Owen fielded a miniscule sign of assent from Catherine before saying simply, ‘I told the queen that I loved her. That I have loved her ever since I first saw her in the light of the campfire at Melun.’
I was greatly affected by the way he spoke these words directly to Catherine, holding her gaze with his expressive brown eyes, as if what he was saying was meant only for her.
However, Geoffrey was not bamboozled by eloquent glances. ‘Yet she was already married then and your queen. Now she is the mother of the king. What gave you the impression that her grace would even hear such a declaration from a servant of her household? Did it not occur to you that it was a treasonous insolence?’
Owen tore his eyes from Catherine’s face and turned them indignantly on Geoffrey. ‘Of course it occurred to me, which is why I did not say anything for nearly eight years. But suddenly the time seemed right.’
‘Or, put it another way, Master Tudor. Suddenly you took advantage of a great lady in a state of distress over the terms of the Marriage Act. You thought you would strike while her guard was down.’
‘No. NO!’ For a moment Owen lost his calm but quickly regained it. ‘I know nothing of a Marriage Act. My declaration was made on an impulse inspired by the beauty around us, the privacy and the intense emotion of the moment. Nothing else in the world concerned me. I wanted to show my queen that she was not unloved and unwanted as she seemed to think she was.’ Once again he turned to look at Catherine and she held his gaze. ‘I want to make her happy, that is all. Bring some peace and well-being to her heart to give her strength.’
‘Or else you want to exploit her vulnerability to your own advantage.’
There was nothing affable about Geoffrey now, but Owen did not rise to his taunt. Instead he snatched off his soft chaperon and bowed his head, squashing the hat between his tense fingers. ‘My queen is far above me and beyond me, I know that. She has the power of patronage, but I ask for no reward other than to see her smile as she used to in the valley camp when she first married the great King Henry.’ He raised his head and there was anguish in his eyes. ‘She deserves to be happy again, Master Vintner. You must agree with me surely.’
‘We do not measure our lives in happiness, Master Tudor,’ Geoffrey said sternly, ‘even though we may like to. Her grace is the mother of the king, with a responsibility to set him an example. How would being loved by a squire of her household appear in the eyes of her son? Did you think of that when you made your selfish declaration?’
Catherine could stay silent no longer. ‘Please, Master Vintner, stop! You are making something beautiful sound ugly and horrible. We are not here to put Owen on trial.’
I was relieved to see that Geoffrey was instantly contrite. ‘I am sorry, your grace, but I consider it important to be sure that Master Tudor’s intentions are good.’ He spread his hands apologetically and sat back in his chair. ‘Now I think we have established that.’
Catherine’s copy of the vexatious Marriage Act lay on the table beside her. She picked it up and fiddled nervously with the official red ribbon that tied the scrolled document. In the tense pause that followed, colour gradually flooded her cheeks as she struggled for the right words. ‘You cannot have seen this, Owen. It is the law which was passed by Parliament regarding my future. It is not very long. Would you read it please?’
He made no move to take the document from her. ‘Regrettably my Latin is not good enough to read a legal document, Madame. Perhaps Master Vintner would list the main points for me.’
Owen listened intently to Geoffrey’s expert summary of the act’s stringent restrictions on the dowager queen’s re-marriage. When it was finished, the squire took a deep breath and exhaled audibly, ‘By all God’s Holy Angels, there is not much joy in that!’ His gaze swept the ceiling and he appeared to control his anger with great difficulty. ‘Whoever was responsible for such malice certainly did not want you to be happy, my queen!’
His fervour drew a fond smile from Catherine. ‘Just so, but you had to know what was in it because of what I am going to ask of you.’ She placed the offensive act back on the table and paused, clasping her hands tightly together, steadying herself for what was to follow: ‘This is not something I would normally ask in front of witnesses, but I think the circumstances require that I do.’
To the astonishment of all of us and to Owen’s wonderment, she rose from her chair and sank gracefully to her knees before him. ‘Yesterday, to my great joy, you told me you loved me. Then you knelt at my feet and gave me your oath of fealty. Now it is my turn. But I am a woman; honour and fealty are not enough for me if I am to have the happiness of returning your love. I need the blessing of the Church and the affirmation of the law. So, in full knowledge of what you have just heard and in the presence of witnesses, I am asking you, Owen Tudor, for love of me, if you will marry me.’
For the duration of a twenty heartbeats nobody said a word. Catherine looked steadily up at Owen, who returned her gaze with a bemused expression that was half awe and half disbelief. Gradually his hat with its jaunty green peacock’s feather slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘Before you answer, Master Tudor, I feel duty bound to remind you that in addition to the terms of the Marriage Act, there is the small matter of the ban on any marriage between an English citizen and a Welsh one and the possibility that marriage to the mother of the king may also be considered treasonous. You may wish to take time to consider your answer.’
Without breaking eye-contact with Catherine, Owen slid from his stool to his knees and took her hands in his. ‘I do not need any time to consider. I would marry you if I was England’s greatest earl, held half the kingdom and owned a chest full of gold, but all I have to offer is my harp and my bow. They are yours to command, my queen, and so am I. My answer is yes.’
Kneeling close together as they were, it only took moments for their arms to entwine like ivy round a tree trunk and their lips to join with such heedless passion that Geoffrey and I felt obliged to turn away. I returned the slow wink he gave me with a twitch of my lips and then, when reality eventually re-asserted its hold on the lovers, it was Geoffrey who found the right words.
‘I hereby bear witness that this is a bargain well sealed! And now, with God’s help, we must find a trustworthy priest who will perform the ceremony.’
Owen rose nimbly to his feet and helped Catherine to hers, gently kissing her hand before guiding her back to her chair. ‘I do not think that will be easy, Master Vintner,’ he said, resuming his own seat.
‘There is Maître Boyers, my confessor,’ Catherine suggested, her cheeks still flushed. ‘He has served me loyally for many years.’
‘And been well rewarded for it, Mademoiselle,’ I pointed out. ‘But he was appointed by the late king and is a court chaplain. If you want this to be a secret marriage, then perhaps you should take your vows before a priest who does not know either of you and use only your baptismal names.’
Catherine shifted her gaze from me to Geoffrey. ‘Would that be legal, Master Vintner?’
He nodded. ‘It would be legal and upheld by Rome, but it might not be accepted by the lords temporal and spiritual.’
‘You mean the bishops and barons?’ Catherine shrugged. ‘Well that is no matter, as long as it is good and true in the sight of God and my loyal friends. As for the restriction on marriages between English and Welsh, I have never been declared an English citizen even though I married the English king. That law would not apply to a Welshman and a Frenchwoman, would it?’
Geoffrey inclined his head, giving the question due consideration. ‘I do not see how it could, Madame,’ he acknowledged.
‘Then why should we not be married at Hadham?’ she asked, taking us all by surprise once more. ‘The seneschal said there was a priest but we did not meet him. So if I was to ask the bishop if I could stay at his manor anonymously and bring my own household and servants, there would be no one else there who knew who we we
re. We could be married just like any other inhabitant of Hadham by the local priest at that beautiful church.’
‘You would ask the bishop to remove his own servants, including the seneschal?’ It was Owen who spoke. ‘Supposing that meant they were suddenly without a livelihood, my queen? We would not wish to be the cause of hardship to others.’
Such a consideration had clearly not occurred to Catherine, who looked slightly shocked. ‘Oh! No. No, of course we would not. But the bishop is bound to be among the king’s Easter guests at Windsor and I will make sure that he undertakes to find new positions for his servants.’
My gaze wandered from Owen to Catherine and back again. The light of love still glowed in his deep-brown eyes, but his jaw was set firm and I realised that, despite the difference in rank, theirs would not be a one-sided partnership.
26
Catherine and her entourage had travelled to Windsor in good time for Easter. In the shelter of the castle’s high walls, the extensive herb garden in the lower ward already showed abundant spring growth and from the rows of newly planted seedlings it was evident that the king’s gardeners and herbalists had been busy. Agnes and I had walked down the hill from St George’s Hall, drawn outside partly by the warm April sunshine and partly to see if there were any camomile leaves available to lighten Catherine’s winter-darkened hair. Now that she had abandoned the widow’s barbe and wimple, her pale-gold tresses were once more on show under the nets and veils of her favoured headdresses and it pleased her that few English ladies could display hair of such a light colour. The Lenten days remaining, before the court displayed its best finery at the big Easter Sunday celebrations, left enough time for the welcome sunshine and some camomile rinses to lighten it even further.
As we entered the garden precincts, Agnes nudged me and pointed to the far end where a multi-coloured carpet of saffron crocus was flowering under a tree. Several kneeling gardeners were harvesting the full-blown blooms for their precious deep yellow stamens and nearby stood two women, one dressed in an elaborate fur-trimmed gown and eye-catching jewels and the other, who I recognised instantly, a plainly clad individual wearing a bleached apron and coif and carrying a basket.
Agnes turned to me, wide-eyed. ‘Is that not Eleanor Cobham? Blessed Marie, all those gems sparkle enough to blind you!’
I squinted in the bright sunshine. ‘You are right, it is Eleanor and she is definitely not hiding her light under a bushel. The other is Margery Jourdemayne,’ I said. ‘You remember, she was the assistant of the midwife at the king’s birth. They seem to have their heads together over something.’
‘As they did on that occasion as I recall – over some herbal concoction to ease the delivery. They have seen us so we are bound to approach.’ Agnes acknowledged the languid beckoning finger aimed in our direction by Eleanor. ‘We must remember that she is the Duchess of Gloucester now. A well-bent knee is required, Mette, or we may find ourselves badly out of her newly graced favour!’
‘Mademoiselle de Blagny and Madame Lanière,’ acknowledged Eleanor as we performed the necessary obeisance. She made no move to re-acquaint us with her low-born companion. ‘If you are here, I take it that the queen mother has emerged from her retirement? I wonder why I have not yet seen her at court.’
I thought it prudent to leave the reply to Agnes since a knight’s daughter outranks a baker’s. ‘Her grace arrived from Hertford only yesterday and dined privily with the king.’
‘Privily?’ queried Eleanor, elevating one of her fine dark eyebrows. ‘I doubt that. The king is never without his tutors and counsellors.’
Agnes ignored this comment. ‘Hence you would not yet have seen her, Madame. May I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your recent marriage? You must be happy to make a return to court yourself.’
As the Duke of Gloucester’s mistress, Eleanor had been obliged to live for several years in relative obscurity, but since the new pope had invalidated Humphrey’s marriage to Jacqueline of Hainault, he and Eleanor had been free to marry, an event which had been much disparaged behind their backs as a misalliance, but had satisfied court protocol. Any reference to the inglorious period of her enforced retirement must surely have riled the new duchess, but Eleanor showed no irritation since she had the gift of guile and her reappearance at Windsor for the king’s Easter celebrations was beyond doubt her triumph.
‘Oh I assure you that during a regal minority the throne is not the only seat of power and influence, Damoiselle. There are other courts and palaces to which the clever and ambitious flock.’
I could not resist putting in my pennyworth. ‘Even at Hertford we heard that the Duke of Exeter was hardly cold in his grave before the masons moved in at Greenwich. His grace of Gloucester no doubt has extensive plans there, now that the palace is his.’
‘It was sadly neglected by the old duke, but we intend to make it a centre of learning; a gathering place for intellectuals.’ Eleanor stressed the collective pronoun. ‘And I intend to extend my knowledge and cultivation of herbs, with the help of Mistress Jourdemayne here.’
Margery made a sketchy bob and smiled at me. ‘I remember you well, Madame Lanière. You played a crucial role at the birth of the king.’
‘As did you, Mistress Jourdemayne, and, God be thanked, his grace’s health continues good.’
Eleanor did not allow attention to be diverted from her duke for long. ‘As does the health of his kingdom under my lord’s guidance,’ she said. ‘You will understand that my time is limited. I give you good day.’
With Margery Jourdemayne in tow and the heavy train of her gown rattling the pebbles of the path, she swept away. The gardeners turned to tug at their hoods as she passed; a salute she affected to ignore, maintaining a haughty expression that showed just how much she relished every ounce of the privilege her ambition had brought her. At twenty-one, she had achieved all that vanity could have hoped for.
‘Our friend certainly learned a great deal from the Duchess of Hainault about playing the Grande Madame,’ Agnes murmured under her breath, watching her go.
I responded with a grim smile, but my thoughts were on Eleanor’s fascination with herbs, inherited from her Culpepper mother. I could not help wondering what kind of ‘work’ she and the even more skilled Margery Jourdemayne were engaged in together. I had always considered Eleanor to be shrewd and now that she was Duchess of Gloucester she was, more than ever, a force to be reckoned with. I hoped that while she was at Windsor, Catherine would manage to avoid seeing too much of the Gloucesters, for neither of them, it seemed to me, would make easy company for her.
Contact between them was of course unavoidable, and they were often together at court but never alone. On Easter Sunday, the day before we were due to leave, the royal party emerged from a glorious celebration Mass in the Windsor chapel with King Henry and his mother leading the procession out into bright spring sunshine, followed by the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester and the rest of the court. We were to walk up the hill for an Easter feast in St George’s Hall and, knowing how much her son loved the sound of choral singing, Catherine had arranged for the St George’s College choristers to reassemble in the Upper Ward to sing for the king beforehand – some light-hearted carols and motets specially chosen to be neither bawdy nor profane. However, as the procession approached the main keep, famously known as the Round Tower, the raucous noise of battle broke out as scores of knights, wearing French and English badges and yelling war-cries, came swarming from the base of the tower and around the dry ditch that surrounded it and began to stage a mock storming of the keep, orchestrated by the banging of drums and nackers simulating cannon-shots.
Initially the six-year-old king was terrified, glancing in alarm from his mother to his uncle, seeking reassurance that this was not some enemy force come to capture or kill him. Catherine, too, was fearful, clutching the little boy to her and casting about for the best place in which to take refuge. ‘Merciful saints, are we under attack?’ she cried. ‘Gloucester, sa
ve the king!’
But the Duke of Gloucester was laughing and so was his duchess; laughing almost hysterically, as if the terror of the boy and his mother was the funniest thing they had seen in years. ‘It is a surprise!’ spluttered Gloucester, spreading his arms wide to show that he saw no reason to draw his sword or run for cover. ‘An Easter surprise for my royal nephew! See, Henry, the English knights are storming the keep and will soon defeat the French garrison and take possession of the castle, just as your honoured father did so many times in Normandy and the Île de France before you were born.’
By now he had tugged the little king from his mother’s skirts and flung his arm around the wide-eyed boy, guiding him to the low wall that guarded the steep drop into the ditch. ‘Look, your grace, their swords are practice weapons like the ones they use for arms training and the bodies on the ground are only pretending to be dead. It is a play, a pageant staged for your entertainment. I thought you would enjoy it, Henry. Some of the “knights” are your friends, fellows who spar with you in the practice ground. Do you recognise them now?’
Henry gave a sheepish laugh. ‘Oh yes. I thought it was a real fight.’ He turned to smile at Catherine. ‘It is all right now, my lady mother. Do not be frightened. It is only a play.’
Catherine was not smiling. She was intensely angry, her lips hardened into a thin line. ‘Yes, so it is, my son, God be thanked. Though it would have been kind of your uncle to warn us, would it not, that he had planned this “entertainment” as he calls it? I do not think it right, my lord, that the king should have been frightened almost out of his skin.’
At this point Eleanor came to her new husband’s defence, showing her teeth in a smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘But then it would not have been a surprise, Madame, would it?’ She went to place her hand on the little king’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I am sure that now you know it is done in fun you will enjoy it, will you not, your grace? Especially as the English are winning.’
The Tudor Bride Page 27