Having gone without sleep myself for a day and a night, I felt confused and stupefied. I knew that if she was to make a recovery, Catherine would need a long rest and a nourishing diet, neither of which she was likely to receive among the monks of Westminster. I hoped that Geoffrey would come and help me to decide what should be done, for I was at a loss to know. Lacking any other advice for the time being, I knelt down before the crucifix on the chapel altar and offered my confusion up to God.
When the abbot arrived, he must have been gratified to find me thus employed for he seemed a good deal friendlier than he had before, his expression genial under his clerical tonsure. I envied him the few hours’ sleep I assumed he had enjoyed between Matins and Lauds. ‘I am delighted to hear of her grace’s safe delivery,’ he said. ‘Our hospitaller knew of a nurse who lives nearby and the child has been taken to her. I myself baptised him with the name of Owen, as her grace instructed. I take it that is the name of the father?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, not wishing to reveal anything more as I scrambled up from my knees. ‘Is she trustworthy this nurse? Her grace will need her name and exact location.’
‘Of course, of course – all in good time.’ The abbot gazed down on Catherine who was still lying, deathly pale and unmoving, beneath the statue of her patron saint. ‘How does she fare?’
‘She is exhausted.’ I crossed my fingers in the folds of my skirt, hoping this was true. ‘She needs rest and complete peace to recover.’
‘I anticipated such a situation and I have arranged somewhere for her to go that will provide for her every need.’
‘Her grace cannot travel far,’ I protested. ‘Her body is weary beyond bearing.’
‘Bermondsey Abbey is only a short way down the river. A boat will be here at the turn of the tide to carry her there. The monks of Bermondsey are a caring community, used to noble residents, both lords and ladies. I have sent them a message that the queen mother will be brought there later this morning, urgently in need of care.’
‘Have you informed the king of this, my lord?’ My heart was beginning to thump alarmingly in my chest. Things were moving too fast for me. No word had come from Geoffrey last night and at this rate I feared that before he appeared, Catherine and I might be gone. I could not let her go to Bermondsey alone, but nor could I be sure that there was nothing sinister in her swift dispatch from Westminster. I could not help recalling the Duchess of Gloucester’s arrival at the palace the previous afternoon.
‘Yes, Mistress, have no fear. His grace is fully informed. You look exhausted yourself. I will have refreshment sent to you immediately. Be ready to depart soon after Prime.’
Not for the first time in my life I had a sense of being swept up in events over which I had no control. There was only an hour between Lauds and Prime and by the time I had washed and dressed Catherine as best I could, swallowed a few mouthfuls of the bread and pottage the abbot sent and used the horn spoon to dribble some water down my poor, insensible patient’s throat, the four novice monks had returned with a litter to carry her to the abbey dock. In recognition of the rank of his departing guest, the abbot himself came to see her off and, thinking that he could hardly refuse to keep Catherine in touch with her treasurer, I begged him to speak to Geoffrey when he came and inform him of our destination.
I was assailed by doubts as to whether I was doing the right thing by allowing Catherine to be carried onto a barge which bore no mark or flag of identification and whose crew wore no livery badges, but short of flinging myself across her prone body I could not think of a way to prevent it. Even if I tried, there were plenty of brawny monks around to pull me off and lock me up somewhere, which would hardly be to the advantage of either of us.
They laid her litter under a tented shelter rigged over the rear thwarts of the craft. The pink light of dawn did nothing to improve the sight of her expressionless face with its sunken eye-sockets and prominent cheekbones. Despite the jolting of the litter she remained completely unaware of her circumstances and as the six rowers bent to their oars and the barge swung out into the tidal current, I was swamped by an overwhelming desolation, unable to rid myself of the dreadful feeling that I was travelling on some sort of floating catafalque. My brave and cherished Catherine lay in limbo with only me to pray for her.
45
Although I had married a Londoner and stayed in the city on and off for the past seven years, I had never taken any kind of journey on the river or visited the south bank of the Thames, with the result that I did not really understand how much difference there was between the river traffic above and below London Bridge. Downstream from the bridge London was a busy port, with all manner of fishing boats trading their catches at Billingsgate market, seagoing ships by the hundred docked at the wharves around the Tower or waiting midstream in the Thames roads to do so, or else loading and unloading their cargoes to and from barges. Above the bridge the busiest flow of traffic was from boats plying across the river; small cargo wherries and passenger ferries carrying goods and people between the City and the Southwark bank. On these reaches a procession of barges carried cargoes to and from towns upriver, but relatively few craft actually navigated under the bridge and if they did it had to be at the turn of the tide because when it was at full flow, the rush of water was dangerously fast through the nineteen tunnel-like arches of the span.
When Catherine had lodged at the Tower as queen, I had noticed Bermondsey Abbey directly across the river, but from further upstream, in the City itself, it was obscured by the tall houses built across the span of London Bridge. Now, sitting on the barge beside Catherine’s litter, I realised that the abbey was on the other side of the bridge. The tide was already ebbing and, seeing the rush of water pouring through, I made the sign of the cross and changed my prayers from pleas to St Catherine for the life of my mistress to appeals to St Christopher for our safe delivery through those turbulent rapids. I did not witness the skill with which the helmsman steered us towards one of the arches because I kept my eyes tight shut, but I heard the swish and swirl of the water and felt the barge lift and surge as it was carried like a toy through the tunnel. There was a frightening thud as we were swept out the other side and the rear of the barge clipped the end of the long pier that supported the foot of the arch.
My eyes flew open in alarm and the first thing I saw was a long line of three-masted cogs waiting in mid-river for their turn to unload, then we swung to the right and the men heaved hard on the oars to take us across the flow of the tide and into the backwater that connected the Bermondsey Abbey demesne to the river. It was at this point that I saw a sight to make my stomach churn anew. Already moored against the abbey wharf was the galley I had seen the previous evening arriving at the Westminster palace dock, scarlet-painted and flying the royal banner of Gloucester. There was no sign of the duchess, but the intuitive lurching of my stomach told me it would not be long before I encountered her.
Like any great river, the Thames was prone to flooding and only poorer houses and workshops were built close to the southern bank. The Benedictines had wisely built their abbey on higher ground and the rowers shipped their oars and carried Catherine’s litter for a hundred yards up a sloping cinder path, past a herd of milk cows grazing on the lush grass of the flood-meadow, to a high wall where a river-gate stood open to receive us. I followed behind, dragging my feet, partly out of profound weariness and partly out of a reluctance to confront the situation that awaited me. Within the gate the bearers paused to catch their breath and when I caught them up, passing under an arch built through the thick wall, I was assailed by a sudden chill sense of leaving freedom for confinement.
Built of severe grey stone, the abbey precinct was a busy place and yet uncannily hushed; quiet enough for the summer chirrup of sparrows nesting in the eaves to be the dominant sound. Numerous tonsured monks in dark habits went about their tasks in silence, only the faint slap of their sandals on the flagstones marking their progress as they moved from place to place
. A large church dominated one side of a rectangular enclosure, surrounded on the other three sides by a series of domestic buildings fronted and connected by a surrounding cloister. A formal garden filled the quadrangle, laid out with severely trimmed hedges, paved walkways and a carved stone fountain at its centre; and there, against the muted gurgle of its overflowing basins, we were met by the abbot and another monk who turned out to be the hospitaller and beside them, conspicuous against the monochrome surroundings in her brightly coloured robes and scintillating jewellery stood Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester.
There followed a weirdly formal ceremony of welcome in which both the abbot and the duchess addressed themselves exclusively to a prone Catherine, who remained unconscious and motionless on her litter, scarcely appearing to breathe. I noticed that the hospitaller regarded her closely and with some alarm, but obviously did not feel he could interrupt the ceremonial, even though I frowned, wrung my hands and rolled my eyes at him. Rather than unctuous words of welcome, Catherine needed urgent nourishment and care and I was becoming desperate on her behalf. So much so that when the abbot implied that she should be carried into the church for an altar blessing and prayers to its patron, Our Lord Saviour, I plucked up courage to intervene.
‘Forgive me, my lord abbot, what the queen mother most urgently needs is nursing and sustenance. I am certain she will wish to receive a church blessing later, at a time when she is conscious of God’s Holy Beneficence.’
Inevitably the duchess felt bound to challenge my temerity, not that she favoured me with any sign of acknowledgement, neither of my presence nor my suggestion. ‘My men will carry her grace to the church at once, according to your wishes, my lord abbot,’ she said, beckoning to the men who had brought the litter from the barge and were standing at a deferential distance.
I seethed inwardly, partly at her disdain but mostly because her words confirmed my suspicion that Catherine had been brought from Westminster to Bermondsey not by order of the king but entirely at the instigation and organisation of the Duchess of Gloucester. It was her barge, her posse of retainers, and her way of preventing the king’s mother from exerting any further influence on her son. I wondered how great a benefice had been promised to the abbey in return for what was effectively a conspiracy to abduct and imprison a helpless lady.
Fortunately the hospitaller did not seem to be in on the conspiracy and spoke up for the first time. ‘Her grace’s companion is right, lord abbot. The dowager queen is in urgent need of medical care. She should be carried to her quarters immediately and attended by our apothecary. We have a duty of care to the bodies of the sick, as much as to their souls.’
I held my breath and watched as the abbot and the duchess exchanged lengthy and meaningful glances, then eventually the abbot gave a curt nod in the direction of the hospitaller. ‘Very well, Brother Anselm. You have prepared our best guest chamber – let her grace be carried there now. We will say prayers for her at Tierce, if you would care to join us, your grace?’ This last was directed at the duchess in an apologetic tone.
Within the frame of her elegantly wired headdress, Eleanor’s beautiful face had flushed with anger but she did not object. Instead she cast a veiled aspersion at Catherine which she knew only I would fully understand. ‘Heaven knows there is much in her life that requires our prayers, my lord, but unfortunately I am obliged to forego the privilege. There are matters that require my attention at Greenwich and I must catch the tide.’ She watched her men lift Catherine’s litter to follow the hospitaller to the guest quarters, her lips tightening as she took a last look at the unconscious figure stretched out upon it. ‘I will send a woman of my household to assist in the dowager queen’s care and a messenger to keep me informed of her progress. I trust arrangements can be made for their accommodation.’
It was only then that the lady Eleanor deigned to look at me, a brief, appraising glance before she bent to kiss the abbot’s ring in farewell. But in that look I found the information I needed, for although it contained pride and contempt, there was not a hint of trepidation. I assumed from this that Margery Jourdemayne had not told her of my visits or my enquiries about the king’s caul and the wax images. Had she known of these I believe I might have seen my death sentence in Eleanor’s cold, violet eyes.
To my intense relief, Catherine returned to consciousness towards noon and I was able to spoon-feed her some nourishing barley broth sent from the monastery kitchen. Once out of the abbot’s hearing, the hospitaller had proved to be a valuable ally and all Catherine’s requirements were met, while the apothecary, having been told the extent of her collapse, had prepared a herbal tonic of lemon balm, parsley and purslane, which I took the precaution of testing on myself before giving to her.
However good it was to see her awake, I was far from happy with Catherine’s lethargy. It was only twenty-four hours since she had given birth and yet she asked no questions about the baby and nor did she respond to any reference I made to his whereabouts, his condition or even his name. Her main concern was for religious comfort and I was asked to leave the room when the abbot came to bring her this. Mysteriously her breasts showed no sign of producing milk. I told myself it was early days, and now that she was awake what I found more immediately worrying was the lack of communication from outside. Eleanor’s two Gloucester retainers turned up before nightfall and duly presented themselves, a florid-faced woman of childbearing age who introduced herself as Hawisa and a spotty young man wearing the Gloucester badge on his tunic called Edwin. Catherine would have nothing to do with either of them, perhaps because she knew as well as I did that they had come to spy on us, rather than be of any assistance. Edwin mostly made himself scarce, but I knew that he met Hawisa at regular intervals, presumably to acquire information to carry to Greenwich. Rather than let her sit around all day doing nothing, I made use of Hawisa for work that did not involve contact with Catherine, such as collecting and delivering meals and laundry, fetching water, medicines from the apothecary and fuel for the fire. Despite it being high summer, Catherine was constantly cold and wanted her chamber kept at what was, for me, an uncomfortably high temperature.
To the abbey’s credit it was a pleasant room, not large but beautifully embellished with carved and polished panelling, a stone fireplace and two arched windows set high in the outside wall. These let in air and light, but gave no view and anyway Catherine wanted the shutters closed so the room remained dark and stuffy, but it was well furnished with a curtained bed and comfortable cushioned chairs at the hearth. It was in one of these that I slept when we first arrived, before I arranged for a truckle bed to be delivered. I had no intention of leaving Catherine alone or of allowing her to eat anything that I had not tasted myself first. Moreover I feared that even the presence of a crucifix, a prie dieu and the sanctity of our surroundings might not be enough to deter the devil’s imps, for I believed it was at the instigation of his acolyte that we were imprisoned in the abbey at all and therefore easy prey to Eleanor’s spells and conjuring. I could not dismiss the dreadful feeling that Catherine and I had come full circle, vividly recalling her infancy, when her father’s madness had seemed to infect the palace with winged demons conjured by some nameless sorcerer.
The constant presence of Eleanor’s spies made me desperate for a friendly face, but there was no sign of either Geoffrey or Owen and by the end of the second day I was extremely concerned. Although Thomas could have been delayed or even, heaven forbid, set upon by thieves during his journey to Hadham or else have lingered there in the hope of Owen’s arrival, there was no reason I could think of why Walter and Geoffrey should not have managed to make their way to Westminster, discover our whereabouts and present themselves at Bermondsey within two days, unless the Duchess of Gloucester’s influence extended to the abbot of Westminster as well. Could both abbeys have been bribed into a vow of silence over the presence of their royal guest?
As the days passed into weeks, I became more and more dejected at being cut off from the out
side world, utterly dismayed by the separation from my family and the total lack of information about them. Every day I went to the gate to ask if my husband had made enquiries, but the porter just shook his head and refused even to let me look out of the grille which afforded the only view beyond the walls of the enclosure, of the inns and houses that lined the pilgrim road to Canterbury. I nursed the faint hope that somewhere in one of them Geoffrey or at least one of Catherine’s household might be keeping a vigil. It seemed impossible that no one had discovered our whereabouts. Stressed and miserable as I was, I could not believe that two people, one of them a queen, could be made to disappear from the world of their loved ones in such a way.
Strangely, while I fretted and fumed and pined for my husband and children, Catherine seemed to have undergone some kind of spiritual catharsis during her unconscious state, because ever since regaining her senses she had displayed a complete lack of interest in anything other than her own state of grace and even began to talk of her illness and close confinement as justified punishment for her sins.
‘It is no more than I deserve, Mette,’ she told me on the day when she at last rose from her bed to sit beside the fire, staring into its shifting embers. ‘I thought I deserved the happiness of love and a quiet life with my family, but that was sinful self-indulgence. Queens do not make second marriages, even when they are widowed as young as I was. It disturbs the political balance. I should have obeyed the precedents and taken the veil.’
I could not believe my ears. ‘You were only a girl, Mademoiselle. Not twenty-one years old when King Henry died. Why should you have wasted your youth wearing out your knees when you had no vocation to the religious life?’
The Tudor Bride Page 46