Catherine sighed. ‘Or for the French themselves, I think. Ah well, we shall see. First we must bury two dead kings. How strange it is that they should die so close together.’
‘I believe it is a tragedy for both our countries that my brother did not live to inherit your father’s throne. We cannot know how it will play out.’ Bedford stood up. ‘Forgive me, Madame, but I must take my leave. I wish to ride as far as Mantes before dark.’
Catherine also stood and gave him her hand. ‘Farewell then, my lord. I shall pray that we see you soon in England for I feel we shall have need of your wisdom and statesmanship.’
The following evening, Owen Tudor came to play in the cathedral as usual and when she left the coffin’s side Catherine spoke briefly to him. I was not close enough to hear what was said but I noticed that Owen slipped off his stool to his knees at her approach and remained humbly kneeling until she left. Passing quite nearby as I followed Catherine out of the cathedral, I saw a slight smile twitch at his lips and heard him begin to hum a little tune under his breath as he pulled the leather carrying-bag over his harp.
Later she asked me to arrange a place for the harper in the ante-room outside the bishop’s bedchamber, which the prelate had vacated in her favour. From then on Owen played Catherine to sleep every night. For a while his presence caused a flutter among the impressionable young ladies of her household, but Owen was scrupulous in his behaviour towards them as they passed to and from the bedchamber. Not by so much as a glance or a smile did he display any interest, even in the wondrously pretty Lady Joan Beaufort, although to be fair her twinkling glances tended to be reserved for her royal suitor, King James of Scotland, who was among the cortège followers.
Being much the same age as Catherine, Owen tended to regard me as a mother figure, a safe companion whose friendship would not involve him in awkward situations. So when his harp music had lulled Catherine to sleep we would often drink a cup of wine together while the brazier in the anteroom died down. He told me stories of the home and family he had left ten years before, his war-scattered brothers and sisters and his dead parents. Seven years spent campaigning in France had not blunted his love of his homeland and his descriptions of the Welsh landscape were so vivid and evocative that I felt as if I had personally visited the Isle of Anglesey where he had spent his early years.
‘When you cross to it by boat, it is like arriving in a magic world. All around are rolling hills and the sea constantly beats at the shore with an eternal music. They call it the Lovers’ Isle because it is so green and lush.’
‘Is that the only reason, Master Tudor, or could it have something to do with the warmth of its people?’ I asked, smiling.
He gazed at me solemnly. ‘If poetry and music and beauty combine to feed love then yes, Madame, we are a people rich in love, but regrettably these days not rich in freedom.’
‘Because of your godfather’s rebellion?’
He frowned, deep creases marring his handsome features. ‘No. Glendower failed to win Wales back for us, but we have suffered under an English yoke ever since the first King Edward stamped his iron-shod foot on us. We live in the shadow of Beaumaris Castle and the injustice of English rule.’
‘And yet you fought under the English banner at Agincourt.’
He shrugged. ‘King Henry was born in Monmouth. Although he was the King of England, he had an admiration for the Welsh people. He will be mourned on both sides of the border.’
The crossing to Dover at the end of October was mercifully uneventful, but the onward progress of the cortège was slow, stopping two days in Canterbury for a solemn requiem mass and plodding on over four more days to another lengthy and solemn requiem mass at St Paul’s in London. As the end of the journey drew nearer, Catherine fretted at the pace of travel but every town and village we passed through wanted to pay homage to the hero of Agincourt, so that the halts were many and frequent, culminating in a sombre welcome at Blackheath from the mayor, sheriffs, aldermen and guildsmen of London, who escorted King Henry’s body into the City of London. Catherine’s cold and miserable overnight stay in the Tower was in stark contrast to her visit there less than two years earlier, when she had prepared with awe and anticipation for her coronation.
‘All I want to do is ride to Windsor and take my son in my arms!’ she cried as she crept into bed that night with no harp music to comfort her, for Owen had been asked to play at the funeral in Westminster Abbey the following day and had ridden ahead to prepare. ‘My poor little fatherless boy who must bear the weight of two kingdoms on his tiny shoulders. What a heavy burden Henry has left him and what a cheerless future he has left to me!’
To receive the body of Henry of Monmouth, the monks of Westminster had prepared a resting place of the greatest honour, between the Lady Chapel and the shrine of St Edward the Confessor. Standing beside the yawning hole in the church floor, Catherine appeared swamped by the magnificence of the ceremonial. She was surrounded by bishops and barons doing honour to their king in their most glorious copes and mantles, while she retained the deep mourning she had worn ever since hearing of his death. From my viewpoint in the choir-loft she looked like a small black mayfly lost among a crowd of multicoloured dragonflies.
Afterwards she wept in my arms. ‘I gazed down on that massive coffin, so grand and ornate and embellished with gold leaf, and I could not believe that Henry was in there. I feel he must still be alive somewhere, assembling another army, raising another siege, determined to win back what he considers to be his by divine right. England grieves for a symbol, a warrior and a king; only I grieve for a man, Mette, a unique and individual spirit who was possessed of a spark of passion. Now I have no husband, no father and no brother – for although he lives, Charles is as dead to me as Henry – and I have no country. I can never return to France, England does not want me and yet I cannot leave my son. Until he grows into manhood, truly I am alone.’
As I tried to comfort her, I almost felt we were back in the old nursery at the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris, on the day her two-year-old brother Charles had been forcibly removed on the Duke of Burgundy’s orders, to be reared in the household of his godfather the Duke of Berry. For one night Catherine and I had been left together before she was carried off to the nuns at Poissy Abbey and we had both been in despair at the prospect of separation. That time I had been forced to bid her farewell, but I knew I could never do so now. She might be Dowager Queen of England and a Daughter of France, but today those titles and honours meant nothing. When it came to loving and being loved, I was all she had left.
PART TWO
The Secret Years
(1427–1435)
19
After King Henry’s demise and the long, mournful weeks behind the funeral cortège, coupled with the deaths of her sister and father, all Catherine had wanted to do was be a mother to her baby son. She had therefore willingly allowed her household to be joined to that of the little boy who was to be raised as King of England and France. She shared his chaplains, his steward and his treasurer, his masters of Household, horse and wardrobe, his clerks, his cooks, his cleaners, his pages, his laundry, his horses, his stables and his couriers but, most importantly, she lived close to his nursery, was able to visit him daily and wherever he went she went too, even when, sitting on her knee at the tender age of two, he had officially opened Parliament from the throne in the great hall at Westminster. The queen’s own household was relatively small and consisted only of her confessor, her secretary, her ladies-in-waiting, a pair of seamstresses, a clutch of tiring women, four chamberlains, four pages and myself, still nominally the keeper of the queen’s robes, although now that she wore only sober, dark gowns with little jewellery and her constant headdress was a widow’s barbe and wimple, I had become more the chief companion and counsellor and less the robe mistress.
Two days after the little king’s sixth birthday, Queen Catherine called the members of her household together in her presence chamber at Windsor Castle. There wer
e only twenty of us; no great number for a royal lady. As she waited for us to settle, Catherine sat slim and still in her usual place, a throne-like armchair on a dais, tented in bright-blue gold-tasselled silk, patterned with fleurs-de-lys. She liked to display the French royal symbol and her nationality became even more obvious the moment she opened her mouth. Her mastery of English was good, but her accent was terrible, probably on purpose, for she was immensely proud that her royal blood had brought her son the crown of France and always encouraged him to converse with her in French. Successfully ruling half of France from Paris and still determined to fight on for the other half, the English scornfully labelled her brother Charles de Valois ‘the Pretender’, but he styled himself King of France. Catherine never spoke of her brother but, although she fiercely defended her son’s claim, I suspected that she still wrestled with her conscience over who should really wear the French crown.
Her expression when she addressed us was as sober as her gown. ‘I have brought you all together because I want to be the first to tell you of some changes at court which will affect my household,’ she said, pausing to take a sip from her cup of watered wine. I think we all held our breath, wondering what was to come.
‘As you know, on the king’s birthday each year there is a meeting of the regency council to assess his progress and plan his future and, as a result of this year’s deliberations, it has been decided that it is time my son quitted the nursery and began serious preparation for his role as our king.’ I could see her struggling to keep her composure, swallowing frequently as if the words caught in her throat. ‘The debilitating illness of the Duke of Exeter means that the Earl of Warwick is now to take sole responsibility for the king’s care and governance. New tutors are to be appointed. In short, his household is to be considerably altered and is no longer to be linked with mine.’
Loud murmuring broke out among the assembled group and Catherine summoned a falsely cheerful smile. ‘The change was inevitable and anyway is not immediate. There will be the usual round of Christmas and New Year celebrations here at Windsor, but soon after Twelfth Night I shall be leaving to take up a separate residence. Exactly where that will be has yet to be decided, but any of you who would rather stay with the king or seek positions in another household have time to make arrangements. Obviously since I am to live apart from the king, there will be some additional appointments made within my own household and some of you may be asked to step into different roles. Please be assured that no one needs to find themselves without a livelihood.’
Her pause to let her announcement sink in was met with a buzz of murmured comments from around the room. Sighing, she gazed deliberately from one to another, as if to memorise their faces. ‘It is hard to take in, I know, but you have all played your part in ensuring the health and welfare of the king through his tender years and I warmly thank you for it. Now my ladies will remain here as usual and the rest of you may go back to your duties.’
As the others trooped out, murmuring together with the skilled inaudibility peculiar to courtiers and servants, I studied Catherine’s face and considered the implications of the momentous news she had so calmly imparted. Behind her mask of control I knew that she must be devastated by the council’s ruling. It would almost completely cut her out of her son’s life, handing his rearing and education over to virtual strangers and placing her, his mother, on the periphery of his existence, like an elderly aunt or a distant cousin. The lords of the council had effectively told her that she was surplus to requirements, no longer needed, almost an embarrassment in the king’s life. Without warning or consultation they were taking little Henry over.
The inner circle of the dowager queen’s companions had changed somewhat since the late king’s death. When Catherine retreated to Windsor following the funeral obsequies, she had been hurt and astonished to learn that during her absence the Duchess of Hainault had quitted Windsor and taken up residence at the Duke of Gloucester’s castle of Hadleigh on the Thames estuary. As the infant king’s godmother, Jacqueline had promised to keep a close eye on Henry’s nursery during Catherine’s absence in France and the bereaved queen was furious that the capricious duchess had abandoned her charge to pursue Humphrey of Gloucester, the man she hoped would regain her lands in the Low Countries.
Jacqueline had not attended King Henry’s funeral and it was not until after the official period of mourning ended that she had reappeared at court, triumphant as the new Duchess of Gloucester, her marriage to the Duke of Brabant having been conveniently annulled by a compliant pope. Catherine had received her politely and invited her to visit her godson, but after they left the nursery she had rounded on Jacqueline angrily, asking if she realised how seriously her marriage to Humphrey threatened the little king’s French throne.
‘Even on his deathbed my lamented lord urged his brothers to do nothing that might undermine England’s alliance with Burgundy,’ Catherine protested. ‘Only two years ago you accepted King Henry’s help and money from the English crown and yet you and Humphrey ignored his dying wishes and the clearly expressed opposition of Duke Philippe. It is only due to the diplomatic skills of my lord of Bedford that the alliance has held.’
It was not in Jacqueline’s nature to accept a rebuke without retaliation. ‘Well Bedford acquired himself a well-endowed wife in the process,’ she retorted. ‘By all accounts he and Philippe’s sister Anne are now inseparable. It has turned out to be a love match, they say.’ There was scorn in her voice, as if love between members of the nobility was somehow distasteful.
‘At least they married in public, in the same church in Troyes where Henry and I were married and with the blessing of their families and peers, not secretly in some remote and crumbling castle without the support of kith or kin.’ Catherine’s disappointment in her erstwhile friend was bitter. ‘Gloucester has always hankered after power. An English dukedom is not enough for him; he wants dominion over his own territories – your territories, Jacqueline.’
‘Well, if he can get them back for me, he is welcome to it,’ retorted the spirited duchess before subsiding into a more placatory attitude. ‘You have not visited my lord Gloucester’s castle of Hadleigh, Catherine, but when you do I think you will find it neither remote nor crumbling. It is a lively place, Catherine, a substantial stronghold which guards the north bank of the Thames, protecting London. I am hoping that your grace will consent to visit us soon and do us the honour of standing godmother to the child we expect early next year.’
I could see from her startled look that Catherine’s feelings were torn. Joy for her erstwhile friend’s expectations tussled with the tug of loyalty to her late husband’s wishes and an increasing dislike for his grasping and manipulative youngest brother. ‘I am delighted, of course, that God has blessed your union, Jacqueline, but I cannot make such a commitment without referring to the council of regency.’
The duchess smiled. ‘Of course, and since my lord holds sway in the council, I am sure it will quickly endorse your sponsorship and we can look forward to further cementing our close relationship.’
Doubt flickered over Catherine’s face at this confident prediction but, in the event, no commitment was needed, for sadly the duchess’s baby son was premature and stillborn. This did nothing to halt Gloucester’s territorial ambitions however, and as soon as his new wife had recovered from this personal and dynastic tragedy she was persuaded to accompany him and a substantial army to Hainault in an attempt to win back control over her inheritance. But on the Flemish border to the duchy they found that the Duke of Burgundy, predictably furious, had massed a force capable of defending it against any such incursion, causing the fearful citizens of Hainault to inform Jacqueline that whereas she was welcome in her duchy, her new husband and his army of retainers was not. Such obduracy infuriated and frustrated Humphrey and within a year he was back in England, having abandoned his wife to face the might of Burgundy alone. In a matter of months Hainault, Holland and Brabant were annexed and Jacqueline was i
n Duke Philippe’s power, under close confinement. Also there was a new pope in Rome and Burgundy had persuaded the Vatican to rescind the annulment of her marriage to the Duke of Brabant, making her union with Gloucester invalid. Far from being chastened by the experience, Humphrey now appeared to have washed his hands of Jacqueline altogether.
So, too, it seemed had Eleanor Cobham, who had travelled to Hainault in the service of the Duchess of Gloucester, but returned to England with the duke and it was not long before she sought an audience with the dowager queen at Windsor. It was by then nearly three years since I had last seen her, before I left to be with Alys for her second confinement in Paris, and while the intervening years had turned Catherine into a widow in black weeds, they had transformed Eleanor from an adolescent nymph into a young woman of quite breathtaking beauty. For her appearance before the Queen Dowager, she had arrayed herself in a headdress sparkling with amythysts and a sumptuous gown of indigo damask which drew instant attention to her celebrated violet eyes and porcelain complexion. I immediately wondered where she had acquired the money to fund such a striking ensemble.
‘I regret that I was not able to remain with the Duchess of Gloucester owing to the animosity of the Hainault court,’ she said, after being granted a seat beside Catherine. ‘But it has been brought to my notice, your grace, that Joanna Coucy has recently left your service to get married and so I am presuming there is now a place in your household for another lady-in-waiting. You were gracious enough to indicate to the Duke of Gloucester when he introduced me previously that you would consider me as a future candidate.’
Catherine did not immediately reply, coolly meeting the demanding gaze of the younger woman until Eleanor was forced to look away in some confusion. Then Catherine spoke in a tone of guarded sympathy. ‘I have heard that your mother recently died, Damoiselle, for which I am truly sorry. May God rest her soul. Had she still been alive, I am sure she would have advised you that it is not customary for a queen to be directly approached for an appointment to her service. Should a post become vacant, an intermediary will suggest a candidate and thus both parties are saved the embarrassment of any face to face refusal. However, since you have chosen not to follow customary court procedure, I cannot save you that embarrassment. Regrettably I am unable to offer you a place because the departure of Joanna Coucy has by chance allowed me to achieve the reduction in my household that the council recently demanded of me, so I will not be appointing a replacement. I do hope you understand.’
The Tudor Bride Page 20