The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  He was more confident than I was of getting anywhere near the king but, early the following day, the rain mercifully having stopped, we rode down the Strand, open to traffic once more and bustling with people, carts and flocks of farm animals being herded to market. Although the muckrakers had cleared the thoroughfares for the king’s procession, the previous day’s downpour had turned them to mud, which was already foul with refuse and droppings and I patted Genevieve’s neck, grateful that it was her feet and not mine that squelched through the mire. Under Catherine’s magnificent mantle I felt suitably clad for court in the gown I had worn to my own wedding and, safely tucked into my best red leather purse, I carried her sealed letter to her son.

  As a meeting-place for parliament, both lords and commons, and many sessions of the various courts of law, Westminster Hall was used to crowds and many hundreds of people could cram in under its wondrous network of rafters and beams. Being among the first to arrive, we waited for hours while more and more petitioners jostled in behind us, pushing us to the foot of the steps which led up to the royal dais and the guarded entrance to the palace and council chambers. There had been some coming and going through this privy entrance, but no one had emerged that I recognised or who we felt bold enough to approach to ask whether the king would be coming or not. We ate the bread and cheese I had stuffed into Geoffrey’s purse and bought some ale from an opportunistic man with a barrel strapped to his back, but when the None peal began to ring from the abbey bell tower for the monks’ mid-afternoon Office, we became tired and despondent. Even the patient Geoffrey decided that we had waited long enough.

  ‘You have tried, Mette, and that is all you can do. Queen Catherine will understand.’ He put his hand under my elbow to steer me through the milling crowd of petitioners back to the main door, but just as we were turning away we heard a commotion and the elaborately carved palace doors were flung back to admit a procession of stylishly clad courtiers and richly apparelled clergy with the young king in their midst. The royal party moved to the centre of the stone dais and gazed down at the mass of onlookers who dropped to their knees and broke into a ragged burst of cheers and greetings.

  ‘God save the king!’ ‘God bless your grace!’ ‘Heaven protect our little king!’

  I made no shout myself but gazed up intently at Henry, letting his image etch itself on my mind so that I would be able to describe it to Catherine. From close to he did not look as proud and confident as he had the previous day. His shoulders drooped and his head sagged forward as if he was very tired. I even wondered if, the day before, he could have been wearing some kind of brace under his furred gown when he rode his pony so erectly in the coronation procession. His brow, which yesterday had felt the touch of the holy chrism, was today deeply furrowed in a way I did not like to see in one so young and the expression in his eyes was wary rather than keen. His face was pale and possessed of a large jaw for a boy, his nose long and straight as I remembered his uncle Charles’s had been and he looked tall for his age, despite being dwarfed by the imposing stature of Warwick who stood beside him. My abiding impression was that he would prefer to be somewhere else.

  Briefly I dragged my eyes from the king to scan the people gathered around him, dreading to see the Duke of Gloucester, but to my intense relief he was not there. When I returned my gaze to the king, it was to find that he was staring straight at me. The cheers and blessings in the hall had dwindled into murmurs and subsided into complete silence as King Henry raised his hand and pointed at me.

  ‘I know that woman,’ he said, turning to the Earl of Warwick. ‘I would like to speak to her.’

  Warwick looked down at me, frowning, clearly unable to identify me, but he jerked his head at a squire who took note of me and returned the nod. Meanwhile the earl bent down to address the king. ‘Very well, your grace, but first, have you remembered what you would like to say to the people here?’

  ‘Of course I have remembered,’ declared Henry indignantly and cleared his throat to deliver his well-rehearsed speech to the assembled company. ‘Beloved subjects, I thank you for coming here today. Now that I am your crowned king I will be attending to as many of your petitions and grievances as I can, as soon as I can, but you must be patient. Please hand them to my squires if they are written and tell them to my clerks if they need taking down. May God bless you all.’

  He looked rather pleased with himself when he had completed this speech and a ripple of polite but not very enthusiastic applause broke out behind me while the royal party immediately turned and headed once more for the carved double doors. I got to my feet, my knees complaining bitterly at the minutes spent in contact with the cold stone floor and saw the squire who had been detailed to fetch me move down the steps in my direction. When he asked my name I thought it wise to tell him it was Madame Lanière. Even so I doubted King Henry would remember it. It was nearly three years since I had been a regular visitor to his nursery.

  ‘Please follow me.’ When Geoffrey made to come with me the squire shook his head, saying, ‘The king only asked for the dame.’ Then he set off at such a pace that I only half-heard Geoffrey’s promise to wait as I hurried to keep up.

  King Henry had retired to his presence chamber in Westminster Palace and was perched on an over-sized plush-cushioned throne set on a dais several steps above the floor and under an imposing canopy of gold-embroidered and tasselled crimson velvet. His small frame occupied less than half the seat and his thin black-hosed legs stuck straight out from under the furred hem of his scarlet gown, too short to allow his knees to bend over the edge. The Earl of Warwick stood protectively at his side.

  ‘What is your name?’ young Henry asked rather petulantly, as if he blamed me for his own inability to remember it. ‘When I was in the nursery you used to sing me lullabies at bed time if my mother was called away. I liked hers best but yours were better than nothing.’

  I had sunk to my knees before the throne that swamped him. ‘My name then was Madame Lanière, your grace, but the queen mother called me Mette. You may recall that name perhaps.’

  Hearing this he pulled himself forward enough to allow his knees to bend and his feet to swing down. ‘Mette! Yes, I remember you now. You used to tell me stories – fairy tales and stories of the saints’ lives. You knew so many.’

  I smiled, relieved by his sudden enthusiasm. He seemed more human somehow, more like the little boy he was. ‘Well I used to tell them to your mother when she was a child.’

  ‘Did you? I know nothing about my mother’s life when she was my age. Was she good? I mean did she say her prayers and learn to read and write like I do?’

  ‘Yes your grace, she did, although I think she may not have been as good at her letters as you are.’

  He looked pleased to hear this. ‘I can read the Gospels in Greek,’ he said proudly. ‘My lord of Warwick says that is unusual for someone of my age.’

  He looked up at his governor for confirmation of this and the earl nodded. He also noticed me shifting painfully on my already-sore knees. ‘Perhaps you would like me to have a stool brought for Madame Lanière, your grace? Then you could talk together more comfortably.’

  King Henry scrambled down off his throne and sat on the top step of the dais. ‘Or she could sit on the next step down,’ he suggested accommodatingly, adding solemnly, ‘you see your head must not be higher than mine, Mette.’

  I crawled forward and sank gratefully onto the second step, taking care to crouch low enough to ensure my head stayed below his. ‘Thank you, your grace. That is very kind of you.’

  ‘I should like to hear one of your stories again. I remember one about St Margaret, I think. But first, tell me about my mother. Are you still in her household? When did you last see her?’

  From the corner of my eye I saw the Earl of Warwick tap his nose at me, as if to signify that I should be discreet and I felt my heart begin to beat faster. What did he mean? Should I say nothing about Catherine, or just as little as possible? What was he wo
rried that her son might hear?

  I decided on half truths. ‘My home is in London now but I did see her grace your mother quite recently and she was delighted to hear about your coronation. Had she known I was going to speak with you, I am sure she would have asked me to give you her blessing.’

  Henry’s face clouded. ‘I would have liked her to come and see me crowned, but my lord of Warwick explained that it would be only men in the Abbey.’

  With Warwick glaring down at me, I was wondering how I was going to give Catherine’s letter to her son without being seen.

  The king was chattering away, asking questions like his mother always had. ‘Was she well when you saw her? Where is she living? I wish I could visit her, but after Christmas I am going to France. I am to be crowned there as well. Then I shall have two kingdoms. Even my father did not have that.’

  I found this proud boast quite endearing, but Warwick obviously did not.

  ‘Your father was taken from us before he could claim the greatest fruit of his victories, your grace.’ The earl’s voice was stern with admonishment and his royal charge flushed scarlet. ‘Your councillors strive to preserve his achievements so that you may continue his noble enterprise, Henry. Remember that.’

  I saw a mulish look steal over the boy’s face, but before he could speak the earl’s attention was caught by one of his squires. He bowed to the king, murmured, ‘Stay here,’ to me and strode away to speak to him.

  Swift as a hawk I pulled the letter from my purse and pressed it into the boy king’s surprised grasp. ‘It is from your mother,’ I whispered. ‘Tuck it away and do not tell anyone. It is for your eyes only.’

  King Henry’s eyes flitted nervously to Warwick’s retreating figure as he slipped the letter inside the doublet he wore buttoned up under his gown. I leaned forward to help him refasten the buttons and he smiled at me, excited by the subterfuge. ‘She loves you very much. Never forget that,’ I said softly before sitting back again.

  ‘Now, you wanted the story of St Margaret and the dragon, your grace.’ I made sure to say this loudly enough to carry across the room. ‘A very good choice. It was one of your mother’s favourites.’

  33

  To Mistress Guillaumette Vintner from Mistress Catherine Tudor.

  Greetings to my beloved Mette,

  That is the first time I have actually penned our new names and I must tell you that I am very much taken with the look of mine, but then as you know I am very much taken with the look of my husband. How wonderful it is that O and I can be together as we are, honourably married, blessed with our beautiful Edmund and looking forward to a sister or brother for him in a few months time. Truly I never knew happiness like this before. I admired and respected H and loved him as a wife should love her husband, but he did not really love me, not wholly and unconditionally as O does. He is a man like no other I have ever known – warm and honest and beautiful and I thank God for allowing us to be together.

  I am writing this on the day of little H’s coronation, knowing that you are witnessing his great day whilst I cannot. I should be desolate about that, yet strangely I am not. My deepest regret is that he cannot share in my happiness or become acquainted with his brother or stepfather. I pray that one day this will come to pass and that he will learn what a strong and wise father O could be to him, in the absence of his own. I wait impatiently to hear your account of the coronation procession and I hope against expectation that you may have been able to speak to H and to give him my letter.

  I must mention how all the little children give me enormous joy, not just my own Edmund, who by the way now has four teeth and is your granddaughter Louise’s greatest love. I think if she had the strength she would carry him around all day, but I fear she may drop him and so she is only allowed to cuddle him sitting down. And my godchild Catrine is enchanting, always ready to run an errand or perform little tasks for me. We have started to call her Cat because there is sometimes confusion but she does not seem to mind and I think Cat suits her for she is clever and independent – and so pretty, with her curly brown hair and merry eyes like yours. Alys had started to teach her letters but she has little time and so I have taken over. It makes me sit down in the afternoons, which is good because the babe tires me. Alys asked me if I still had the ring I lent you when little Cat was born. She said the gemstone was jasper and has a God-given power, a precious gift of healing and vigour, which it shares with women who are nearing their time. I believe she is right; now I will not let it leave my finger.

  Then last but by no means least, there is your William. Young though he is, he must be the most cheerful, good-natured child in the world. When I put the two babies together on a blanket and let them play, William tries to copy everything Edmund does and for the most part he succeeds. He is so determined. By the time they are both running about they will be like a pair of young pups and into all kinds of mischief. We will have to watch them like hawks.

  You can tell that I am missing your company, Mette, for if you were here I would be able to share these thoughts with you directly and not have to commit them to paper.

  I must now be patient and wait for you to come back and regale me with a vivid description of London en fête for the coronation. You are my eyes and ears, Mette, and you are in my heart.

  Your fondest friend,

  Catherine

  Written on this Coronation Day of Henry I, King of England, the sixth of November 1429.

  —ξξ—

  I smiled at Catherine’s attempt to disguise her identity and location; not a very subtle disguise, I concluded, but then the letter was unlikely to fall into the wrong hands since it was brought to London by Walter the day after I had managed to deliver hers to her son. I was surprised that he managed to complete the journey from Hatfield in one day because the roads were starting to dissolve into quagmires owing to the rain. Geoffrey and I were unable to return to Hatfield for two weeks as the rivers became torrents, the fields disappeared under lakes and the highways turned into streams of liquid mud. Desperate though I was to get back to little William, it was not until the floods had subsided and a sharp frost had hardened the ground that we felt we could risk the country tracks. Even then our journey took the best part of three frustrating days because of the many times we had to make diversions where floods had washed away bridges or rendered fords too deep to cross. I saw parts of Essex I had never expected to visit, because we took the high ground between valleys to try and avoid river crossings.

  For the first time since I had married Geoffrey, I seriously began to question whether we needed to continue splitting ourselves between London and Catherine’s rural hideaway. As faithful Genevieve fought her way through yet another fast-flowing ford, belly deep in freezing water, I asked myself whether, happy as she was with Owen, Catherine really needed me constantly at her side? When we finally struggled over the rickety drawbridge at Hatfield Lodge, I rushed straight up to the nursery to cradle William in my arms, listening to his gurgles and nuzzling his gorgeous baby skin and decided that once Catherine’s latest child was safely delivered, I would make some major changes in my life.

  I said nothing of this inner turmoil however because I quickly discovered that the household was alive with preparations for Christmas and Alys and Mildy immediately roped me in to help with a costumed masque they were planning as part of the entertainments. Any time left spare for quiet conversation was spent giving Catherine detailed accounts of King Henry’s coronation procession and my conversation with him the following day.

  Predictably she was thrilled. ‘Imagine, you talked to him face to face, Mette, and actually gave him my letter – and he picked you out of the crowd, you say? He remembered your face?’

  ‘He did, Mademoiselle, although he did not remember my name. In fact he still does not know it because I did not tell him I had married again. He understood about keeping the letter secret but I feared he might mention me in conversation at court and I do not want to be traced. I was greatly r
elieved that the Duke of Gloucester was not present at the audience, but I believe the king will be spending Christmas with him and his duchess at Greenwich. The last thing we need as you are nearing your time is a visit from the duke.’

  The mention of Christmas with the Gloucesters fired Catherine’s anger. ‘It is not right that Eleanor Cobham should see more of the king than I do,’ she complained. ‘She is not a fit person to have influence on my son.’

  ‘At least she did not attend the coronation,’ I consoled her. ‘And now that the king has been crowned, parliament has declared that Gloucester is no longer to be called Protector of the Realm. As the king grows older, perhaps Gloucester grows weaker. As I remember, your brother was made Governor of Paris at only fourteen.’

  Catherine made a scornful noise. ‘Pah! That was just a title. Others did all the governing. And speaking of my brother, what was the talk of him in London?’

  I told her what I had heard in the crowd during the coronation procession. ‘People deride him for his attachment to Jeanne d’Arc, but she seems to have gained much support for him in France. Did you know that even Troyes opened its gates to the dauphin as he travelled towards Rheims?’

  Her eyes grew round on hearing this. ‘But Troyes was always staunchly for Burgundy! Surely Philippe has not forgiven Charles for the death of his father? That was the main reason Burgundy made an alliance with England – the main reason I married King Henry.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, the English alliance with Burgundy holds. I have had time to consider this. The coronation in Rheims was in July. Your brother would have been passing Troyes with his army just before the Hot Fair, when the merchants make all their money. They would not want trouble at that time. The flags were probably flying again for Burgundy the day after the dauphin left.’