The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  Eleanor Cobham had a cat-like habit of narrowing her eyes when she was angry and never was a look more feline than that which flashed across her face at that moment. There was intense resentment in it, an emotion swiftly disguised but unmissable for its brief duration. This was the second time Catherine had refused her a place at court and she clearly regarded it as a snub, unlikely to be forgiven or forgotten.

  Less than a month later, Windsor and Westminster had been set buzzing with the scandalous news that the Duke of Gloucester had taken a mistress and flagrantly installed her as the chatelaine of Hadleigh Castle. Her name was Eleanor Cobham.

  Catherine had been almost incandescent with anger. ‘Not only has Gloucester humiliated and disparaged Jacqueline of Hainault, he has now made it more than clear that he expected me to provide his paramour with a place in my household in order to enable him to conduct a relationship with her under the noses of the king’s court! Now I am doubly glad that I did not include Damoiselle Cobham among my intimate companions. She and Gloucester have both rendered themselves utterly graceless in my eyes.’

  More regrettable to us all than Joanna Coucy’s departure had been that of the loveable and exuberant Joan Beaufort. Before the late king’s death, arrangements had been finalised for the ransom and return of his royal hostage, King James, to Scotland and a marriage between him and Lady Joan approved. Their wedding at the beautiful church of St Mary Overy in Southwark, with feasting at Bishop Beaufort’s nearby episcopal palace, was the first opportunity for celebration and merrymaking after the extended period of mourning for the dead king. Immediately afterwards, the newlyweds left for their restored northern kingdom. It cannot have been an easy throne-coming for the couple, but I must admit it pleased me greatly that the pretty girl who had once removed a stone so skilfully from my mare’s hoof now wore a crown. After nearly four years of marriage, Queen Joan of Scotland was already the mother of two daughters and presumably praying for a son. I had no doubt that she provided invaluable and practical advice to her royal spouse and was a hands-on mother to her children.

  After telling her staff that she was no longer to be a part of young Henry’s life and once she was alone with her ladies in her bedchamber, Catherine announced that she would cease to wear the barbe, the uniform of widowhood. ‘Now that my son is to be taken from me, I do not see that it has any meaning. I am only twenty-six and I am not a nun; why should I hide my throat from view? Agnes, you may take it off!’

  Agnes de Blagny, quiet and obliging as ever, hastened to remove the offending neck-curtain and its accompanying wimple from her mistress’s head. Freed from its tight frame, Catherine’s appearance of nun-like severity was returned to a familiar luminous beauty. Joanna Belknap fetched a comb, released the long pale-gold hair from its knot at the nape of her neck and began to braid it.

  ‘You should marry again, Madame,’ said Agnes sympathetically. ‘You might have more children.’

  Catherine pursed her lips doubtfully. ‘Hmm. I think the council would consider that a contentious issue.’

  ‘I do not see why,’ protested Agnes.

  ‘The man I marry would become the king’s step-father. That is a position of some power.’

  ‘I had not thought of that,’ Agnes confessed. ‘But they cannot require you to remain single and celibate against your wishes.’

  ‘They can do anything!’ Catherine put scornful stress on ‘they’. ‘It would be a different matter if I were on the council of regency. Then I might be able to influence proceedings.’

  This was a sore point. A month after her husband’s burial, she had spent a humiliating afternoon arguing her case for a place on the council, but the assembled lords had unanimously and unhesitatingly rejected her claim, as if she had suggested placing a viper in their midst. Her only consolation was that they had also refused to make Humphrey of Gloucester regent, appointing him only protector of the realm, which curtailed his powers and angered him considerably.

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind as a candidate for your hand, Madame?’ I asked curiously. I had not noticed her favouring one particular lord over another. ‘Perhaps you are looking abroad?’

  This suggestion inspired a vehement shake of the head. ‘No, no, Mette. I would not leave England while my son is here! Besides, English people distrust foreigners, have you not noticed?’

  Joanna Belknap brought a coronet and veil and began to fit them around the braids now coiled at Catherine’s temples, commenting indignantly, ‘Not all English people, your grace!’

  ‘Very well, Belknap, I agree that there are some exceptions, but you cannot deny that many of the laws of England restrict what foreigners can and cannot do. For instance Owen Tudor told me that Welsh people are not allowed to brew ale or bake bread, even within their own borders. The English have the monopoly of these essential commodities and can therefore wilfully overcharge for the basic necessities of life. My lord’s father enforced that law after the Welsh rebellion.’

  ‘That is true, Madame,’ nodded Belknap, ‘and marriage between the Welsh and the English is forbidden except by special licence, which carries with it a substantial fine and loss of status for the English partner.’

  ‘Master Tudor believes that the English hate the Welsh even more than the French, despite the crucial role their archers play in France,’ Catherine remarked with a hollow laugh. ‘Prejudice is not logical.’

  However, despite being Welsh, Owen Tudor had played his harp rhapsodically at King Henry’s funeral and had been appointed a Squire of the Chamber to the baby king. In recent months he had taken particular pride in teaching young Henry the rudiments both of archery and music, but he was chiefly responsible for administering and organising the guard on both the king’s and the queen mother’s apartments, so we frequently encountered him on our daily visits to the nursery. At Catherine’s suggestion and with the encouragement of the young king’s elderly uncle and official guardian, the Duke of Exeter, Owen had also arranged frequent excursions and games in the gardens and parkland around Windsor castle with other young children chosen from among courtiers’ families. He had come to be regarded as someone who could be relied on to devise activities and amusements and occasionally administer discipline in a kind and constructive way. I know that Catherine believed that, for a little boy otherwise surrounded by female nursemaids and governesses, such a young, strong and masculine presence in his life was of great value. Now that a whole posse of male tutors and custodians had been officially appointed for the king in Owen’s stead, I was not surprised to learn that Catherine had taken steps to retain the services of someone whom she had found to be utterly reliable.

  ‘As a matter of fact, today Owen Tudor has been appointed my new master of the wardrobe,’ Catherine announced, a hint of glee in her voice, ‘which may give the grey-beards on the council something to splutter about at their next meeting but, happily, they have no jurisdiction over appointments to my new staff.

  ‘Master Tudor will take responsibility for the business side of the household, working with my treasurer and receiver-general, who have yet to be appointed. All the domestic servants will report to him and he will supervise my dower manors which, as you know are scattered around the country. He is to set out tomorrow to inspect the various residences at my disposal so that arrangements can be made to prepare one for our occupation. He will also be responsible for our security. We will need our own detachment of guards. It is a heavy burden he assumes, but I am sure he will be diligent and thorough in his undertakings.’

  I was delighted for Owen. At twenty-seven this new post represented a timely promotion for him and would release him from daily duties which had sometimes been more akin to those of a children’s nurse rather than a courtier. Of course running the dowager queen’s household would take him away from the king’s favour, but all real opportunity and influence had long ago gravitated to Westminster, where the chief crown officials and council members kept their households and somehow I did not see the archer-musi
cian flourishing in the field of politics and diplomacy. If he did not want to go back to fighting the French wars, then a job that made him effectively the dowager queen’s right-hand man should suit him well. I did not encounter him before he left to begin his tour of inspection, but I imagined Master Tudor was in buoyant mood.

  ‘I have come to say farewell, my lady mother.’ The king’s treble voice held a slight tremor but by no other sign did the boy betray any emotion. At six years old the young Henry already displayed some of his father’s ability to disguise his feelings; a useful attribute in a king, I thought, but a sad skill to practice on your mother. He was a solemn boy, tall for his age with a pale, oval face that reminded me a little of Catherine’s brother Charles, perhaps because of the Valois set of his nose, already long (too long some might say) and straight, which might suit the man he would become better than the boy he now was. His shoulders were square and he held himself erect, but there was always a dreamy look in his eyes, as if his mind was not completely focussed, away somewhere in a dream or a prayer. Even at such a tender age he was of a markedly religious bent and would often have to be called away from his prie dieu to attend lessons.

  Queen Catherine sat, calm and smiling, in a crimson-draped chair. The parting was taking place in the king’s presence chamber because Catherine’s goods and furnishings had already been packed into barges to be transported by river to Hertford Castle, where it had now been decided she would start her new life. ‘I hope you have enjoyed the festive holiday, Henry,’ she said. They addressed each other in French because she was determined he should speak it as his mother tongue but, of course, he also spoke English and was already learning Latin.

  ‘Oh yes. I think the choir here at Windsor very fine and the Christmas services were beautiful, but I did not much like all the japes and jests at the Twelfth Night feast.’ He climbed into the throne-like chair on the dais beside his mother’s and sat there awkwardly, legs dangling. He wore a scarlet sable-trimmed doublet and soft draped black hat and his curious speckled eyes roamed the faces of the assembled courtiers as if seeking evidence that they agreed with his observations.

  With an instinctive motherly gesture Catherine reached out to arrange his short mantle for him, receiving a frown of annoyance for her pains, which she ignored. ‘Indeed?’ Her brows rose in enquiry. ‘What did you not like about them?’

  On Twelfth Night there had been the usual merrymaking, with a Lord of Misrule chosen by lottery from among the squires and pages of the household. The youth who drew the black bean from among the white ones in the closed bag took charge of the entertainment, with carte blanche to call on anyone or anything that might supply amusement for the revellers. His first act had been to demand that the king swap places with him so that he could rule the feast from the throne and as Henry good-naturedly made his way down the hall to the lower trestles he had been presented with a scroll on which a poem was inscribed that he was ordered to read. Luckily it had not been bawdy, but it had been scurrilous, making irreverent mention of the Bishop of London’s substantial paunch and the various bodily shortcomings of other clerics, and it had quickly become obvious that the pious young king was not comfortable reading it. However his blushes and mumblings had only increased the raucous laughter from the assembled diners, so that the new ‘king’ of the banquet had yelled for him to speak up. At a Twelfth Night feast even the King of England had to dance to the tune of the Lord of Misrule.

  ‘I do not think the king’s grace should be made to insult a bishop of the Church,’ Henry had declared loudly so that everyone should hear. ‘I do not mind a joke, but such rudeness as was in that poem is an offence to Our Lord and His hierarchy.’

  Catherine smiled sympathetically. ‘Yes, I agree that it was a bit naughty, but that is the point of misrule, is it not? We must all learn to accept a joke against ourselves otherwise we become puffed up with too much pride.’

  Henry sniffed. ‘When I am really king I shall abolish misrule,’ he said primly.

  Some thought the young king’s piety excessive and believed that his love of prayer and Church ritual prevented him developing other important skills, such as military prowess. Among them was the Earl of Warwick, who had noticed his unwillingness to play with wooden swords and shields and his preference for music and bible stories.

  ‘There are too many women around him,’ Warwick had reportedly complained to the council of regency during the debate on the king’s future. ‘Women make a man weak. King Henry should be starting to train for knighthood.’

  Catherine turned now to the earl, who stood protectively within earshot of his new charge. ‘I urge you to take very good care of my son, my lord of Warwick. I know that in the absence of his own father there can be no better man to teach him knightly skills, but I beg you to remember that one day he will be married and his queen will require him to have at least some knowledge and understanding of the gentle arts.’

  The earl bowed punctiliously. The charming gallant, who had been so instrumental in bringing about Catherine’s marriage to the young king’s father, had not lost any of his diplomatic tact. ‘My own son is not yet two, your grace, but I assure you that yours will receive all the training in social graces that I deem essential for my heir. I can offer no more to the son of my old friend and comrade in arms, whose memory we both hold so dear.’

  Catherine gave him a brief smile. Her admiration for Richard of Warwick, once that of a star-struck young girl for a celebrated and handsome chevalier, was now tempered by the high-handed way he had usurped parental control over her son. ‘I will hold you to that, my lord,’ she said. ‘I trust that you will care for him as if I were hovering at your shoulder, watching your every move.’

  As she spoke, the town bells began to ring for Tierce. The days were short and it was already full light. We would need to start for Hertford if we were to reach it by dark. The Earl of Warwick coughed loudly into his hand.

  Catherine looked at him sharply. ‘You are impatient, my lord. Impatient to send me from my son’s side, but he will not forget his mother, of that you may be sure.’ She turned back to her son and kissed his soft, childish cheek. His bottom lip was now visibly trembling. ‘You must hold that kiss in your heart, Henry, for I think you will not have another until we meet again at Easter.’

  Under the archway of the main entrance to St George’s Hall the king knelt before his mother for her blessing, baring his bright auburn head for the touch of her hand. She managed to keep her voice steady as she called for God’s blessing and protection on her little son, then she took a deep breath, wrapped her sable-lined riding cloak around her shoulders and descended the steps to where the earl himself waited to hold her stirrup while she mounted her palfrey. An escort of a hundred royal guards would accompany her to Hertford Castle, where Owen Tudor had been sent ahead to prepare the royal palace for the young dowager queen’s life of retirement.

  From the steps the little king gave a slow, sad wave, but with brimming eyes fixed on her horse’s ears Catherine did not see it. The warm breath of horses and riders condensed to steam in the chill January air, clouding us in a faint mist as we trotted under the Norman gatehouse and past the Round Tower, riding out to a new and unknown future.

  20

  The biggest drawback to Hertford Castle was that once inside the gates it was difficult to see anything of the surrounding countryside, unless you climbed up to the battlements on the high curtain wall. The great hall, the chapel and all the living quarters were clustered together around a central court and were built long and low so that they nestled under the parapets, shutting off all sight of the outside world except to those soldiers who kept watch from the towers. It produced the same sense of confinement as a convent, when all activity is enclosed in stone and incense robs the air of freshness. In a small inner court there was a formal garden, but it was laid out in straight lines with pebble paths and little hedges and, despite being open to the sky, proved nearly as restrictive as the gloomy stairways
and passages of the royal apartments. It was no wonder that Catherine quickly established a daily habit of riding out into the well-tended hunting park outside the walls.

  The two remaining Joannas accompanied her on these excursions, along with a detachment of guards and frequently Owen Tudor and Walter Vintner, who had been recruited as her chief clerk. This was an appointment which had delighted me because I maintained a close correspondence with his father, Geoffrey, who had spent several years in Rouen attached to the new Council of Normandy, where he had legally secured many land titles and estates which had been granted to English knights and nobles as a reward for their efforts in the campaign that had won the territory back from the French crown. Much of the dowager queen’s business was conducted during these rides, when Owen and Catherine would discuss arrangements and problems and Walter would take notes in order to write letters and keep records afterwards.

  I often joined the rides also, because I liked to exercise Genevieve myself, being absurdly fond of my faithful and sturdy palfrey. However, on Shrove Tuesday, I had elected to remain in the castle to supervise arrangements for the traditional feast to mark the transition into Lent. It was a sin to allow good food to go to waste over the six weeks of fasting and so, as was the custom, before dusk we would all assemble together to eat and drink as much as we wished and the leftovers would be distributed to the poor of the surrounding villages, some of whom were already assembling in the outer bailey to await their share. So I was not among the excursion party who encountered a colourful cavalcade of knights and horsemen advancing unexpectedly on the castle from the south.