The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘Well, that was interesting, was it not? Have you been aware of vibrations between those two? And I do not mean the music.’

  I turned enough to let him hear my muttered reply. ‘I have not. And I do not believe they have either.’

  I had once or twice considered the possibility that Owen had a secret crush on Catherine; that this might be the reason for his apparent lack of interest in finding a wife or even taking a mistress, but now I began to wonder if the boot could be on the other foot. Could Catherine’s decision to marry Lord Edmund be a way of curing herself of amorous thoughts about someone else who would unquestionably be, as we French would put it, a mésalliance?

  Catherine and Owen rode out together as usual the next morning and I made a point of going too. Was it coincidence, I asked myself, that their conversation about whether to increase the sheep flock at one of her Essex manors was conducted in a more stilted manner than usual and that she did not invite him to gallop with her down her favourite grassy woodland ride? Was she reacting against feelings aroused the previous evening? Then, chastising myself for indulging in idle speculation, I kicked Genevieve into a canter and put the idea firmly out of my head. If there were any unspoken feelings between the queen and Owen, surely it was all on his side. Catherine had made up her mind to marry Edmund Beaufort.

  22

  The watchman can hardly have had time to recognise the Duke of Gloucester’s royal standard and boar’s head badge before he and his retinue galloped over the castle drawbridge at such a hectic pace that splinters flew up from the planking. Clouds of condensed breath billowed from their coursers’ flaring nostrils like steam from a row of kettles and afterwards the master of horse complained that most of them were so blown they were in danger of collapse.

  His mount had barely skidded to a halt before the duke flung himself from the saddle and hailed Owen Tudor who happened to be striding across the courtyard from the practice ground, damp with perspiration from an hour at the pell-post. ‘Hey, Tudor! Tell the queen dowager I want to see her now – and alone!’

  I had been in the dairy giving instructions to the maids but, drawn outside by the commotion and made instantly aware of Gloucester’s fury, I dodged around the mêlée of horses and hurried towards the private entrance to the royal apartments, from which I expected Catherine to emerge at any moment ready to start her morning ride. Unfortunately Gloucester spotted me and sprinted to intercept me as I reached the door at the foot of the access tower.

  ‘Ah, Madame Lanière, off to warn your mistress of my arrival? Let me save you the trouble.’ He pushed me roughly aside and wrenched the door open, running straight into Catherine, who was already at the foot of the spiral stair within. ‘Good day, your grace. I see you are free – excellent. I need to speak with you in private. Let me escort you back upstairs. Ladies, make yourselves scarce.’

  The menacing tone of this last order precluded any misunderstanding and the two cowed Joannas pressed themselves against the wall as he brusquely shoved Catherine past them and back up the uneven steps. Taken by surprise, she protested loudly as she was forced to climb, stumbling over her skirts. I followed close behind the duke, determined that he should not succeed in being alone with her. However, as we neared the top I was foiled by his sudden and vicious backward kick which sent me flying down several treads and into an arrow-slit embrasure on the spiral where I managed to halt my descent, suffering only a few minor bruises, a broken fingernail and severe blow to my dignity. Unfortunately, before I could recover and scramble up to the top, I heard the slam of the queen’s bedchamber door and the scrabble of the lock-peg being inserted from the inside. Whether anyone liked it or not, Gloucester was intent on having his private audience with Catherine and there was every sign that it would not be a pleasant social visit.

  However, there was one feature of these apartments at Hertford of which I hoped the duke might be unaware. A latrine, built into the buttress supporting this particular part of the castle, was accessible via a passage from both the queen’s bedchamber and the adjoining ante-room. Quickly tiptoeing through this room I took up a listening post in the latrine passage, hoping the duke would not realise the existence of a connecting door behind a hanging in the bedchamber, a door which I knew was unlocked because I had left it so after Catherine’s toilette earlier that morning. Frightened of being overheard, I fought to control my heavy breathing for my heart was pounding, partly from the headlong climb but also due to my agitation about her safety. Bitter experience had taught me that some men classed as noble and chivalrous definitely were not and I very much feared that Humphrey of Gloucester was one of them. I considered his treatment of Jacqueline of Hainault reprehensible and if he was behind the scurrilous stories circulating about Catherine, then I feared his attitude towards her was equally contemptuous.

  Pressing my ear to the door, I had barely begun to gather the gist of their conversation when I heard Owen Tudor creep up behind me. As the man in charge of the dowager queen’s security, he must have made himself aware of every nook and cranny of the castle and finding the queen’s bedchamber door locked against him, had instantly taken my own route through the deserted ante-room. I felt a profound sense of relief. Now, if a confrontation should be necessary, at least there were two of us to challenge the power of the duke. Owen did not speak, but bent close to the door to listen. In the narrow passage, the smell from the latrine mimicked our suspicions about the unwholesome nature of Gloucester’s business at Hertford.

  ‘What overblown sense of your own importance leads you to think that I wish to speak with you alone, my lord duke?’ Catherine’s voice was flint-hard. Her Valois temper had flared, but not enough for her to lose control.

  ‘What wild stretch of your fevered female imagination led you to believe that you could even consider marrying Edmund Beaufort?’ countered Gloucester, his tone thin as sour wine.

  ‘Nothing as wild as the urges that link you to Eleanor Cobham, I would wager. If you are looking for a misalliance, you need look no further than your own. By contrast, the Earl of Mortain and I make a perfect match. What possible objection could there be?’

  I thought I could hear Catherine’s voice coming gradually nearer, as if she was edging towards the door behind which Owen and I stood. It occurred to me that perhaps she was hoping to make her escape. The sound of hasty booted footsteps followed, then a scuffle and a sharp cry.

  ‘One word, Madame – Beaufort. The king’s mother – marry a Beaufort? Not while I protect the realm!’

  ‘Let – me – go!’ Catherine’s high-pitched, staccato protest was followed by a grunt of effort and a sudden squeal of pain from the duke.

  I took a sharp intake of breath and made to open the door, but Owen raised his hand in warning.

  Catherine gave a little crow of triumph. ‘Hah! That will teach you not to lay hands on the king’s mother! I trust you will not be fit to pleasure your paramour for several days.’

  My eyes rolled in surprise and I saw Owen’s mouth twitch. Gloucester’s response emerged in short, agonised bursts.

  ‘French bitch! But be sure that I will give her pleasure – which is more than you will get – from any man – ever again. I shall – see to that.’

  ‘Empty words, my lord. A bully’s threat which carries no substance. I shall marry whoever I choose – be he Beaufort, Beaumont or Beauchamp – and you cannot prevent me.’

  There was a purposeful rustle of skirts and the noise of the lock being released on the bedchamber door. The hinges creaked. ‘You have my permission to leave, my lord duke.’ Catherine spat out this dismissal with venom and I could imagine her holding the open door, proudly defying him.

  Gloucester made no move that was audible, but his speech sounded steadier than before. ‘Mark my words Madame, Dowager, I will make it not only impossible for you to marry Edmund Beaufort, but impossible for you to marry at all. Then how will you quench the lust you hoped to slake in Beaufort’s bed?’

  In the pause wh
ich followed, I held my breath, wondering what Catherine’s reaction to this malicious taunt would be.

  She spoke slowly and clearly, as if to an imbecile. ‘Lust is your bedfellow, my lord of Gloucester. Take it away with you, if you can walk.’

  There was another pause, then Humphrey of Gloucester laughed – a deep-throated, salacious, sneering laugh of a kind I had heard only once before, when I had been raped by butchers during the Paris Terror; and it had the same effect on me now as it had then, fear and disgust turning my blood to ice and my limbs to jelly. I grabbed the wall for support and felt rather than saw Owen Tudor turn and hurry back down the dark passage. Meanwhile, Gloucester’s laughter ceased and his scorn-filled voice took over. ‘I laugh, sister, at the thought of you and Henry together, for you are all heat and hunger, which a man of his cold humours could never have satisfied. But I can, believe me. So – when you are no longer able to contain the fire between your legs, I will come and quench it for you. You will welcome me then, because there will be no husband for you; no marriage contract; no union of flesh with flesh. When I have finished, even your son will not want to know you. You will be nothing and nobody. Your future is blank.’

  Suddenly Owen Tudor was to be heard arriving on the scene as if unaware of its ugly drift. ‘Forgive the interruption, your grace. The Duke of Gloucester asked me to inform you of his arrival, but I see he has pre-empted my task.’

  As she responded, I could hear the depth of Catherine’s relief at Owen’s presence. ‘The duke is just leaving, Master Tudor,’ she said. ‘Please see that he and his men are offered refreshment before they depart. They are scarcely welcome, but I would not wish to be accused of being inhospitable.’

  At last I heard Gloucester stamp off to the other side of the room. ‘What took you so long, Master Tudor? If this is an example of the speed with which your servants obey instructions, Madame, your household must run like a fat duck.’

  It was Catherine’s turn to laugh, a bitter chuckle. ‘I see what my dear lord, your brother, meant when he lamented your lack of judgement, Humphrey. Fortunately I have never had cause to question Master Tudor’s. He arrived at precisely the right moment. Now it is your time to leave.’

  However Gloucester could not leave without one last, veiled insinuation. ‘Farewell, Madame. Until our next meeting, when I predict I shall have no complaints about the warmth of your welcome.’

  Gingerly I pulled open the passage door and peered around the concealing tapestry, only to see the furred edge of Gloucester’s short gown disappearing from view. Catherine took one step back into the room before the blood suddenly drained from her face, her knees buckled and Owen just managed to catch her before she crumpled to the floor.

  23

  Paradoxically, Catherine recovered consciousness filled with renewed energy. She remembered nothing of being caught by Owen and laid carefully on her bed, but vividly recalled every word of Gloucester’s threats and promises, which fuelled a fierce anger in her against at the evil intentions of yet another man of power.

  ‘I was just a girl when the Duke of Burgundy defiled me, Mette. I am no longer a girl but a queen and I will not allow the ugly ambitions of any man to ruin my chance of happiness, even if he is the Protector of England. I shall write to Edmund at once, of course, but I will also write to those members of the council who have shown me kindness in the past. Perhaps between us we can spike Humphrey’s malice.’

  Couriers went out that day with letters to Lord Edmund and Cardinal Beaufort, to the Earl of Warwick, the recently ennobled Lord Hungerford, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop William Grey of London. But of them all, only the bishop wrote a reply that offered anything other than platitudes and excuses. Even the cardinal, who Catherine thought Edmund would have consulted and might therefore prove a powerful ally, wrote to say that as the appointed papal legate to Hungary and Bohemia, he was leading a crusade against heretic Hussites and would be out of the country for the foreseeable future. The reason for this general lack of support became clear when Edmund made his second visit to Hertford a fortnight later, full of youthful indignation.

  ‘I regret to say that we have fallen badly foul of Gloucester’s spite,’ he told Catherine, pacing about her solar in boots mud-splashed from his furious ride up the rain-sodden highway from London. ‘He has drafted an act for the next parliament which forbids you, as queen dowager, to marry without the permission of the king or, prior to his majority, of the council of regency, and it specifies that any man who flouts this ruling will forfeit his land tenure and be subject to a heavy fine. Apparently Gloucester demanded an increase of his powers as Protector, which the council unanimously refused to grant. You can imagine his fury. In compensation they have agreed to back this heinous Marriage Act in parliament, and it will therefore be passed on the nod.’

  Edmund’s cheeks were flushed with mortification as he knelt at her feet and took her hand between both of his. ‘But we need not be defeated, Catherine – your grace. It is only the law of England which forbids us to marry. I hold my lands and title in Normandy and there has been no such act there. We could cross to Mortain and marry.’

  Catherine regarded him fondly, letting him kiss her hand in an attempt at earnest persuasion, but she shook her head. ‘No, Edmund. I would not be the cause of any danger to you or any loss of the rewards you have earned for your faithful service to the crown. This marriage would jeopardise your future and that of your family. They might seize your brother’s estates here in England and then what would finance his ransom? And there is no knowing whether a similar law might be passed in Normandy, making us paupers and total outcasts. Besides, I cannot contemplate going to Normandy and leaving my son in England, only to find myself barred from returning.’ Gently she withdrew her hand from his clasp. ‘You generously gave me time to consider my answer to your proposal. I have considered it and my answer, regretfully, is no.’

  Edmund tried further persuasion, even attempting to embrace her, but she was adamant in her refusal. ‘There will be another wife for you, Edmund. Your future will be brighter without me.’ She tried to laugh, but her throat caught on the sound.

  Edmund rose reluctantly, clasped his hands together and bowed in submission. ‘Very well, it seems I must admit defeat. But I want you to know that there will always be a special place for you in my heart, Catherine. You are the first love of my life. If I can ever be of service, you have only to send word. I beg you to consider me your knight to command.’

  Edmund swung round to address Agnes and me where we sat at a discreet distance, silent chaperones. ‘I charge you two ladies to bear witness to this promise and to call me to her grace’s side if ever she should need me, whether she orders it or not.’

  I bowed my head in mute acquiescence, speculating at the same time how soon it would be before Edmund Beaufort found himself an alternative wife. I judged him to be a resilient man whose emotions did not run unfathomably deep, and who would ride with the tide of the times, just as he would ride out of Hertford Castle with his honour and pride intact.

  For several days Catherine was downcast, saying little and obviously waging a battle with her inner demons. Marriage to Edmund had offered the chance of a purposeful life as the wife of an up-and-coming peer of the realm and the mother of more children. Now this future looked impossible, for no man of substance would sacrifice his family lands or his own fortune, even to become the stepfather of the king. To rub salt in the wound, the day after Edmund’s visit she received the king’s response to her explanatory letter to him. It was written in his own childish script, but manifestly the content had been dictated.

  —ξξ—

  To Her Grace the Dowager Queen Catherine from her son Henry, King of England and France,

  My beloved lady mother,

  After receiving your last letter with news of the Count of Mortain’s offer of marriage, I have thought and prayed long and hard. As you suggest, if God were to be gracious enough to grant you children from such
a marriage I would, of course, be bound to welcome them as my brothers or sisters. From our brief acquaintance I have personally found Edmund Beaufort of sound and sober character, but I am advised by my governor, the Earl of Warwick, and other wise counsellors that it would not be appropriate for my mother to take a new husband while I am still of an age to be influenced by the affinities and opinions of a stepfather. Therefore I cannot in all conscience recommend this marriage to the Council of Regency.

  I dearly hope that we may soon meet together and that, meanwhile, God will keep you in good health as He does me.

  I am, as always, your loving son,

  Henricus Rex

  Written at Windsor this day Monday the nineteenth of March 1428.

  —ξξ—

  Catherine did not usually show me her letters from her son but this time, after she had read it, she handed it to me without speaking. When she saw that I had absorbed its contents, she said, ‘So you were right, Mette. They do vet my correspondence. I cannot even trust the words of my own son because they are not his.’ Her hand went to her forehead where she rubbed at the fine lines which had not been there a month ago. ‘Is there no one in the world of men whom I can trust?’

  I passed back the letter and gazed at her with troubled eyes. ‘It seems not, Mademoiselle.’

  Suddenly she reached out to open the small gold-banded chest in which she kept her most recent correspondence. ‘Perhaps you are wrong. There is one man who may be less full of self-interest than the rest. Where is that letter from Bishop Grey?’

  She riffled through the box and brought out a letter bearing a large official-looking seal. It was longer than most of the replies sent by the other council members from whom she had sought help and it took her several minutes to re-read it.