The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  Margery nodded. ‘I will remember, but I will also never forget, for the child’s face seen through the Veil is a truly wondrous sight.’ She left the end of the bed then and moved up to speak to Catherine, leaning close to speak in the same low, persuasive tone she had used earlier. ‘You can work as hard as you like now, your grace. All is well and in moments your son will be born.’

  Catching sight of me, Mistress Scorer beckoned me closer and said softly, ‘Have plenty of that linen waste ready, Madame. The waters are about to break and there will be a flood.’

  While I stood ready but alarmed, hands full of the absorbent linen, I stared at the translucent caul which covered the emerging baby’s face. I could see why it was called a Veil, for it bore an eerie resemblance to the fine gauze used in ladies’ headdresses. In the flickering candlelight the gently moving liquid-filled bubble glowed around the crown of the baby’s head and looked, as Margery had said, wondrously like a halo. ‘It is a miracle,’ I breathed. ‘Like an angel being born.’

  The midwife smiled grimly. ‘Indeed,’ she nodded. ‘But if you value your life you will keep your mouth shut about it – for ever.’ She spoke in a low, conversational tone, but her words chilled my blood. ‘We must be very careful now, Madame. As I break the caul, you must place those soft pads on either side of the mouth to prevent the fluid rushing down the baby’s throat when it breathes. Pray that the first breath will come quickly and cleanly. Above all, we do not want the child to choke.’

  I did as she told me, whispering an earnest prayer to St Margaret and the midwife gently stroked the liquid under the caul away from the baby’s mouth and broke through the delicate mucus skin with her fingernail. Fluid gushed out and I hastily wiped it clear of the babe’s small mouth with the absorbent linen. As the translucent caul slipped back, the baby took its first gasp, only a few tiny bubbles of fluid frothing around its lips.

  ‘God be thanked,’ I murmured. At Margery’s urging, Catherine made one final effort and the rest of the child’s body slipped into my waiting hands. Bet swiftly tied the cord and sliced cleanly through it with her silver knife, then Margery was beside me with a big, soft napkin and we carried the little body reverently and laid it carefully on the midwife’s table, ready to wipe the rest of the mucus clear. Freed of the caul, the skin glowed pink and smooth against the snowy white linen, unblemished by the usual marks of childbirth, and the baby uttered small, healthy whimpers.

  ‘A boy, your grace,’ I said with difficulty but Catherine did not hear me.

  ‘Is it a boy, Mette?’ she called fretfully from her pillows, her voice hoarse from her enormous effort as Bet drew the sheet down to cover her while they waited for the afterbirth.

  ‘God is good,’ breathed Agnes, who had been waiting at the table, unaware of our recent agitation. She made the sign of the cross. ‘Beautiful!’

  This answered the queen. ‘But I know it is a boy,’ she said joyously. ‘Show them, Mette! Show everyone the new Heir of England!’

  Solemnly I carried the baby across the room and watched the Duchess of Hainault, pale and wide-eyed, take one long look at the naked infant and nod acknowledgement of her witness before turning into Eleanor Cobham’s arms and fainting clean away. The Dowager Duchess of Clarence, herself the mother of six, was more circumspect in her reaction; bowing her head in acknowledgement she crossed herself and smiled.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bet swiftly scoop the birth remains into the silver bowl, which she covered with a cloth. Later, I found the bowl empty. I know now that I should have wondered why it was empty and should have enquired where the caul and the afterbirth had gone, but at the time Bet and Margery took charge of washing and wrapping the baby while I sponged Catherine clean and found her a fresh chemise to wear. When she was once more lying back against the pillows, I took the baby to her. The room settled into a hushed silence and I felt a surge of love and relief as I laid the precious bundle in her arms, my face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘It is a male child, your grace, just as you prayed for and predicted. May God and His Holy Mother be praised. Here is your perfect prince.’

  15

  I thought that the closeness I had enjoyed with Catherine during her delivery might have reminded her how much history we shared and reinforced the importance of our ties of love and loyalty. However, as soon as she was recovered from the physical strain of giving birth and had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, she immediately asked for the Duchess of Hainault and, within minutes, Jacqueline was back at Catherine’s bedside, passing on all the praise and acclamation of the court. Before she arrived, Catherine suggested in a tone that brooked no argument that I should go and get some rest, thus ensuring that I was not present during the duchess’s visit. Agnes told me later that Eleanor also frequented the bedchamber as the bearer of a constant stream of tonic drinks and herbal restoratives which she had been busy preparing with the duchess’s encouragement and the help of the midwife’s assistant, Margery Jourdemayne. I was not called to the bedchamber again until the following morning. Catherine floated on a cloud of elation and approbation, but I felt a terrible sense of anticlimax, berating myself for remaining loyally at the queen’s side until her first child should be born, when I could have been in Paris assisting my own daughter as she prepared for the birth of her second.

  The lowest point came two days after the birth when I prepared the baby for his baptism. From the vaults of the Treasury I had acquired the royal christening robe, a tiny and exquisite gown of the finest white silk embroidered with swans and antelopes and other emblems of Lancastrian heraldry. It had been worn by King Henry and all his brothers and there was a new white silk chrism cap to cover the head of the baby once he had been anointed with the holy oil. Catherine had embroidered the cap herself with pearl beads and little crowns and it would be given to the Church a few days after the christening ceremony in gratitude for the little boy’s purification. Although he had not yet been given a name, it was generally accepted that he would be called Henry after his father and grandfather. Of course Catherine would not be attending the baptism because she would not be churched and purified herself until a month after the delivery so, as the nominated godmother, the Duchess of Hainault would carry the child to the castle chapel at the head of a procession which would, by tradition, include the midwives and ladies who had officiated or been present at the birth. I naturally expected to be part of it.

  When I took the baby from the nursery to the queen’s bedchamber to show him to her, robed in his finery, the duchess was already there arrayed in her most splendid apparel, ready to take her pivotal role in the ceremony. Catherine was sitting by the fire looking remarkably cheerful and it did my heart glad to see it.

  ‘I am so happy to see you already up from your bed, your grace,’ I said, bending my knee as far as I could without endangering the baby in my arms. ‘Here is your beautiful son, ready for his baptism.’

  Catherine took the child from me and tenderly kissed his forehead. ‘Thank you, Mette, he looks wonderful. You are obviously so in love with him yourself that you did not come to me this morning. I missed you.’

  I gave her a stricken look and shot a questioning glance at her companion. ‘I did come, your grace, but the duchess was already here and told me that I was not wanted.’

  A small frown creased Catherine’s brow. ‘Did she? There must have been a misunderstanding. What I told her was that I did not want you to attend the baptism. It is only for the godparents and clergy and members of the court.’

  She must have seen my disbelief in the effort I had to make to speak. ‘Is that so, Madame? Shall I inform the midwives of this? They are expecting to attend, according to tradition, as was I.’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘No, Mette. Of course they are to attend. It is their prerogative. But the same does not apply to you and I wish you to remain here.’ She turned to the duchess and held out the baby. ‘Take him, Jacqueline. I charge you to carry him into the arms of Holy Mother
Church and bring him safely back to me.’

  ‘Of course I will, Catherine; you need have no fear of that.’ Jacqueline stepped forward to take the child and I was gratified to hear him set up a wail of protest the minute he left his mother’s arms. The duchess hurriedly headed for the door, trying to shush the baby as she went and Eleanor Cobham fell into step in her wake, giving me a pitying glance as she passed. One by one the other ladies-in-waiting followed on behind.

  My despondency must have shown, for Catherine said, ‘Do not look so sour-faced, Mette. I need you here to bind my breasts while the others are away. You did not warn me of the pain involved in not suckling one’s child.’

  A surge of indignation swamped me as I recalled holding the infant Princess Catherine to my full breast and how good it had felt to give her suck. What had happened, I wondered, to the bond of love that had flowered between us during that process? I could no longer detect any sign of it in Catherine and I could feel the remnants of it congealing like an icicle in my heart.

  I decided to take up Geoffrey Vintner’s offer to escort me to Paris. He had sent a message to say that, winds permitting, he was due to sail from Dover at the beginning of March and so, screwing up my courage, I asked Catherine for leave of absence. We met in the nursery after breakfast and I stood beside her as she scooped Prince Henry out of the carved and gilded cradle to which the wet-nurse had returned him after his morning feed. The dangerous first two months of life were over and he was now a plump and healthy baby showing every promise of growing into a healthy prince.

  Her reaction to my request was instant and violent. She clutched little Henry to her breast and turned on me furiously.

  ‘But you promised to stay with me, Mette! You said I could always rely on you.’

  I stood in shocked silence, my heart pounding and my thoughts an incoherent jumble. I could think of nothing to say in reply to her outburst so I lowered my gaze and wrung my hands in agitation, waiting for the storm to pass.

  The baby whimpered at being held so tightly and Catherine loosened her grip, bent to give him a soothing kiss and then lifted tear-filled eyes to mine. ‘I know now that the strongest claim on a mother’s heart should be from her own flesh and blood, so I suppose I must accept that you wish to leave me for your daughter.’

  ‘It will not be for ever, Mademoiselle. When Alys is safely delivered and has returned to her full strength, I will come back. You have my word on that.’

  I had never seen Catherine’s sapphire gaze harden as it did then. It made my blood chill and I heard her next remarks through a pounding in my ears. ‘But can I still trust your word, Mette? And should you assume that I will call you back?’ She turned away from me, smiling fondly at her little boy and rocking him gently. ‘There are others who love me now, you see; others on whom I can rely.’

  What could I say? Apart from an intense desire to see my family and be with Alys at the birth of her child, the prospect of some respite from the irritation caused me by Catherine’s relationship with Jacqueline was a factor in my decision to go to Paris. It was clear that the duchess had managed to bring Catherine round to her way of thinking. During the days leading up to my departure, the queen preserved a glacial manner in my company and our encounters were awkward and uncomfortable.

  As far as I know, the king had maintained a perfect silence on the subject of the location of the birth, and had reproached no one for breaking the promise that it would take place at Sheen. The splendour of the occasion and the health of the heir were seen as an obvious refutation of any ill omen whatever.

  I had come to recognise that with the birth of a son, Catherine now felt herself invincible and had assumed the sense of superiority and sovereign contempt for everyone of inferior rank that seemed to afflict most occupants of a throne. I hoped and prayed that it might be temporary and that in due course she would recover her natural grace and compassion, but I left court with a heavy heart and received no fond farewell.

  After such a depressing departure I should have known that the journey to Paris would be far from smooth. The good ship Hilda Maria had appeared a sturdy enough cog when viewed from the quayside at Dover but, having sailed out of harbour in benign weather, halfway across the Sleeve the wind turned to the north-east and anxious crew-members began racing up the rigging to reduce the sails. Before they could complete the task, black clouds swamped the sky and a squall came screaming in off the North Sea, picking up the ship as if it was Queen Mab’s nutshell, lifting and twisting and hurling it about on waves that were suddenly thirty-feet high. How those sailors clung to the spars I will never know. I kept expecting bodies to hurtle down onto the bucking deck as wave after wave heaved us skywards then raced away ahead, leaving us lurching drunkenly back into the trough before the next one came up from behind and tipped the bow sickeningly forwards once more. The Hilda Maria was not so much running before the wind as lumbering from moving mountain to moving mountain, clinging desperately to their slippery slopes as the procession of rolling giants tried their best to shake her off. Unfortunately, although the sky had darkened, it could not hide our perilous situation from us and the sea, once merely green and choppy, now appeared as a series of black, luminous-crested monsters, surging straight from the gates of hell.

  With commendable forethought, Geoffrey Vintner had reserved us places in one of the cabins under the aft-castle but when we boarded we found it so crammed with travellers that I begged him to remain outside with me where the air at least smelled of salt and fish rather than stale sweat and vomit. As a result, when the storm hit we were caught in the open belly of the ship, unable to take shelter because the violent tossing of the deck made moving more than a step in any direction a life-threatening action. The bulk of the cargo was bales of raw wool being shipped to Flanders, so we stayed where we were, huddled down between them on a pile of tarpaulins, which should have been protecting the cargo, but had not been deployed before the storm hit. At least we were able to pull one over ourselves as some protection against the driving rain and the regular dousings from waves breaking over the gunwales. In the violent, whistling wind conversation was impossible; words were snatched away almost before they were uttered, but in my shuddering terror I felt Geoffrey’s arms wrap around me like the hug of a friendly bear and I clung to him in return, eyes tight shut, moaning and whimpering to myself and sending prayers to God and his Holy Mother, St Nicholas, St Elmo and St Christopher; in fact to any relevant saint I could dredge up from my shamefully scant knowledge of who might intercede on our behalf. All I received by way of an answer was an explosive cracking sound followed by rending and creaking as the foremast came crashing down and lodged against the lowest spar of the mainmast, leaving its tattered sail and snapped stays whipping dangerously about in the wind. Unbeknown to us, in that moment of terror, it was this event which may have been our salvation because the ship had been too heavily rigged for the sudden change in conditions and we had been in danger of being pushed under the waves instead of over them.

  At the height of my fear I began to believe the storm was some sort of retaliation for my having had the temerity to leave Catherine’s side. In the moan and mayhem of the storm, I thought I could hear her voice reproaching me in the petulant tone I had noticed so frequently in recent weeks.

  After two long hours, the storm abated as quickly as it had arrived and the movement of the ship diminished to an undulating motion which, although less frightening, proved embarrassingly nauseating. Suddenly I was forced to tear myself from Geoffrey’s protective embrace, stagger to my feet and throw myself at the leeward rail, abruptly donating the contents of my stomach to the still-rolling waves. When I recovered enough to drag myself back to our shelter, Geoffrey had managed to release a wineskin from his baggage bundle and silently offered it to me. I took a gulp of the sweet wine and swirled it round my mouth to rid it of the foul taste of sickness. Having handed the skin back, I immediately began trying to adjust my bedraggled wimple, guessing I must look as da
mp and dishevelled as an alehouse pot-washer. Certainly, Geoffrey’s hat and coif were crumpled and dripping disasters. However, like the ship, although battered and torn, we were still miraculously afloat, an outcome which had seemed impossible only an hour before. Despite my bruises and mal de mer, was profoundly grateful to be breathing and not swirling lifelessly in that evil black sea, staring upwards out of sightless eyes. I caught Geoffrey’s amused glance and smiled ruefully back, recalling the comfort of his closeness during the darkest moments of the storm and nursing a certain secret pleasure at the memory of his embrace.

  The ship had narrowly avoided being blown by the storm onto the deadly rocks of Cap Griz Nez, and it took the Hilda Maria the rest of the day to struggle back against the wind to Calais, with relieved sailors manning the oars in shifts and singing shanties lustily in gratitude for their delivery from drowning. With a face like one of the thunderclouds we had recently endured, the captain prowled around the hold, muttering and cursing at the harm inflicted on the precious bales of wool. Of the human cargo it was a toss of the dice which of us had fared the worst storm-damage, those who had weathered it outside or the whey-faced individuals who staggered out of the fetid castle cabins at either end of the ship. Personally I considered clothes saturated by sea-water preferable to the cloying stench of sickness that clung to the cabin travellers, who clutched the ship’s superstructure and gulped fresh air like prisoners released from a dungeon.