Hurry, hurry, unless you want to lose me forever...
This was no letter to send to Humphrey. Reminding him of his responsibilities was the sure way to lose him. Besides, at this moment, he wanted nothing better than to lose Jacque for ever—he would never get any good out of her possessions now! And he had his compensations. She could imagine him tossing the letter aside for anyone to pick up; she could see the slant-eyed Cobham licking red lips over every word—supposing she could read! If one could do nothing more one could at least spare Jacque that humiliation. She would not send the letter.
She folded it, put it away in the casket to return to Jacque. Another letter lay there; the Emperor's letter desiring her to use her influence with Gloucester to prevent the scandal of single combat with Burgundy.
Influence. Again influence. One prick after another. The soft Valois mouth twisted; for the moment she looked as though she were going to cry. She'd had enough to do to patch up her own quarrel with Humphrey—not that the Cobham would ever let him forget it. But, in spite of that, the Emperor need have no fear. Humphrey was as concerned with Philip as little as he was concerned with Jacqueline—out of sight, out of mind! He had no intention of meeting Philip in combat however loudly he had once talked. At this moment he was set on one thing and one thing only—supreme power in England. It was going to be a death-struggle between him and the Beauforts. She hoped the Beauforts would win; she had, at least, never quarrelled with them; and there was no sly-eyed Cobham in their camp.
She ought to have written to Jacque by now. But what could she write, what comfort give?
Conscience-pricked, she felt the need of distraction. Well, one could always amuse oneself in the Wardrobe—a new gown, a new jewel.
She found the steward examining a piece of figured silk of Damascus. He lifted a grave face. There was, it appeared, a flaw here and there; a too-thickened thread in the weaving.
It was so lovely a piece, the rich rose-red so becoming! In her concern she forgot Jacque, forgot Humphrey and the threat to her child. But—she brightened again—the flaws could be cut out perhaps in the making? The steward thought so, too. But the merchant should make the price right!
She asked for news from London.
“A turmoil as usual,” he told her. “The whole town torn between my lord of Gloucester and my lord Bishop of Winchester. The Bishop accuses the Duke of stirring the Londoners to trouble; the Duke accuses his uncle of trying to steal the King.”
“To steal...the King? It doesn't make sense. My son's at Eltham by my lord of Exeter's orders. Why should Beautort steal from Beaufort?”
“My lord of Gloucester accuses his uncle of the thing he meant to do himself—so they say.”
The breath went out of her body.
Once he was in Humphrey's hands she would see less than ever of her child. That was her first thought. And the second; her little saint in the mud of the Cobham scandal! He wouldn't understand what it was all about. But mud sticks to the whitest robe...it sticks.
“Let them cut each other's throats if they must, but let the child sleep in peace!” Eyes ablaze, colour high in her cheeks, she was all Isabeau. One might question who was her father; but never her mother.
“It is no child to them; it is the King,” he reminded her.
“So the child who is King must sleep in fear and wake in terror lest he be stolen from his bed. So little a child! He should be with me, his mother. My husband did me great wrong,” she said and hardly knew she had spoken her bitterness.
“Parliament has sent for my lord of Bedford, did you know? He's a wise man; and just. All will be well; not that it isn't a pity to bring him all the way from France! You will be for London, Madam, to meet him? I have put out some new cloths for you to see. A woman is the better for a pretty gown though she be a Queen.”
She gave him a quick, upward look; could not, though she considered it, find him presumptuous. She was oddly pricked, longing for some warmth, some kindness from him...from anyone; and was angered because she longed. Her face was cold above brocades of Damascus, velvets from France, silks from Italy.
* * *
At Windsor it was quiet and peaceful; the river ran ruffled silk in the sharp February winds; the sharp spears of daffodils were through; soon the pale, peppery primroses would be had for the picking...primroses and violets. And who should pick them but a child, flowers dropping from over-full hands as he ran to give them to his mother? This year there would be no posies for her; and all was empty...empty.
And the news was not cheerful. Jacqueline languished still in Ghent; and Gloucester and Beaufort waged unceasing war—my lord Protector ambitious, angry; my lord Bishop, no less.
Catherine was restless. In spite of the bitter winds she was forever on the move—the dower-houses of the Queens of England were there for her choosing. But always she came back to Windsor. Here, at least, if she might not see her child she could know she had borne one. Here she had lain, the winter sunlight across her bed, her son in her arms, and all the bells in England one mad peal of joy.
Bedford was in London; already, in a few short weeks, the country seemed quieter for his coming. Though she had not seen him yet, she had received his greetings, sent him her own. When he was less pressed by affairs she would journey to London to greet him and his young wife.
Meanwhile she amused herself as best she might. She spent a good deal of time with the steward in his office; she wanted to know the sources of her income, the houses at her disposal. He would describe her English estates and how they had come into the Queen's dower. He told a story well; it was easy to see he was a poet. He would explain her revenues; it was easy to see he was a man of business. She was, it seemed, very rich, even for a Queen. After the poverty of her youth it was delightful. It was intoxicating to know that she could spend, spend, spend; throw money to the four winds. But, except in the matter of gowns and jewels, she did not yield to the sweet madness. She was like her mother both lavish and careful...though some used an uglier word. Unlike Isabeau she was just; not the humblest in her household went without his dues. But she had not yet unlearned the lessons of her childhood; she had not yet learned to be generous.
So she would sit in the steward's office counting the moneys; moneys from her houses at Mould and Nettlebed—how she laughed at the names! Moneys from Bensyngton and Bentley; from a host of English manors. Moneys from her Welsh estates; from Hawarden and Montgomery and Builth; from Lleyn and Menai and Flint and others too many for her to remember.
But the Welshman remembered; it was his duty and his joy. Sometimes he would tell her about Wales—to her as far away as the Holy Land and as strange; and, when he described it, it was a holy land, too. But when he told her about her house at Talybolion—Welsh stone set among Welsh hills and a Welsh river beneath a Welsh sky—why then it seemed not so far away after all; and no stranger, indeed, than her own Windsor.
She was blessed in her steward she could not but think. A kinder man, nor a cleverer never existed; nor one more devoted to her service. He was a gentleman and brave—her own husband had felt the force of his strokes when they had been boys together in wild Wales. And, afterwards, when they were grown men, the steward had been offered a knighthood for services in France. A pity it hadn't occurred to Henry to offer some of the forty pounds to qualify for it. Henry had given him a place about his person instead—and obliged himself as well as the Welshman. Obliged her, too. There were no words to describe the man's goodness. Nothing too much for him. He kept her furs and guarded her jewels; he bought the rich stuffs for her gowns; he ordered her foods—and woe to the man who tried to cheat her! And best of all he kept her abreast with the news; without Johanne she needed someone to explain what this might mean, or that. She heard and understood as much as though she lived in
London herself.
But she did not see as much. She did not see her child.
My lord of Exeter desired that the King be given time to settle. Now and again Tudor would suggest a gift and they would choose it together, talking about the child. Then off he would ride with it to Westminster, or to Eltham, or to Wallingford, wherever the King might be; and, when he returned, she could not get her questions out quickly enough—though she was not always pleased with the answers.
...No, he was forced to admit, the little King was not as quick or as strong as the others; not as neat with his sword nor as true with his bow. But then, it was not to be expected. He was the smallest of them all. Yes, he looked well enough; a little thin, perhaps. But then one must expect it—his life was completely changed. No...he was not quick at his lessons; but that, again, was to be expected. He had been dragged from his books often enough so that he might be present at Parliament, or that he might be taken in procession, or to offer public thanksgiving. He would catch up; he was diligent. Let Madam the Queen not distress herself.
But—and he was glad to give her this gleam of comfort—the King's confessor, that same Master Thomas Netter in whose arms great Henry had died, praised his gentleness, his obedience and his piety.
She was not at all sure that she liked those qualities unstiffened by some robuster virtue. She sighed a little, fearful of putting the question. Did the King miss his mother?
Master Tudor spread his hands. How should so young a child not miss the pearl of which they had robbed him?
She looked at him sharply. Presumption? She thought not; not in this humble, devoted servant. A child taken from his mother is robbed of something precious. It was his poet's way.