‘You know that I would not wish to worry you needlessly, Mademoiselle, especially in your condition when you are already fearful about the absence of Owen, but I feel I must tell you what troubles me about this letter. It is not that the king will no longer be coming to visit you, although I know that will be a great disappointment, what troubles me is that he will be staying at Greenwich with the Duchess of Gloucester instead of remaining at Westminster with his household of loyal and trusted retainers.’
Catherine turned her washed-out face to me, frowning. ‘Why, Mette, is there any danger in that? I admit that I do not like Eleanor Cobham, but I do not believe there is any real harm in her, barring her vaunting ambition.’
‘Well, I cannot be certain, Mademoiselle, but yes, I believe there is great danger in that very ambition. Remember that the Duke of Gloucester is now the heir to the throne. To put it bluntly, if your son were no longer alive, Humphrey would be king.’
Catherine stared at me, a look of bewilderment clouding her expression. ‘You surely cannot think that Gloucester means any harm to Henry? He hero-worshipped Henry’s father and whatever bad feeling there may be between me and Gloucester, I believe he is a God-fearing man who would not condemn his immortal soul by committing the ultimate sin. No, Mette. There is no question of that.’
She rose in agitation, but I put my hand on her arm. ‘You mistake me, Mademoiselle; it is not the duke I fear in this respect but his duchess.’
That flung her back into her chair as if her legs had lost all power. ‘The duchess? You think little Eleanor Cobham means harm to my son? No, Mette! I do not like her, but I cannot believe that.’
I dropped to my knees before her, taking her hands in mine to stop them shaking. ‘When she came to Hertford you saw that she is no longer “little Eleanor Cobham”, Mademoiselle, she is the Duchess of Gloucester and if your beloved son were not alive she would be Queen of England, a title I fear she may already have bartered her soul to possess. You say that the duke treasures his immortal soul, but he will be away in Flanders and I have good reason to believe that his duchess is a sorceress who is only too willing to pledge her soul, to the devil in return for earthly glory. Only listen and I will tell you why I believe this.’
Catherine did listen as I related the whole story of my encounters with Margery Jourdemayne and her involvement with the ambitious Eleanor. The only element of the tale I omitted was the king’s birth ‘behind the veil’ and the powers believed to adhere to the caul, which meant I could not tell her of Eleanor’s acquisition of it and the possibility of using it in magic against the king. I thought it dangerous to burden Catherine with such fears when she was so close to giving birth again.
As my tale unfolded, she appeared to shrink further and further back into her chair as if she wished it might swallow her up. At the end she sat in stunned silence. When she found her voice, however, she was suddenly filled with such energy that, had I not known better, I might have suspected her of having consumed the whole bottle of Margery’s blood and balm tonic in one gulp.
‘We must go to Henry,’ she said, leaping to her feet. ‘Pack the saddle bags, Mette, and find whichever men you can to accompany us. Thomas and Walter would be good because they know the places where we can seek shelter between here and Westminster. We must go as far as we can today in order to catch Henry before he leaves for Dover.’
I was taken completely by surprise. I had expected her urgently to seek pen and paper, but not to feel impelled to rush to Henry’s aid in person.
‘But, Mademoiselle, you cannot ride! Not when you are so near your time. Send Thomas or Walter with a letter, or I will go with them and see the king, but not you – it is too dangerous for the babe.’
‘Nonsense, babies come when they will and go when they will and not because you ride a horse or fall down a stair. I have lost them for no reason and kept them against all odds. The king is what matters now. He will not listen to you. Only I can persuade him of the danger he is in if he goes to Greenwich. This baby must take its chance. Be sure to pack my most splendid and voluminous mantle to disguise my belly when I get to court. Please, Mette, do as I say. We are losing daylight.’
There was no dissuading her. Within an hour we were in the saddle, Catherine and I riding side by side with Thomas leading and Walter at the rear. I calculated that we had about six hours of daylight and could make it to Enfield before dark if Catherine was able to ride for that length of time. Whenever I glanced across at her she smiled back, a small, determined twitch of the lips which told me nothing other than that she had noticed my glance. She was pale and tense and sat her horse stubbornly astride, despite my suggestion that she ride sideways, as I did. Her swollen belly looked incongruous and uncomfortable, tucked behind the pommel of a saddle which was made to fit a lady of normal girth, not one less than a month from giving birth. Fortunately the weather was fine, if anything rather too hot for comfort and the horses sweated at first until we stopped at Ware to water them in the River Lea. Thomas had been setting the pace at a fast walk in deference to Catherine’s condition, but at this point she suggested we pick up the speed to a trot, at least intermittently.
‘We must get to Enfield tonight, otherwise we will not get to the king in time,’ she fretted. ‘I am worried that he might leave for Dover early tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps you should ride at the front with me then, Madame, and you can set the pace,’ Thomas suggested. ‘Then we can slow up whenever you start to feel uncomfortable.’
However, we were reckoning without Catherine’s fierce determination and in the end it was not she who initiated a slower pace but me. Neither I nor Genevieve were in the flush of youth and after another two hours I feared my old mare might crumple under the strain of the punishing pace Catherine set. Because she was riding ahead of me, I could not see how she was faring but I began to ease my palfrey up and gradually dropped back into a walk, alarmed at Genevieve’s heaving flanks. I could not believe that the heavily pregnant lady, who that morning had been almost prostrate with despair at my conviction of Eleanor Cobham’s devilish activities, was now apparently able to drive her horse and herself to the point of exhaustion.
When she finally noticed that Walter and I were no longer trotting at her horse’s heels, Catherine drew rein and waited for us to catch up. By now we were on the Great North Highway where there was plenty of traffic on foot, cart and horseback and little danger of attack from footpads. The tower of Waltham Abbey loomed on the horizon to the east and it wanted only three more miles to Enfield. The sun was a huge ball of red in the western sky, marbled with wisps of grey cloud. As Genevieve ambled wearily up to the other horses I noticed that although Catherine tried to remain ramrod straight in the saddle, her aching muscles hunched her forward over the pommel. Her face under her straw sunhat was a white blur against the glaring sunset.
‘Do you not want to lodge at the Waltham Abbey guesthouse, Mademoiselle?’ I asked. ‘The abbot keeps a very good table and the rooms will be cool with their thick stone walls.’ I was offering her a reason to halt before she tumbled headlong from the saddle, which I was convinced she must do before long.
But she was adamant for continuing. ‘No, Mette. I do not want to risk being recognised by the abbot. Let us continue when the horses have drawn breath. Thomas says the Ermine Inn at Enfield has superior beds. It is not twelve miles to Westminster from there. We can be with the king before Tierce.’
When she finally slid from the saddle in the yard of the inn, it was all Thomas could do to hold her up. Feeling distinctly wobbly myself, I handed Genevieve’s reins to a hostler and told him to wash her legs down with cold water before giving her a hot bran meal. There were only two rooms available and since Catherine was travelling incognito, there was no question of pulling rank, so for the first time she and I were to share a bed. Once I might have pulled some cushions onto the floor and left the comfort of the mattress to her but on this occasion we both ate the bread and pottage supplied by the in
nkeeper, helped each other out of our outer clothes and, clad only in our chemises, collapsed into the cool embrace of the sheets. I assumed that the fierce pains in my limbs and back could have been no worse than Catherine’s, but she made no complaint and I heard the words of her night-time prayer mumble into silence as the blessed healing power of sleep claimed her only minutes before me.
Catherine woke me to help her dress before the dawn light pierced the cracks in the shutters and then sent me to knock on the door of the men’s bedroom. While we waited for the sleepy grooms to tack up our mounts, we broke our fast on bread and ale in the sweaty reek of the tap room, where the floor was sticky with spilled wine and meat juices. Catherine ate little, but I cajoled her into forcing down a few mouthfuls before we hobbled out to face the seemingly insurmountable task of climbing back into the saddle. Saints be praised there was a mounting block against the yard wall and after a time the agony of being joggled by Genevieve’s uneven stride dulled into mere pain. As the first milepost slid by, I sneaked a peek at Catherine’s face and her jaw looked just as set as mine was. We did not speak for we had nothing of comfort to say to each other. I prayed silently to St Margaret to help the baby hang on tight.
We all cheered when the spires and towers of Westminster came into view and the king’s standard was clearly visible flying from the palace keep. Sure now that Henry had not left for Dover, Catherine fell to thinking out loud about how she should gain admission to the king. She did not wish to declare herself to the guards because of her obvious condition and, anyway, she wanted to change into clothes more fitting for a court attendance. It was Thomas who suggested that we seek accommodation at the abbey guesthouse, where pilgrims from every corner of the land stayed before worshipping at the shrine of St Edward the Confessor.
‘The horses can be stabled there as well,’ he added. ‘They have performed well and deserve a good rest.’
‘I will need my mare to take me to the palace,’ Catherine reminded him. ‘I know it is only a short walk, but I do not think I will be able to manage it. And, Walter, I will give you my signet for the gatehouse guards to recognise. Do not leave my letter with them, you must take it all the way to the king’s apartments.’
The monks showed us to a small guest cell where Catherine gratefully lay down on the cot bed while I prepared the robe and mantle I had packed in my saddlebags for her crucial meeting. She had lost so much weight during this pregnancy that the gowns she had worn as Queen of England still fitted, even over her eight-month belly. I hoped that the full-skirted blue silk one I had chosen would almost completely hide all evidence of it, especially when she also enveloped herself in a flowing gem-sprinkled mantle of deep crimson lined with scarlet. At least in that attire there would be no question of the guards mistaking her pedigree when she rode into the palace.
Walter returned after an hour to announce that the king had been shown the letter on the way to Mass and that a squire would come to escort his mother to the royal presence chamber immediately afterwards. I hurriedly completed arranging Catherine’s hair into jewelled nets and a gossamer veil and the squire arrived as I inserted the final pin. Unable to disguise my own saddle-sore waddling gait, I followed with profound admiration as Catherine managed to glide gracefully over the uneven stone flags of the guesthouse yard, clutching her mantle around her in such a way as to completely camouflage her protruding belly. Apart from her intense pallor there was no sign of her pregnancy or her hectic ride from Hadham.
43
Although we rode the short distance to Westminster Palace, it was still a considerable walk from the central courtyard, where we left Thomas and Walter with the horses, to the royal apartments overlooking the Thames. Catherine and I more or less held each other up as we negotiated the maze of passages and staircases. We had no energy left for conversation and anyway the silent aloofness of the escorting squire and the curious surveillance of passing courtiers deterred even the most innocuous of remarks. I let Catherine handle the interrogation of the guards at the impressive panelled oak doors of the inner sanctum and kept my gaze firmly fixed on the floor, like a good attendant.
When the king’s presence chamber finally opened up before us I heaved a sigh of relief and looked up to see King Henry standing at the far side of the room, deep in conversation with a young priest. Otherwise the room was empty. On a dais set against one wall stood the large and ornately gilded throne under an impressive crimson canopy, at the foot of which a younger King Henry and I had sat together during my encounter with him after his coronation. Apart from that the room held little other furnishing except some richly coloured tapestry hangings showing scenes of famous historical events and, under a diamond-paned oriel window overlooking the river, a polished buffet on which stood an array of refreshments. This chamber was intended for formal court business, during which only the king would sit, while his courtiers stood or knelt. Catherine was swaying with exhaustion, but her incredible fortitude allowed her to sink into a full court curtsy at which the young king barely glanced. She was not able to rise, however, without relying heavily on my hastily proffered arm.
‘You, grace, it is so kind of you to see me at this busy time. I trust I find you well.’
Her softly uttered words penetrated the king’s conversation and he glanced up frowning at the interruption, whereupon his face registered astonished surprise and he rushed forward to take her other arm. ‘Your grace, my lady mother, Madame, you are here already. You look so weary, please let me help you to a seat.’
Since the only seat in the room was the throne, Catherine was solicitously conducted to it, where I hastily arranged her gown and mantle to preserve their disguising folds. Meanwhile, with a muttered word or two, King Henry dismissed the hovering priest, who cast a more than curious look at Catherine as he left the room.
I made full appraisal of the king as he returned to his mother’s side. I had already noticed that his voice had dropped and, with approaching manhood, his shoulders had broadened and his chest had filled out. His face was thin, but his cheeks were still boyishly rounded and there was down on his chin. I had previously thought him very like his father with his hazel Lancastrian eyes and above-average height but, noticing how prominently his long nose marched down to his soft rosebud mouth, I realised for the first time that he also resembled his Valois mother.
Catherine looked so pale now that I feared she might not have the strength to complete her mission but her voice, when she spoke again, was surprisingly strong.
‘Was that Master Aiscough?’ she asked as the door closed behind the priest. ‘I have seen him in the company of Cardinal Beaufort.’
‘Yes. I recently appointed him as my confessor and find him a good companion and a wise adviser,’ King Henry replied. A wooden board creaked as he sat himself at his mother’s feet on the steps of the velvet-covered dais. ‘He is younger and more forward-thinking than some of the venerable clerics who have been foisted on me up to now.’
There was satisfaction in Henry’s voice when he said this and amusement in Catherine’s response. ‘So you are beginning to make your own choices, my lord king? I am glad to hear it.’
‘Perhaps I take after my lady mother in that,’ he replied. ‘This is an unexpected and unheralded visit, Madame, and made at a time when I think you should not be travelling.’
‘Ah, you noticed,’ said Catherine wryly. ‘I hoped to disguise my condition from the casual glance, but my reason for coming is more important than my own safety or that of my babe. It is a deadly serious matter I must discuss with you my son.’
King Henry laughed nervously. ‘I do not like the sound of that. What can be so serious that you would risk the life of your unborn child?’
‘To put it bluntly, the safety of my first-born child – the King of England. You, Henry.’
‘Are you saying that my life is in jeopardy?’ Henry’s voice, still adolescently unreliable, squeaked treacherously on this question.
‘Yes and I beg you to d
o me the honour of hearing me out. For what I have to tell you may not seem immediately believable, yet I assure you it is true.’
In the tense pause that followed, I watched him staring up at her anxious face as if assessing her state of mind. But I knew she was very much in her right mind and eventually King Henry must have come to the same conclusion.
‘Well, since you are my mother I will hear your submission,’ he said at length.
‘Blessed Jesu, you make it seem like a court of law!’ The sudden high pitch of Catherine’s tone revealed the level of her stress. ‘But in a way I suppose it is just that. I have set myself up as judge and jury over someone and I must convince you that my judgement is sound.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘You are very friendly with your aunt and uncle of Gloucester, are you not?’
‘Yes, that is true. I know you and he have sometimes been at loggerheads, but my uncle has always worked hard in my Council of Regency and privately he has been like a father to me. I hold him in high regard.’ There was a hint of pique in the king’s inflection.
‘Which is not surprising,’ said Catherine hastily, ‘for he is a literate and intelligent man and intensely loyal to the throne, although as you say, sadly no friend to me. However it is not the Duke of Gloucester that I come to warn you against; it is the duchess, the lady Eleanor.’
‘But she is also kind and gracious! She has invited me to Greenwich while her lord is absent so that I may use his library. He owns many rare and wonderful books.’
‘Yes, Henry, you told me in your letter. That is why I have ridden at speed from Hadham – to tell you that you must not go to Greenwich.’
‘Not go! Why not?’ His demand was indignant, angry. ‘It is a pleasant journey down the river and there are manuscripts there I would dearly love to study.’
‘Perhaps so, but it is a journey from which I fear you may never return. Please – just listen to me, your grace – my son! You gave me leave to speak.’
The Tudor Bride Page 44