She raised her sunken blue eyes to mine. They were duller than I ever remembered them, like those of a leper cast out from society, whose spirit has been eroded by pain and rejection. ‘Because it was my duty and because it would have pleased God,’ she said. ‘I have tried to live against the order of things and my sin has caused a canker in my belly. I should not have married Owen and I should not have had his children and now I must suffer the consequences. I shall not leave this place alive.’
I am sure it was the illness that made her so depressed and hopeless; God knows, I felt shattered and helpless myself though I was healthy enough, but she was right when she said that something was growing in her belly, a grotesque swelling protruding in her stomach, like a jester’s bladder. Most likely the baby had come early because he simply had no more room to develop in a womb that was being invaded by a growth. I wondered daily whether the tiny boy who had been baptised Owen was still alive.
Smothering my own depression, I did my best to persuade her out of her lethargy. ‘You speak as if you came here voluntarily, Mademoiselle. You did not. You were brought here by servants of Eleanor Cobham, the girl you rejected twice as your lady-in-waiting. Perhaps you are paying now for those rejections. This is not a beguinage like those we knew in France, where noblewomen retire from the world of their own volition; this is a prison where women are sent by others because they want them out of the way. I have seen them scurrying to the church, draped in black veils, their eyes on the ground. I have spoken to their servants. You are here because someone – Eleanor of Gloucester and probably Humphrey as well – wants you out of the way, just as your mother did all those years ago when she sent you to Poissy Abbey.’
To be locked away behind walls in a place where the only freedom was to offer your life to God was anathema to me, but to her it seemed to be the most natural place in the world if she was to atone for some terrible and, as far as I could see, totally imagined sin. Always Catherine had turned to prayer and the Church for consolation, proving that the nuns had done their job well when they educated her from the age of four.
The weary smile she gave me at the end of my homily was striking evidence of that. ‘What you will never understand, Mette, much though you love me, is that I believe in God’s holy purposes. I am here at His will, not that of Eleanor of Gloucester. She may think she has got me out of her way, but in fact she has put me in God’s way. And for someone who has not long to live and a lifetime of sin for which to atone, I could be in no better place than in His holy house and among His holy brethren.’ She sank down wearily against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. ‘I wonder if the abbot could find me the habit of a Tertiary. The next time I dress I should like to wear that. Would you ask him for me, Mette?’
I remembered how she had reacted all those years ago to the awful carnage of Agincourt. Even as a girl of fourteen, she had retreated into the teachings of Holy Writ and the revelations of saints and scholars in grief at the thousands of French deaths in that battle. Now, once again, Catherine turned to prayer and the Church as her means of salvation; she was beyond consolation, and had only her staunch faith.
I shook my head hopelessly and turned away, making the sign of the cross, not in acknowledgement of her piety but in pity for her state of mind and body and, being honest, in consolation for my own sense of desperation. It saddened me profoundly that in fear for her eternal soul she appeared to have erased from her memory the happiest part of her life and all the people who had contributed to that happiness. As well as begging God for Catherine’s recovery, my own prayers now were for her children and for Owen, who, unbeknown to them and through no fault of their own, seemed to have lost their place in her heart.
I told myself repeatedly it was the canker, while nursing the ghastly fear that it, too, was the work of Eleanor of Gloucester. How many incantations over Catherine’s wax image had it taken I wondered to magic the evil growth in her womb and how many spells and potions and pacts with the devil had Eleanor made to try and conjure herself a crown? Catherine might believe in the power of God and his saints to protect against the devil, but my roots were in a place where everyone believed in sorcerers and their ability to conjure evil. The devil’s imps had infected my world when I had been nursemaid to her and her brother Charles; that same little brother who had branded her a traitor and cut her completely from his life and the country of her birth. Now, at my lowest ebb, in the loneliness and abandonment of being shut away with the dying spectre of the person to whom I had given so much of my life and love, those imps had returned to infect the shadows that constantly surrounded me in the room where she would not allow the daylight to penetrate.
Then, one day in the middle of October, I heard a timid scratching at the door of my prison. I opened it to find the small, wizened figure of one of the lay brothers from the laundry. A score of these outside workers were employed in various capacities at the abbey and occasionally, when the spy Hawisa was occupied elsewhere, one of them returned the items of clothing and napery I had sent for washing. Usually they thrust them into my hands and left but, on this occasion, the wizened man stayed long enough to speak in a voice that squeaked with anxiety.
‘The laundress says one of the napkins got torn, Mistress. It is at the top of the pile. You should check.’ With that he scampered away up the cloister before I could respond.
I closed the door and put the pile of laundry down on a table, peering at the top item in the gloom. Then I picked it up and shook it out. There was no sign of a tear, but a sealed letter floated like an autumn leaf down to the floor. My heart began to beat and I pounced, as if it might vanish before I could lay my hands on it and instantly recognised the looped legal writing beside the seal. It was Geoffrey’s. The mere sight of it brought tears to my eyes.
With trembling fingers I broke the seal and spread out the single sheet of paper. The writing was close and cramped, even spreading along the margins as if he could not squeeze enough information onto the page. My mind filled with an image of him sitting at the writing desk in the window of his library, bending over his task, quill dipping in and out of the ink pot and I was consumed by a desperate longing to be there with him.
Catherine was sleeping in her chair as she did so much in those days, so I took the letter and crept nearer to the fire, which burned constantly in the hearth and gave me just enough light to read by.
46
My Beloved Mette,
At last, with the help of the Earl of Mortain, I believe I have found a way through the maze of lies and evasions we have encountered ever since discovering the queen’s whereabouts. Knowing that where she is you will be too, I hope against hope that this letter reaches you. My poor Mette, your admirable love and loyalty has led you into a desperate situation which you cannot ever have envisaged and which even yet I do not fully understand. Very soon, however, the queen should receive a visit from Lord Edmund, who will be able to tell you in person news of both your families and bring out to us some much-needed news of you.
In the space available I cannot adequately describe how dreadfully I have feared for your safety and how much I miss you because this letter has to be only one page, so I will reluctantly restrict myself to conveying as much information as possible. We know that the queen is ill and that you are caring for her at Bermondsey. We also know that her baby, Owen, is in the care of the Abbot of Westminster and sickly but alive. The king eventually told us this after we had met a wall of silence at Westminster Abbey and had to follow him to Eltham to hear it. It has been the only news we managed to glean until very recently, for the whole world seemed to have shut its ears, mouths and doors to us. It has been a fearful time, although I am certain no worse than the one you are experiencing.
Owen is a desperate man. He has been ill in Wales with the sweating sickness but when he returned to find Catherine gone and met the same terrible wall of silence, we got together and decided on a course of action. We all went to Hadham, being worried that the Duchess
of Gloucester might discover the existence of the Tudor family and take action against the queen’s household. Owen took his sons to sanctuary at Barking Abbey and they remain safe there and Walter and I brought the others to London. All are well, including little Margaret Tudor and our own sweet William, but this house was too crowded and Mildy has now taken in Anne and Thomas and baby Hester. Hadham has been closed up for the present. All are anxious for news of you and concerned for the health of the queen.
I have only enough space now to convey the shocking news that last week Owen, John Meredith and Maître Boyers were arrested in the street outside Westminster Abbey by Gloucester’s men and thrown into Newgate prison. Having returned from Calais, Lord Edmund is trying to get them released but it is proving difficult. Doubtless the queen will be distraught to hear this, but Lord Edmund may have better news by the time he visits, which should be very soon.
The children pray for you and the queen every night and you are seldom out of my thoughts and prayers.
Your loving and longing husband, Geoffrey
—ξξ—
The last words were crammed up the narrow margin that Geoffrey had left on the page and I pressed them to my lips, my heart full but feeling lighter than it had for what seemed like years.
So at last, after weeks of isolation, we received our first visitor from the outside world. Not that calling on the lady whose beauty had enraptured him as a youth brought any joy to Edmund Beaufort, who was appalled by the frail, pale wraith who sat propped in her chair, swamped by the black Benedictine habit the abbot had supplied, her face a skull-like mask loosely framed in a white linen coif. While walking with him from the gatehouse to the guesthouse, I had warned the earl of Catherine’s appearance and condition, but my description had not been adequate to soften the impact of his first sight of her. Proud Knight of the Garter though he was, he could not suppress the profound shock that filled his eyes with tears.
Catherine saw his distress at once and her voice was surprisingly strong as she greeted him. ‘Edmund, how very good to see you. Pray do not weep for me; I do not deserve your tears.’
Despite her plea, the forbidden tears spilled down Edmund’s cheeks as he bent his knee before her. When he kissed her hand it must have felt like pressing his lips to bare bones. For several moments he could not speak and she let him struggle to compose himself before she continued, her voice gradually becoming huskier and weaker.
‘This is my penance for flying against the wind, my lord. I snatched at happiness with Owen when I should have been an obedient dowager and lived a life of charitable works and quiet preparation for eternity. I am trying to atone for it now but I get weary and must save myself for prayer. You speak, Edmund.’
Edmund took a deep breath and dashed the tears from his cheeks, then he stood up and took the seat I had placed opposite hers. ‘Forgive me, your grace,’ he said thickly. ‘I am foolish and waste precious time. The first thing I must tell you is that your children are safe. Young Edmund and Jasper are both at Barking Abbey with Abbess de la Pole and Margaret is with Mistress Vintner’s husband and daughter at their London house. The baby is in the care of a wet-nurse appointed by the Abbot of Westminster.’
Catherine had read Geoffrey’s letter and made an impatient gesture. ‘That much we know from Mette’s husband, but what of Owen, my lord? Is he still in Newgate?’
‘I am afraid so. Owen was desperate to visit you when he found out where you were but the monks would not admit him. They said you had given the order yourself. Can that be right, Catherine?’
A faint flush stained her cheeks. ‘It is true. The first time he took my confession I told the abbot that I wished to see no one. I let them admit you, Edmund, but look how greatly you were shocked by my appearance. I cannot bear for Owen to see me in the grip of this fearful malady. I want him to remember me as we were at Hadham, young and beautiful and happy. But tell me, does Henry know Humphrey has had Owen thrown into jail?’
‘I think not. Gloucester knows of your marriage now and I have to be careful in order to keep your other secrets from him. After his recent and lucrative chevauchées through Burgundy’s Flemish territories, he is much in royal favour at present. It is hard to get past him to the king’s private ear.’
‘And I do not believe the Duchess of Gloucester will have revealed to the king the gravity of his mother’s illness, my lord,’ I interjected. I was still reeling from realising that by choosing to shut herself off from all contact with her family, without telling me, Catherine had effectively enclosed me with her, away from mine.
‘Then I will tell him if you wish me to,’ Edmund offered. ‘Sooner or later I expect to get a private word with Henry. I am sure he would wish to visit you.’
‘No!’ Catherine’s voice cracked with alarm. ‘I do not wish it.’
‘But he should see you – before …’ the earl’s voice trailed away. After a pause he made a gesture of appeal, spreading his hands. ‘You cannot deny him the opportunity to say goodbye, Catherine.’
‘There will be time for that – later. I beg you, Edmund, just to do your best to help Owen.’ Her voice was growing weaker.
He digested her rebuttal in silence, then changed the subject. ‘The Abbot of Westminster tells me the baby he baptised Owen is thriving with his foster mother. Abbot Haweden asked me to request permission for him to remain at the abbey. He feels he is a gift to them from God.’
I held my breath; Catherine had barely spoken of the baby since his birth, ignoring me every time I mentioned him. After another long pause all she said was, ‘Yes, I give my permission. That is fitting. And now you must leave me, Edmund. I am sorry but I grow weary. Will you come again?’
‘Of course I will, I hope with better news of your husband. Meanwhile, may God preserve and bless you, Catherine.’ Lord Edmund stood and stooped to kiss her shrivelled cheek, dry like autumn leaves. I saw him out and as soon as he quitted the chamber he slumped down onto the cloister parapet, head in hands. Deep, wracking sobs set his chest heaving. I stood silently beside him, waiting for the storm to subside.
Eventually he knuckled the tears away. His eyes were red-rimmed when he raised them to me. ‘Sweet Heaven, Mette, how can you bear it? She was so vibrant, so beautiful!’
‘She says it is God’s will.’ I crossed myself. ‘And perhaps it is; either that or witchcraft.’
His brow creased in a frown. ‘Witchcraft?’ he echoed. ‘Do you have any evidence of that?’
I shrugged. ‘Is there ever evidence of sorcery? They burned Jeanne d’Arc on very little. It seems the only thing is to avoid it and I fear it is too late for Catherine to do that.’
Lord Edmund stared at me steadily for the length of an Ave, as if assessing my state of mind, then made the sign of the cross himself, his hand moving slowly and deliberately through the motions. He stood up. ‘I will do my best for Owen,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that will only be by providing him with the means of escape. Have you any message for your kin? I will be seeing your husband within the week.’
Glancing round for possible witnesses, I took from my sleeve pocket the letter I had written in anticipation of his visit and pressed it into his hands. ‘It is very short but it will reassure Geoffrey and give him something to read to the children. I tried to make Catherine write something for Owen but she refused point blank. She has changed, my lord. Attaining grace is more important to her now than earthly things. Poor Owen has lost her to the Church, I am afraid. One day perhaps I will be able to explain it to him.’
‘How long do you think she has to live, Mette?’
I shook my head slowly. ‘It is impossible to say. Some nights I do not expect her to wake in the morning.’
He gazed at me sorrowfully. ‘It must be hard for you.’
Tears, never far from the surface, welled now in my eyes. I took a long, deep breath, struggling to find my voice. ‘Nothing has ever been harder,’ I said.
47
On her thirty-fifth birthday in the clo
sing week of October, Catherine had seemed too frail to live into December, and yet she did. She survived to see another celebration of Christ’s birth, while her skin grew thinner than paper and her bones constantly broke through, causing terrible sores which I had to bathe with willow water and wrap in fresh bandages every day. Meanwhile the growth in her belly distended her stomach to grotesque proportions. It had got to the stage when she could no longer leave her bed to go to the church, even carried on a litter and instead of praying for a miracle recovery, I began to beg the Almighty for an end to her suffering.
The Earl of Mortain made a second visit in mid-December, before being obliged to leave again for France at the head of another defensive army. He told us that he had managed to get weapons smuggled to Owen in Newgate, enabling him and his companions to take the keys off their gaoler and make their escape, but had no further news of them except to convey a rumour that they had fled to Wales under the continued threat of arrest or assault by Gloucester’s henchmen. Lord Edmund had also managed to obtain a private meeting with King Henry, when he had told him of Owen’s unauthorised imprisonment and also of his own visit to Catherine, though not of her illness, as she had requested. When he bid her farewell, they both knew that it would be for the last time.
‘I think you should let the king know of your grievous malady, Catherine,’ he urged. ‘You cannot protect him any longer. I truly believe he has a right.’
She did not speak but slowly nodded her agreement.
‘Shall I ask the abbot to write to him on your behalf?’ Edmund whispered as he kissed her wet cheek. Once again she nodded.
A few days later, the abbot came to say Mass and bring her the Host and he read her a letter he had composed to King Henry. ‘At present his grace is at Windsor but they are preparing for him to spend Christmas at Kennington this year, which is only a mile or so from here, and I am sure he will make all speed to Bermondsey. And when you think it is the right time to make your last confession, it will be my honour to come to you, your grace.’
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