Alerted by a trumpet blast and a loud clanging of the bell on the watch-tower, Agnes and I rushed to the main courtyard where there was much scuttling and scurrying among the grooms and stable lads, because instead of only ten horses returning from the usual ride there were suddenly thirty or more clattering over the drawbridge and under the gatehouse. Leading the procession with Catherine was a splendidly accoutred knight wearing half armour and identified by a blue standard bearing scattered fleurs-de-lys slashed diagonally by a red and white bend. It was not a crest familiar to me, but Agnes recognised it.
‘Those are the arms of the Counts of Mortain,’ she murmured in surprise, ‘but is that not Edmund Beaufort, the Duchess of Clarence’s son?’
It was indeed Edmund Beaufort, but a very much grander and more mature figure than the lanky squire we had last encountered at Windsor before the present king’s birth. The men at arms in his retinue all wore the Beaufort portcullis on their shoulders, but they also bore the Mortain arms on their pike pennants. It was very obvious that Margaret of Clarence’s youngest son had not only become a knight, but had also been granted tenure and title to a large part of Normandy. I wondered if Geoffrey Vintner might have drawn up the title deeds.
‘He must now be the Count of Mortain,’ marvelled Agnes, her eyes round with awe. ‘Who would have imagined?’
‘Not Catherine, I would wager,’ I murmured, turning on my heel. ‘I must go and warn the kitchen.’
No sooner had I briefed the cooks, than a message came for me to attend the queen and I hurried up from the kitchens to Catherine’s private solar off the great hall. The hall itself, as I passed through, was crowded with soldiers, members of Edmund’s retinue whose loud calls for refreshments had servants scurrying about with flagons of wine and pewter cups. Hertford was a sprawling castle, but our relatively small household was not sufficiently staffed to manage such a sudden influx.
When the chamberlain admitted me, I found Catherine and Edmund seated on either side of the hearth in her well-lit private chamber whose walls were hung with bright-coloured tapestries depicting scenes of English legend; an ancient king receiving the swords of a surrendering garrison on one, a queen begging the lives of hostages outside a besieged city on another. Hardly appropriate for a lady’s solar, I considered, but Hertford Castle had a colourful history, which Catherine was explaining to Edmund.
‘Believe it or not, my ancestor King John of France was housed here as a prisoner of King Edward the Third; and thirty years ago it was where my eldest sister Isabelle came to live as the child-queen of King Richard,’ she told him with a nervous laugh. ‘Neither of them can have been very happy, I imagine.’
Edmund echoed her laugh, but on a merrier note. ‘We shall have to try and cheer the place up,’ he said. ‘I am glad to have arrived before Lent so that we can have a proper celebration of our reunion. I have much to tell you of the situation in France.’
Catherine caught sight of me and beckoned me forward. ‘That is why I summoned Madame Lanière. You remember her, do you not? She is still my beloved companion and loyal servant.’
Edmund acknowledged me with a smile and a nod of the head. ‘I do indeed remember Mette. She once did me the honour of riding pillion behind me during my time as your squire.’
Disconcertingly I found myself blushing, remembering the days when I had been unable to ride my own horse and was obliged to undertake some excruciatingly uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing journeys in Catherine’s wake. I bent my knee dutifully to the count. ‘I am glad to say that I ride my own horse these days, my lord,’ I responded.
‘I thought you would be interested in the progress of the war in France, Mette.’ Catherine gestured towards a stool set behind and to one side of her. Its placement indicated my role – I was to listen but not participate. Catherine was acutely conscious of the need for a chaperone when entertaining male guests. As Queen Mother, any whiff of scandal that reached the ears of the regency council might prompt them to further restrict her access to the king.
Edmund cleared his throat. ‘I think it safe to say that, at present, our English lions fly at their highest over France, Madame. My lord of Bedford and the Earl of Salisbury are even now drawing up plans to invest a siege of Orleans and once that city is taken, the whole of the south will open up to us.’
Catherine shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. News of England’s successes always indicated losses on her brother’s part. ‘Is that so? And will you be returning for that campaign, Edmund?’
‘I will certainly be returning to France because my estates in Normandy require much attention, but whether I will take part in the siege I do not know. I have still to pursue the matter of my brother’s ransom but, while the Duke of Orleans remains a prisoner in England, I cannot see him being released.’
‘So that is what brought you back to England.’ Catherine gave him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘It is good to see you, but if you have won yourself such lands and honours I think you must be much in demand across the Sleeve.’
To the complete surprise of both of us, Edmund suddenly flung himself to his knees beside Catherine’s chair. ‘I came back for one very good reason, Madame,’ he said breathlessly, ‘to put an important proposition to you.’ He took one of her hands in his and continued what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. ‘I will come straight to the point. My lady mother informs me that you may be of a mind to re-marry now that the king has a separate household. Would you think it presumptuous of me to ask whether you might consider a match with me? You know I have always held you in the highest esteem and I dare to think that a marriage with someone like myself might be exactly what you need.’
He looked only slightly sheepish as he hastened to boast his credentials. ‘I am landed now, but not so greatly that I might be anything but a loyal subject of your son. I am also of the blood royal, though as a younger son not too close to the succession. Most importantly of all, I am young and vigorous and think you the most beautiful woman on earth. There – I can put it no plainer than that.’
He came to an abrupt halt and set her hand to his lips in an ardent salute before fixing her with an enquiring gaze. Catherine was staring at him in amazement and I suddenly realised that I had risen to my feet, perhaps with some crazy idea of curtailing excessive advances. Edmund’s proposal had come out of the blue.
‘I … I am honoured,’ Catherine stuttered, nonplussed by this assured approach by a man whom she had scarcely had time to appreciate was no longer a boy to be teased and ordered about. ‘I do not know what to say, Edmund. You have taken me completely by surprise.’
I sheepishly resumed my seat as Catherine shook her head in bewilderment. I could sense her regarding him differently, weighing him up as a lord and partner and found myself doing the same, studying his honest face and candid grey eyes, which were twinkling at her now, kindly and without guile. He looked confident, intelligent and capable. Perhaps Catherine might even find him attractive.
‘Your suggestion is very interesting to me, Edmund,’ she said gravely. ‘I will give it the serious consideration it deserves.’
He sat back in his chair, suddenly relaxed and I guessed that his proposal had cost him more mental stress than he showed. ‘I am glad,’ he said. ‘There is no great hurry for your answer, except my own impatience of course. I return to France next year and very much hope you will come with me as my countess.’
Catherine inclined her head in my direction. ‘Pour some wine please, Mette, and we will drink to future possibilities.’
When I brought the two cups to them, they stood and raised them in a toast. The sudden change in their relationship hovered between them like a phantasm.
‘There is just one more thing,’ said Edmund suddenly, taking her cup and turning to place them both on a nearby table. Then, swinging round, he gathered her into his arms with gentle ardour and kissed her on the mouth. It was not a snatched kiss from an awkward admirer, but a long and businesslike statemen
t of intent from a man of confidence and experience and she showed no inclination to repulse it. When their lips finally parted, he gazed intently down at her. ‘It would not be a marriage of convenience, you know, Catherine.’
It was the first time he had ever used her name.
In France we call Shrove Tuesday Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, more apt in my opinion because although we were all shriven by the priest before sunset, the hours between that and midnight were given over to feasting and merry-making. On this occasion Catherine and Edmund sat side by side at the high table, sharing a cup and offering each other choice morsels of meats and sweetmeats. It was the first time since the death of her charismatic husband that I had witnessed her really come alive and it did my heart good to see it. With them sat the priest, Maître Boyers, Edmund’s two knight-captains and the two Joannas, invited there to entertain the men. In the body of the hall the actions of the hostess and her principal guest caused plenty of nudging and winking among Edmund’s louder and less courtly retainers and beside me Agnes expressed mild shock at her widowed friend’s lively demeanour, as if two well-matched and unattached people were not allowed to flirt a little during a Fat Tuesday feast without bringing the wrath of God down upon their handsome coroneted heads.
Along with Agnes and me at the ‘reward’ table on the dais, a trestle set for Catherine’s officials to one side of the high table, sat Owen Tudor, Walter Vintner and Thomas Roke, a young London lawyer who had been appointed her Receiver-General. At first Owen spoke little and kept his eyes firmly on his trencher, leading me to suspect that he too was surprised and not a little shocked by this sudden turn of events.
I sought to lighten Owen’s mood by telling him the reason for it. ‘Perhaps you should not spread this fact around generally, but the Count of Mortain has made a proposal of marriage to Queen Catherine,’ I told him. ‘It is very likely that they will marry quite soon and it does not look to me as if they should wait too long.’
Owen lifted his head and I noticed with surprise that his eyes were clouded with concern. ‘She looks happy,’ he said, ‘and that worries me. Her grace has had enough heartbreak in her life. She does not need more.’
I frowned, suddenly wary. ‘What do you mean? Do you know something about the count? Is he perhaps not free to marry?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. You are right. They would suit each other well, perhaps a little too well for some people.’
Thomas Roke leaned around my shoulder to address Owen. ‘I take it you have heard the rumours on your travels, Master Tudor?’
I swivelled to look at him. He was a solid young man, ruddy-faced and broad-beamed, with the air of someone who would brook no opposition – a useful characteristic for a receiver-general whose job was to travel around Catherine’s dower manors collecting rents and checking crops and tallies. He was actually Walter’s brother-in-law, having married his sister Anne several years ago, the eventual result of a secret love affair which had been the cause of some distress at the time to their father, my friend Geoffrey Vintner, with whom I still maintained an intermittent correspondence. Geoffrey had not approved of his legal apprentice courting his daughter, but once Thomas had qualified he had been persuaded to give his permission for the marriage to take place. The young lawyer had turned up at Hertford only a few days after Catherine’s household had moved in, with impressive letters of recommendation and a courteous and obliging manner, which contrasted with his stolid appearance. Catherine had appointed him on three months trial and so far he had justified her trust in him. Now he was about to prove that he kept his ear to the ground and had a nose for political intrigue.
Owen sipped from his wine cup. ‘Madame’s retirement has been the subject of much discussion in the inns and taverns. It is hard to ignore it.’
Thomas nodded solemnly. ‘And in London, particularly, many rumours are rife that she has been sent from court because her lewd behaviour was corrupting the young king.’
‘What!’ My cry of disbelief was so violent that I clapped a hand across my mouth to stem it, continuing in a muffled whisper. ‘Are you telling me that people believe she is wanton? That she behaves lasciviously? When nothing could be further from the truth!’
Thomas regarded me with patient disparagement. ‘Truth is never paramount in the minds of rumour-mongers, Madame. When it comes to spreading gossip about royals and nobles, they tell the stories that glean the most gleeful reactions. People love to think that their lords and masters – or lady in this case – are no better than they should be.’
‘But who is starting these terrible rumours about Queen Catherine?’ Agnes asked indignantly. ‘And what exactly do they say?’ We must have looked like a gaggle of gossips ourselves as we sat hunched over our trenchers, talking in urgent whispers and frequently stopping in mid-sentence so that passing servers and stewards should not hear.
Owen Tudor gave an awkward cough. ‘If we tell you both, I do not want the story spreading to the other ladies, or more importantly to the queen herself. I do not wish her to think for a minute that I either believe it or condone the spreading of it.’
He looked so stricken at the thought of this that I hastened to reassure him. ‘I promise I will not tell another soul,’ I said, ‘unless I discuss it with you first. For there may come a time when the queen needs to be told.’
Agnes echoed my assurances. ‘I will never speak of what I do not believe either,’ she said.
Owen pondered this for a moment then nodded sharply at Walter, who had so far sat silent and goggle-eyed at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘The same goes for you, Master Clerk. Not a word.’
Walter inclined his head to indicate agreement as Thomas Roke glanced about for eavesdroppers before launching into his full account. ‘You may know already that the Duke of Gloucester is very popular among the merchants and burgesses of London. He cultivates them because he knows they are a good source of finance for the French campaign. So if he wants to sow the seeds of a rumour that is where he does it, in the inns and exchanges of the Cheape. And that is where I first heard the gossip about Queen Catherine.’
‘And what exactly did it say?’ I asked. ‘Was it just generally malicious or did it name names and make specific allegations?’ I felt sick at the thought that drunken men in seedy taverns had been bad-mouthing my sweet and unimpeachable lady. A similar thing had happened in Paris during the Terrors, but then the rumours were about her mother’s rash expenditure and adulterous liaisons and they at least had more than a little grounding in truth. I seethed at the thought that without cause or justification, Catherine was being tarred with the same brush as Queen Isabeau.
‘No, it did not name names, for that could have led to litigation. Instead there were scurrilous stories of banquets and entertainments at Windsor when the king had been compelled to watch naked tumblers and bawdy jesters and Queen Catherine had danced lewdly with knights and squires and wantonly exposed her hair and throat to open view.’ I must have looked utterly horrified, for Master Roke gave an apologetic shrug and added, ‘I am only relating what I heard, Madame. We all know that none of it is true.’
It was not, but I could see where the roots of it lay. Catherine’s immediate reaction at being denied a role in her son’s further upbringing had been to put aside the widow’s barbe and wimple and wear her jewels and fashionable gowns at the Christmas festivities at Windsor. It did not take much exaggeration to turn golden hair braided into mesh nets and the absence of any neck covering into ‘wanton exposure of the hair and throat’. But how a few Twelfth Night pranks had turned into ‘naked tumbling and lewd dancing’, I could not credit.
‘You imply that these rumours originated in the Gloucester camp,’ I persisted, ‘but why should the Duke of Gloucester have any reason to smear the reputation of the Queen Mother, of all people?’
Owen Tudor scratched his head. ‘That is what puzzles me. Her grace has no power in the land, no influence in the regency council; so Gloucester can have no axe to gr
ind with her.’
I said nothing, but I suspected we should not only be looking to the duke for a motive but perhaps also to the resentment of Eleanor Cobham, who had been twice rejected as a lady-in-waiting and had not been received by Catherine since becoming Gloucester’s mistress. Then Master Roke gave me even more food for thought.
‘While we are watching Queen Catherine enjoying the Count of Mortain’s company and considering a proposal of marriage from him, we should not forget that there is much bad blood between Gloucester and the House of Beaufort.’ Wielding his knife with relish, the stocky receiver-general stabbed a slice of fat pork and laid it carefully on his gravy-soaked trencher. ‘It is only three years since the duke and Cardinal Beaufort almost caused a civil war over who held sway in the council. As she dallies with Edmund Beaufort, her grace may be unaware that the cardinal is very likely to be behind this apparently innocuous offer of marriage. A step-father to the king can only become more powerful as our young sovereign grows older and any step-brothers would bear the name of Beaufort. There is a great deal in a name.’
21
The following day I stood with Catherine as she bade farewell to the Count of Mortain, who was riding to London to take part in a grand procession to mark the recent elevation of his uncle, the immensely rich and powerful Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, to the College of Cardinals. It was an appointment which Henry the Fifth had blocked, for fear that his rich and powerful uncle would owe a greater allegiance to Rome than to the English crown; but now the wily Beaufort had managed to bring the council around to the idea of England having its own representative in the Vatican conclave and the cardinal’s red hat was firmly on his head. Not a situation that met with the approval of the Duke of Gloucester.
The Tudor Bride Page 22