Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  I feel flattered and wonder if the wine is affecting my judgement. Margaret is right, she will find more than enough enemies waiting for her in England. Sir William is Cardinal Beaufort’s man, so there is no mystery about who will plot against her. I had not expected to like her, but now feel protective towards this young girl, barely a woman, her life changed forever by the cardinal’s intrigue.

  ‘You can rely on my loyalty, my lady.’

  ‘You have known the king since he was... a baby?' She speaks in her faltering English now, hesitating as she finds the right words.

  ‘I joined his household when he was less than a year old.’ I see Sir William give me a cautionary glance. ‘The king has been kind and generous to me—and to my sons.’

  She leans forward and lowers her voice almost to a whisper. ‘Do you think the king will like me?’

  I am surprised at the intimacy of her question and realise how young and vulnerable she is. ‘I am certain he will, my lady.’

  The musicians begin another raucous tune before she can ask more questions and I see my chance to leave, yet as I go in search of Juliette I recall her doubts. They are so different in character it is difficult to predict what the king will think of Lady Margaret—or what she will make of him.

  I wake with a headache and lie in my bed alone, recalling the events of the previous night. Juliette thought it best she should not risk coming to my room, as she said there were too many people who could notice. I disagreed and we argued for the first time in years. She accused me of drinking too much wine, so I shouted at her and stormed off to my lodgings.

  My outburst was unwarranted. I can see that now in the cold light of day and know Juliette deserves better. I should have married her years ago or told her why I could not, but now it is too late. I have finally faced the real reason why I will never marry again. The pain of losing Catherine is still too real. I have tried my best to start a new life but there are too many memories time will not erase.

  I dress and make my way through dimly familiar narrow streets, remembering the first time I was there, as squire to Sir Walter, after one of the longest sieges anyone had known. The streets had been strewn with corpses. Although I had not been responsible, the staring, accusing eyes of the starving people of Rouen haunted my dreams for months afterwards.

  Now the people seem relatively prosperous. The lords and merchants have supported the building of many fine houses and great religious buildings. I walk past a row of impressive churches going from east to west through the centre of the city and stop at the cemetery of Aître Saint-Maclou, used for burials since Roman times. During the pestilence three-quarters of the inhabitants were buried here and this was where, after the siege, I helped bury so many innocent men, women and children.

  The city has recovered but is still scarred by the past. I find myself in the market square where young Joan of Arc had been so cruelly burned just fourteen years before. There is no sign it had ever happened now but the people will never forget the terrible cost of their war with the English.

  I make my way into the towering cathedral that dominates the city of Rouen and my troubled mind is calmed by the atmosphere of silent reverence. Finding a deserted side chapel, I light a candle in Catherine’s memory. I say a prayer of gratitude that she blessed my life with her love, and know what I must do.

  * * *

  The captain of our ship makes us wait in Rouen for a week before he is satisfied the winds and tides are good enough for the return voyage. Even then, the skies are darkening as we cast off from the quay. An unseasonably chill wind tugs at the flapping sails as we make our way back down the River Seine towards Honfleur and the English Channel.

  With a final wave to the crowds who have come to see her off, Margaret retires to her cabin, followed by Lady Alice and her French servants. I prefer to remain on deck, watching as the historic city of Rouen, dominated by the cathedral of Notre Dame, recedes into the distance. Juliette stands at my side, unusually silent, as if she senses something has changed between us.

  I must be direct with her. ‘I am sorry, Juliette. You know I still think of Catherine, every day?’

  ‘Has enough time not passed now, Owen?’ She puts her hand on my arm, no longer concerned about what anyone might think. ‘How long are you going to mourn Catherine?’

  ‘She is not gone, Juliette, she lives... in my thoughts and prayers.’

  ‘I understand—young Margaret reminds you of her?’ There is bitterness in her voice now.

  ‘Margaret is nothing like Catherine, but meeting her has made me think... you deserve better.’

  ‘I made my choice years ago, Owen, and knew the consequences.’

  Not for the first time I wonder if she would have left me for another if she had been capable of having children. Juliette is still beautiful and I’ve seen how other men look at her. When I think of all the years we were apart I find it hard to believe she was patiently waiting for me to one day return. I could marry her easily enough, but would be living a lie. It will hurt us both to part when we reach England, yet it is the only way I can set her free.

  As we leave the shelter of the estuary at Honfleur and head out into the English Channel I hear a shout from a sailor who has climbed high up the mast. At first I can’t understand what the man is saying and then see him shout again and point to the far horizon.

  Juliette looks concerned. ‘Is he saying there is a storm ahead?’

  I glance up at the darkening sky and recall a sailor’s saying: Mare's tails and mackerel scales make lofty ships take in their sails. The rhyme may be no use to me, as there are no oddly shaped clouds, but I sense the approaching storm in my bones and see the waves are already crested with white spray. ‘This weather could mean we have to return to Honfleur.’

  ‘There are worse places to be stranded than Honfleur.’

  ‘It is always better to be in a safe harbour wishing you were at sea than at sea wishing you were safely in a harbour.’

  Juliette holds out her hand, palm upwards. ‘I knew it. Rain is coming.’

  A stiff breeze nearly takes my hat as I lead her towards the cabins. We barely make it to shelter before the rain starts hammering on the deck, soaking the sailors who are unable to join us in the lee of the cabin. We watch as the visibility reduces to almost nothing and the captain shouts for his crew to reef the mainsail.

  A flash of lightning illuminates the deck, followed by a crash of thunder, close enough to startle Juliette. She takes my hand and I am comforted by the feel of her warmth, although this is only going to make it more difficult when we arrive back at Windsor Castle.

  ‘Don’t worry, Juliette. It will soon pass.’ My lie sounds hollow.

  As if to prove me wrong a second crash of thunder makes us both flinch as it booms overhead. A heavy wave swamps the deck, washing away several heavy barrels. A sailor saves himself by clinging to the wet ropes as the ship lurches to starboard in the increasing swell. The barrels float off to sea and are soon out of sight. If any of the crew fall overboard they won’t stand a chance in these conditions.

  Sir William emerges, holding a handkerchief over his face. He sees us huddled together in the shelter of the cabin entrance. A flicker of understanding shows in his eyes before he dashes past them to the rail and leans over the side, his body heaving. The rain continues in torrents and Sir William’s clothes are soaked before he returns. He runs a wet hand over his face and turns to Juliette.

  ‘Go below, if you will, and see what you can do to help my wife.’

  Juliette is used to men like Sir William and hurries down the narrow passage leading to the cabins. I am surprised a veteran of so many Channel crossings is such a poor sailor. Sir William has lost his hat and his hair is plastered to his face like wet seaweed. He clutches at the door-frame to steady himself as the ship heels again, its timbers creaking with the strain. He has to shout to be heard over the noise.

  ‘Find the captain, Tudor. Tell him we must turn back before this storm g
rows worse.’

  I peer out and see how the waves are crashing over the bows and seem to be growing larger as we head further out to sea. The decision to turn back or continue is entirely one for the captain and I know he will not thank me for offering Sir William’s advice.

  ‘The wind is behind us, my lord, I think the captain is a capable man.’

  ‘The storm is worsening. I’ve crossed the English Channel many times and never seen it as bad as this.’

  Another wave swamps the deck as we watch and this time cold seawater puddles at our feet. I taste the salty spray on my lips and see the grimace of concern on Sir William’s face. I pull my hat tighter onto my head and rush out into the storm. The wooden steps to the upper deck are wet and slippery and hold tight to the handrail as the wind buffets my body.

  The captain shouts commands at the top of his voice as the crew battles against the squall and I must tug at his arm to catch his attention. ‘Sir Walter wishes to know if we can turn back, Captain.’ I shout over the storm.

  ‘By God! Tell him we are in the middle of the Channel!’ The captain curses then turns his attention to the helmsmen, who are battling to keep our little ship on course.

  Another flash of lightning is followed by a clap of thunder and I nearly fall down the steep steps, barely able to stagger back into the cabin. Sir William is still waiting there and looks at me for news.

  I wipe the water from my face with my sleeve. ‘The captain says it is too late to turn back, my lord.’

  The ship lurches again as yet another wave batters us broadside and the rain intensifies so I cannot understand his shouted curse of reply. I do hear a crack and the sound of splintering wood as one of the spars breaks, causing the sail to flap wildly as the crewmen fail to bring it under control.

  I shout at the top of my voice to be heard over the storm. ‘Is Lady Alice seasick?’

  ‘Not my wife. It’s Lady Margaret.’ Sir William glances back towards the cabin. ‘She is hysterical with fear and...’ He looks at me as if unwilling to share the truth. ‘She is ill, with the pox.’

  I am shocked at this news. She seemed well enough when I saw her last but the French pox could finish Margaret if she is in a weakened state. Now I understand why Sir William is so keen to return to Honfleur. It is not the best way for a new queen to arrive for her wedding and coronation.

  ‘What are we to do, my lord?’

  ‘She is being tended by her physician, Master Francis. He is a good man—but cannot work miracles.’ Sir William looks stoical. ‘Pray to God, Tudor, pray and hope.’

  The sea calms a little but the thunderstorm continues even as we reach the shelter of the Solent. Our little ship heads into Portsmouth with rain lashing the deck and sails torn and ragged by the powerful gusts of wind. It seems a long time since we left the coast of France and a lot has happened since I last saw the wharf of Portchester Castle.

  The quayside is lined with crowds of people waiting to welcome our arrival, despite the bad weather. I say a silent prayer of thanks as the mooring ropes are secured and realise I haven’t seen Juliette for most of the voyage. I watch with growing concern as Sir William appears, carrying Lady Margaret in his arms. She is pale and listless. Lady Alice, followed by Juliette and the other maidservants, all look as if they have suffered on the voyage.

  I follow behind their procession through the crowds into the rush-strewn streets of Portchester. The wet air is filled with cheering and cries of goodwill as our little group makes progress through the town. Lady Margaret sees nothing of the welcome. She is unconscious before we reach the convent where she will spend her first night and prepare for continuing her journey to meet the king.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lady Margaret is young and strong and recovers from her illness, diagnosed by the king’s physician as the small-pox. She is soon married and her coronation in Westminster Abbey, where Catherine became queen twenty-four years earlier, is the grandest ever seen. As she makes her way through the city from Southwark she is greeted by pageants, representing peace and the hope the long conflict with the French will now come to an end.

  The bells of every church in London compete with the hooves of over a hundred horses, clattering on cobbled streets, almost drowning the cheers of the waiting crowds. A fanfare of trumpets announces the arrival of King Henry’s new wife, riding in a gilded coach drawn by a team of white horses. Her long hair is worn loose as a sign of virtue and she looks like a queen, but I know she is a nervous girl, playing her role as instructed.

  As she comes closer I see her face is set in a fixed smile. Margaret steps from her coach and is escorted by royal guards, expensively dressed noblewomen and senior clergymen, and is flanked by a dour Duke Humphrey and a self-satisfied Cardinal Beaufort. She turns her head in my direction as she passes and our eyes meet for the briefest moment. I see a flash of recognition and realise she is missing no detail of her coronation day. Margaret of Anjou holds my gaze for less than a second and is gone.

  I follow the long procession through the high arched doorway into the Abbey. We watch as she makes her grand procession up the nave, escorted by her father, Rene, Duke of Anjou and self-proclaimed King of Naples. Someone behind me asks why King Henry isn’t there and another tells him that, by tradition, the king is not supposed to attend his queen’s coronation. I suspect he is watching from a private vantage-point and scan the vaulted galleries of the Abbey, realising there are many places for him to hide.

  As Margaret reaches the altar she kneels in prayer then prostrates herself to show her humility. The Archbishop of Canterbury, John Stafford, leads her behind red velvet curtains for the anointing and places St Edward’s crown on her head, the same crown used since the coronation of William the Conqueror four hundred years earlier. The new queen makes her slow procession back past the watching nobles and I recognise Sir William de la Pole, looking pleased with himself, as well he might.

  The coronation is followed by three days of extravagant feasting and tournaments. I watch and wait to see where the new queen will wish to live. I expect Margaret to choose Windsor Castle but she prefers the Palace of Westminster and persuades Henry to have an apartment in the Tower of London refurbished for her personal use, at great expense. When not in London, Queen Margaret’s unsurprising choice of residence is Cardinal Beaufort’s well-appointed mansion in Waltham Forest.

  This means Juliette does not return to Windsor, as she attends the queen while I remain in Windsor to be close to my sons. Their tutors prove well chosen, as Edmund and Jasper continue to do well with their studies and are now quite fluent in Latin and French. They amuse me with their sword fights and impress me with their new-found prowess at the tiltyard, yet I feel restless with my easy, undemanding life.

  The voyage to Rouen has reminded me of the world of adventure outside Windsor’s high walls and I recall my plan to try my luck across the Channel in Calais. I seek the advice of Sir William de la Pole, who recommends me for an appointment in Normandy as Captain of Regnéville, an outpost on the coast around fifty miles south of the port of Cherbourg and close to the island of Jersey. I am to be the king’s representative in the region, responsible for keeping the harbour safe for English merchant ships.

  The position is an important one and well paid, with allowances from the Treasury to strengthen the existing garrison. Nathaniel is easily persuaded to accompany me and we sail from Portsmouth to Normandy before winter sets in. The crossing is uneventful but no one greets us when we land and there is no sign of the garrison.

  I confront our ship’s captain. ‘Are you certain this is the right place, Captain?’

  ‘What did you expect, Master Tudor, a civic reception?’

  We look across the harbour at the old castle, taken from the French by Duke Humphrey in 1418, which is to become my new home. Black crows fly like ghosts of bad omen from one of the high windows, but apart from that there is no other sign of life. The only other vessel in the harbour is a battered fishing boat, rotting
at its moorings as a decaying memory of better times.

  ‘I was told there is a garrison here. Regnéville is supposed to be a busy port?’

  ‘I remember when it was one of the most active harbours on the Cotentin Peninsula.’ The captain looks interested. ‘Do you think you can make it safe again?’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Did they not tell you?’ The captain gives a humourless laugh. ‘The local French and their neighbouring Bretons are vying with each other to recover land they see as stolen by the English.’ He points at the derelict castle. ‘Regnéville is one of the most vulnerable of the remaining English outposts.’

  I feel a dawning sense of apprehension as we make our way to the castle, built at the head of the river valley, with a high tower overlooking the harbour. I count five horses grazing on the coarse turf. Fat chickens scratch in the dirt and a tethered goat offers us a mournful bleat in welcome. The castle has an air of neglect, with a wooden drawbridge leading over a stagnant green moat to the gatehouse, wide and high enough to take a horse and cart.

  Unchallenged, we continue through an open courtyard littered with old barrels and bales of hay. A pile of fresh manure is heaped next to a thatched, lean-to stable, built against the thick stone walls. The iron-studded door leading to the accommodation swings open to reveal several men playing cards and drinking beer. It seems more like a tavern inside than a garrison.

  One of the older men stands as he sees us. ‘Who might you be?’ The man scratches his head as he approaches, his eyes taking in my fine sword.

  ‘I am the new captain, Owen Tudor, and this is my first officer.’ I gesture towards Nathaniel. ‘What would you have done if we’d been French soldiers?’

  The man looks puzzled. ‘We weren’t told you were coming, sir.’

  ‘That much is evident.’ I glance behind him at the mess and clutter. ‘What is your name?’