Catherine was delighted for him. ‘Congratulations, Edmund. It is an honour well-deserved. We must have a banquet to celebrate.’ Her sapphire eyes sparkled in a way I had not seen for months and she clapped her hands with excitement.
At the time I know Catherine had regretted not being able to marry Edmund Beaufort, and at such a moment as this I wondered if she regretted it still. Now in his thirty-second year, he was a man of remarkable strength and vigour, with a physique honed by almost constant campaigning. The boots he wore over his fine blue hose may have been dusty from the road, but they encased a pair of long, athletic legs and his crimson broadcloth doublet was tightly buttoned over the sculpted sweep of a well-muscled torso. With his hazel eyes glittering hawk-like from under his blue velvet hat, I could not imagine there were many other Knights of the Garter to compare with him.
On his arrival Catherine had taken him straight to her solar and sent a maid to summon me. In such circumstances she liked to have me with her and in this she was wise, for people gossip and sometimes gossip finds a firm foundation.
The earl smiled and shook his head. ‘A banquet in your company is a tempting thought, my lady, but I must leave directly; besides there is really little to celebrate. Have you not heard that Paris opened its gates to your brother? More than two weeks ago. Ever since John of Bedford’s death, England’s cause in France has been crumbling and I am leading a relief force which sails for Calais in a few days. This is a flying visit to check on your family’s safety.’
At the mention of the capitulation of Paris, Catherine’s hands flew to her mouth. When she could speak, her voice shook. ‘Charles in Paris! No – no, I had not heard. I am dumbfounded. Poor Henry must be distraught.’
This observation provoked an incredulous laugh. ‘Ha! That would be an understatement. The whole council is in turmoil – so much so that they are actually agreeing with each other for a change, hence my hasty departure at the head of two thousand men. The Duke of York has been appointed Commander in France and sails for Normandy with an even larger force very soon.’
I heard a distinct note of irritation behind this last piece of information, and quickly discovered why as I served them with wine.
‘Gloucester insists that we should respect the late king’s intentions and reclaim the territory he won in France and to achieve these aims he managed to persuade the council that it is time your son assumed control of his kingdom and began to issue edicts in his own right. Of course these are not the king’s edicts at all, but Gloucester’s set under the royal seal. Your son has always admired his Uncle Humphrey, as you know.’
Catherine nodded despondently. ‘It is true, sadly. So that is why the Duke of York has been appointed Commander in France and not you, even though he is young and inexperienced and you are quite clearly the man for the job. Gloucester is a fool, serving his own ends, although actually it is his wife I mistrust most.’
‘Ah yes, the scheming Eleanor, regrettably my wife’s namesake, although there the similarity ends.’ Edmund took a good gulp from his cup and made a face which I hoped had nothing to do with the quality of the wine. ‘Unlike me and my Eleanor, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester have at last obtained a royal licence for their marriage. It was one of the first documents Gloucester guided the young king’s hand to sign. She is now the foremost lady in the land and she makes sure that all know it!’
Catherine’s eyes turned icy. ‘Does she indeed? Well she is wrong. I am the first lady in England – until my son marries that is.’
Edmund’s eyes started to twinkle, as if he found the prospect of a court cat-fight rather amusing. ‘You should also know that on the day I received the Order of the Garter, she was declared a Lady Companion.’
‘A Lady of the Garter?’ Catherine almost squeaked with indignation. ‘An honour I received when I became queen. Gloucester does this to taunt me.’
‘Then you had better go to court and show Duchess Eleanor precisely who is the first lady of the land. I am sure a daughter of France can run rings around a jumped-up troop-captain’s daughter.’
Catherine gave an audible a sigh of frustration. ‘I would make a point of going, if I were not with child again.’
‘Ah.’ The Earl eyed her figure appraisingly. ‘I confess I did wonder. You and Owen are richly blessed with children, as are my wife and I. We have three now, but all girls I regret to say. We shall have to try harder. Where is Owen, by the way? He is not avoiding me, I hope?’
‘Far from it; he is one of your greatest admirers. He is away in Wales dealing with some violent sabotage on my manors there. You must be aware of the growing prejudice against foreigners, Edmund. Ever since the failure of the Congress of Arras, the English have let their hatred of the enemy spill out into the streets and the countryside. I expect it will be worse now that Paris has fallen. My Welsh villeins fired barns and mills and refused to pay manor dues to a Frenchwoman, even though she is the mother of their king. And the English hate both the French and the Welsh. I have been subject myself to a horrible demonstration of hatred in, of all places, Hadham church.’
‘I am very sorry to hear that. I hope you informed the bishop. There should be reprisals – punishments.’
‘No, no. That would only make things worse.’ Catherine bit her lip. ‘I have been foolish to think I could live here anonymously forever. It is becoming too dangerous. Now that Henry is officially head of state, perhaps I should move back to court. If the king were to invite me, Gloucester could hardly object, however much his wife did.’
Edmund looked uncomfortable, his mouth twisting in doubt. ‘If you value your marriage and family, I would think twice about that, Catherine. Owen would face jail and you might quickly lose control of your children. Edmund and Jasper pose a very real threat to Gloucester’s position. Do not forget that Humphrey has no children of his own and it may be years before King Henry has an heir. If he knew of their existence, Gloucester would consider the king’s half-brothers a dangerous focus for conspiracy. He would do anything to prevent them getting near the seat of power.’
‘What do you mean by “anything to prevent them”?’ Catherine asked sharply. ‘Are you implying that Gloucester might want to get rid of them, Edmund? Even kill them?’ Her voice rose to panic pitch.
I had picked up my embroidery in order to look busy, but at this point the needle froze and every hair on my body seemed to bristle in alarm.
‘No, not kill them. Heaven forefend; I do not think even Humphrey would do that.’ Edmund reinforced this statement with an earnest smile. ‘But I strongly believe that secrecy is their salvation, at least in the short term.’ He stood up. ‘Now, am I to see my godson while I am here, or must I depart without a glimpse?’
His complacency only served to make me more fearful. I recalled my conversation with Margery Jourdemayne and wondered how much of her ‘image magic’ had accompanied Eleanor Cobham’s rise. Just how far had she taken her consort with the devil? And if the duchess were to discover the existence of the Tudor children, what kind of magic might she try against them?
Edmund Beaufort stayed only long enough to watch the boys ride their ponies, give tips on how to steer them while holding their wooden swords and shields and snatch a quick meal. I had argued with Geoffrey about whether William should share Edmund’s riding lessons, being unlikely to complete the rigorous training of a knight, but I could see no harm in him becoming as competent a horseman as possible. However, now that he was seven I knew that the time was fast approaching when Geoffrey would want him to start attending one of the schools attached to the Inns of Court in London.
As May progressed into June, there was still no news of Owen and his cousins and the women of the Hadham household became progressively more dejected. Only the children with their bright voices and constant activity prevented a pall of gloom settling over us. I fretted about Catherine’s health, which had not improved as it usually did when she moved into the middle months of pregnancy. She was constantly tired a
nd complained that there was a nagging pain in her belly.
‘Not a sharp pain,’ she explained. ‘Like a belt around my stomach that is too tight and cannot be loosened. Did you ever feel like that when you were carrying, Mette?’
It was early morning and her pale face was puffed and blotchy. I suspected that she had been crying in the night.
‘No, not that I can remember, but there is always something to worry about when you are with child. What you must do is eat well and get plenty of rest, Mademoiselle. I do not think you are doing either of those things. Did you sleep last night or were you at your prie dieu in the small hours?’
She gave me a guilty look. ‘I cannot sleep for worrying about Owen,’ she said. ‘Prayer is the only thing that comforts me. But God does not tell me where he is or why he has not sent any word. I am truly worried, Mette. Perhaps he has run into danger. Do you think I should send someone to make enquiries?’
‘It has only been two months since they left, Mademoiselle. I am sure there will be a message soon or else they will be home. I will make you an infusion of caraway. Perhaps that will relieve the discomfort.’
She drank it daily and I did not hear any more complaints, but nor did she look any better. In my own prayers I included regular pleas for Owen’s return.
At the beginning of July Hywell and John at last rode in. They reported hearing of unrest everywhere, especially in the rural areas of England where men had been recruited for the French wars. ‘We Welsh are not exactly welcomed when we pass through towns, but the French are detested,’ John revealed as we plied them with ale and cold capon to make up for days of bread and cheese in the saddle. ‘Once men flocked to fight behind the hero of Agincourt, but now they want to pull up the drawbridge and keep the French out of England. Everyone fears an invasion.’
They had brought a letter from Owen for Catherine, penned in his own hand in script that was crabbed and smudged from lack of practice. She peered at it for some minutes, brow creased with the effort of deciphering its content.
‘He says my manors are restored to working order and he has gone somewhere else, but I cannot make out the name of the place. Where is it, Hywell? What has happened there?’
Hywell had picked up little Gladys and was playing with her on his knee, while Agnes looked on happily. At least two of the Hadham women would be cheerful again, I thought, glancing at Alys who sat quietly next to John, pretending not to cast frequent sideways glances at him to reassure herself of his presence. I only wished Owen had come home to put a smile on Catherine’s face.
‘It is called Penmyndydd, my lady,’ Hywell said. ‘Owen’s grandfather lives there still and it is where his parents are buried. I believe the old man is in need of some help. Does he not say?’
Catherine flung the letter down, tears of frustration brimming in her eyes. ‘Perhaps he does but I cannot read it. He might as well have written the whole letter in Welsh. I have heard him talk of the place you mention, but it does not sound the way it is written. How long will he stay there?’
Hywell shrugged. ‘I do not know. I suppose it depends on what he finds when he gets there.’
Catherine rose from her seat at the board, marched to the fire and threw Owen’s letter on to the flames. ‘He had better start to worry about what he finds when he gets back here!’ she stormed, her voice breaking on a sob. Swinging round, she headed for the door to her solar and I hastened after her. It was very unlike Catherine to lose her self control in front of others.
I found her kneeling at her prie dieu, tears coursing down her cheeks as she gazed beseechingly at the image of the Virgin on the centrepiece of her altar triptych. I did not like to offer my own comfort when she was seeking it from a higher source, so I knelt quietly behind her hoping she would at least feel my supporting presence if Our Gracious Lady failed to supply sufficient solace. Within seconds she had turned into my arms, weeping in wretched, heaving sobs.
When she could speak it was in sharp jerks, punctuated with juddering gasps for breath. ‘Everything is going wrong, Mette. I cannot bear it. We were so happy – and now I feel abandoned. I have lost him. I am sure of it. I do not know what to do.’
I was shocked. How long had this feeling been eating into her? Was it that and not the physical prostration of pregnancy that was making her ill? So much of her personal wellbeing was invested in her relationship with Owen, that if she felt it slipping away it would be devastating for her.
With both my hands I gently lifted her head from my breast where the linen of my bodice had done little to muffle her heartbreak. I looked into the red-rimmed, blurred blue of her eyes and tried to pierce the despair I saw in them. ‘You are wrong, Mademoiselle. I am certain you have not lost Owen. He is yours for life. He told you so and swore it at your wedding. He is not a changeable man. He loves you.’
‘He loved me,’ she said, stressing the past tense. ‘But that was before I started to bear this child. I am ugly now and ill and he would rather be in Wales than here with a sickly, unsightly, misshapen wife. He has probably found a beautiful young girl to play his harp to and speak his barbarous native language with.’
‘You are not ugly or misshapen, Mademoiselle, you are beautiful. Nor are you ill, but pregnant and finding it tiring and dispiriting. Perhaps you should be glad that Owen is not here to see you in this state. If he says he is going to this place you cannot pronounce to visit his grandparents, then I am sure he is and I am sure they need his help.’
I smiled at her sad little face and wished I could magic all her cares away and that made me think of Margery Jourdemayne again. Could she make one of her image magic dolls that would ease suffering as much as cause it? Should I pay another visit to the wise woman and, this time, make my own purchase? Was there such a thing as white sorcery or did all charms and spells and magic arts deal to a greater or lesser extent with the devil’s black demons?
42
From His Grace King Henry VI of England and II of France to Her Grace the Dowager Queen Catherine.
Greetings to our honoured and beloved Mother,
At last we are able to write with some good news. In a few days we shall travel to Dover to bid Godspeed to our uncle of Gloucester who sails to Calais to confront a threatening advance from Flanders by the perfidious Duke of Burgundy. Our cousin Richard, Duke of York, has been appointed Commander in France and has sailed already for Normandy with fresh troops to defend our territories there. Calais itself is valiantly defended by our cousin Edmund, Earl of Mortain. We are confident that these actions will reverse the misfortunes which have beset our cause in France.
As we write of these events we are aware that many loyal members of our court and family are away fighting for our cause in France. The importance of the love and loyalty of family at such times is obvious, for these are the people upon whom we can most confidently rely. You will be relieved to know that until they all return victorious, we will be lovingly tended by our aunt of Gloucester, who has generously agreed to be our host at Greenwich.
Unfortunately we cannot visit you, my lady mother, as you may have expected. These are perilous days. However, we hope that you will find it pleasurable to come to court when the campaign has ended, to celebrate its success and to thank the staunch band of stalwarts who have defended our kingdoms from French aggression.
Until then we remain your ever loving and respectful son,
Henricus Rex
Written at Westminster this Monday the thirtieth of July, 1436.
—ξξ—
This letter arrived for Catherine soon after I returned from staying with Geoffrey in London, having paid a fraught but informative visit to Margery Jourdemayne on the way back. This time I had called at her house, a neat and well-maintained half-timbered cruck-cottage on the outskirts of Eye and close to the woods where I had met her previously. She had not appeared pleased to see me and pulled me swiftly inside, insisting that Walter, who had accompanied me, should take the horses into the woods and remain out of
sight. When I told her the reason for my visit, she looked seriously concerned and told me that since our last meeting she had made several visits to Greenwich Palace taking various herbal ingredients and at least one more wax doll to Eleanor of Gloucester. At first I did not make any connection with Catherine’s pregnancy woes, but misgivings surfaced alarmingly when Margery went into more detail.
‘The duchess wanted a female image,’ she revealed, ‘and she wanted it to be big-bellied with child but she did not tell me who it was supposed to represent, nor did I ask. I assumed it had something to do with her efforts to conceive.’
That was when I asked her if she thought there was any chance that the new doll was meant to represent Catherine, but she just shook her head and said she did not know.
‘There are often other people there, usually two men in robes like priests. They look at me funnily, as if they’re trying to read my mind. They give me the shivers and I always try to get away from that place as quickly as possible.’ Then she gave me a potion which she said was a mixture of mint balm and powdered blood.
‘It will stimulate the female parts and give her strength for the birth,’ she said, grabbing my silver florin and trying to push me out of the door.
‘What sort of blood?’ I asked, clinging to the door-jamb. ‘My mistress will want to know.’
‘My husband is a cattle merchant,’ she said. ‘It is bullock’s blood. Now go, before anyone sees you!’
On the ride back to Hadham, I could not get the idea out of my head that Eleanor’s new wax image was intended to be of Catherine and that some form of sorcery was being practised against her, so I resolved not to give her the potion. Then, when she showed me the letter from King Henry, my thoughts took an even more sinister turn. I sat her down in her private solar, told her about my visit to Margery Jourdemayne and quietly voiced my innermost fears.
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