The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  Catherine chose to make her last confession on Christmas Day and I left her with the abbot for nearly an hour. Afterwards she was exhausted and slept. I could not remember a more sombre Christmas. Had the little wizened man not scratched on the door and delivered a letter from Geoffrey, I should have believed the whole world had forgotten me, but his love and the words of encouragement he wrote tipped me back from the brink of despair.

  —ξξ—

  My beloved Mette,

  It is Christmas and the whole world is celebrating the birth of our Lord, but I cannot imagine there is any joy for you at this time. However, we are all thinking of you and praying for you and I am holding you in my heart until I see you again. There is now word spreading around town that the queen’s life is drawing to a close, so while I earnestly pray for her to find a peaceful end to her suffering, I also hope that her release will at last free you to come back to me and to your children and grandchildren, who all miss you and ask for you every day. If it is possible, give our love and loyal greetings to Catherine and remember that we are all thinking of you both. Be brave, beloved Mette, as I know you will be, and bring your tears to shed with those who love you, of whom the most fervent is your

  Geoffrey.

  —ξξ—

  Towards the end of December, an icy blast hit England and sent everyone scurrying to their hearths for warmth. To my delight Hawisa and Edwin, the Gloucester spies, did not return from their Christmas break, kept away by snow drifts which obliterated the roads and piled up on the ice which had stopped the Thames from flowing. Catherine’s bed was moved as close to the fire as we dared, but even so I could not believe that she would survive the freezing nights that followed. However, her will to live was astonishing, driven by a new and consuming need.

  Daily, almost hourly, she prayed that her son would come to say goodbye and, in due course, her prayers were answered. On New Year’s Day they managed to clear the road sufficiently to allow the king to travel the two miles to Bermondsey from Kennington Palace. He arrived unexpectedly at the hour of Sext, the abbey enclosure suddenly filling with the noise and colour of his royal entourage. Hastily summoned from performing the Office, the abbot accompanied him to the door of Catherine’s chamber, but when I opened it King Henry would not permit him to enter.

  ‘When she needs the last rites, I trust you to administer them, Father Abbot,’ he insisted, ‘but now I will see my lady mother alone.’

  Catherine had heard the commotion of trumpets and horses’ hooves and asked me to prop her up on pillows and pin her white veil over the linen coif she wore. ‘He is here. At last he is here.’ In their sunken sockets her eyes shone with anticipation and her hands clenched and unclenched on the bedcover. ‘Stay with me, Mette,’ she whispered. ‘Do not leave me.’

  ‘I will be here, Mademoiselle,’ I assured her. ‘I am always here.’

  I remained in the room but retreated to the farthest corner of the chamber so as not to intrude on the king’s last farewell to his mother. Being in his presence though, I was obliged to kneel, a position which, having passed my half century, I now found hard to maintain for very long.

  His mother’s eyes were open wide as King Henry bent over the bed. Although it was not a month since he had celebrated his fifteenth birthday and he was visibly shocked at the sight of her, he did not weep but a throaty hoarseness betrayed his emotion. ‘My beloved lady mother,’ he said. ‘God be with you.’

  ‘And also with you, my liege – my dear son.’ Her voice was muffled, scarcely audible.

  King Henry leaned in to catch her words and spoke softly back, his mouth close to her ear. ‘They said you did not want me to know of your illness but when the abbot learned I was at Kennington, he decided he should send word. I wanted to come as soon as I heard, but the snow has prevented travel until today. They said you cannot be moved or I would have you brought to the palace. Have you suffered grievously?’

  ‘It is nearly over, Henry.’ She closed her eyes as if those few words had taken all her strength. I saw alarm flare in his eyes and it occurred to me that he feared she was already slipping away.

  ‘She is very weak, your grace,’ I said, raising my voice to carry from my corner, half-hidden from him by the bed curtains. ‘But she can listen. Have you perhaps some words of comfort to give her?’

  The king glanced across, appearing surprised to find me there. ‘What words would comfort her, Mette?’

  ‘The truth, my liege. What has happened to Owen Tudor and what are your intentions for their children? She needs reassurance.’

  Henry placed his hand cautiously over his mother’s where it lay on the quilt, fragile as a robin’s claw. The fire was only a few feet away and the room was stifling hot but he frowned at the icy touch of her skin. ‘Owen is being sought, my lady. He escaped from Newgate, I suspect with help from outside. I knew nothing of his imprisonment and I can do nothing for him now unless he comes to court.’

  Catherine’s lips were moving but no sound escaped. King Henry looked at me enquiringly. ‘Do you know what she is saying, Mette?’

  I made a guess and rose to move a little nearer. ‘I think she wants to tell you that Owen will not come voluntarily until you take full command of your kingdom, your grace. There are people who mean him harm.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I know. But I have spoken to the Earl of Suffolk regarding my brothers, Mother. Have no fear for them. Find peace now in almighty God and die in His grace, as you have always lived. Death holds no terrors. You must have faith.’

  There was movement in the hand beneath his and he gave it a tiny squeeze. Her lips moved again but no words emerged. ‘Do not speak,’ he said, removing his hand and feeling in the front of his robe. He drew out a folded letter with a red wax seal. ‘This came secretly from Paris, among some other documents.’ He held the letter nearer so that she could see. ‘You will recognise this seal, I am sure.’

  Impressed into the wax were the three fleurs-de-lys of the French royal crest. A tear swelled and glistened on Catherine’s eyelashes. King Henry hesitated. ‘Do you want me to read it?’

  Catherine moved her head slightly and mouthed a word. ‘No.’

  ‘Your lady mother is tired, my liege,’ I said. ‘May I read it to her later?’

  At Catherine’s slight nod I approached the bed and King Henry handed the letter over to me, I thought a little reluctantly. Perhaps he was eager to know its content. ‘Do not forget it was sent in secret,’ he warned.

  ‘It is from her brother,’ I acknowledged. ‘I will keep it hidden.’ Tucking it away, I retreated once more.

  The king turned back to Catherine. ‘The Pretender is in Paris now – where you were both born. There is so much about your past that I do not know.’ He grew bold and bent forward to kiss her cheek. A faint smile twitched at Catherine’s lips. ‘What a power you might have been in the land, my lady, if my father had not died.’

  Suddenly Catherine found the remnants of her voice, but the words came agonisingly slowly. ‘You will be – a great king, Henry – as your father was.’

  He crossed himself. ‘If God wills it. We are all in His hands and we both know that this is our last meeting in this world. I will have masses said for you in perpetuity. May the Angels guard your soul, my sweet mother, and carry it safely to Heaven.’

  As he left her side, I saw tears finally well in his eyes. ‘I did not know until now how cruel a taskmaster death is, Mette. Please send word at once when …’ His voice vanished on a gulp.

  ‘I will, your grace. It cannot be long.’

  After closing the door behind him, I found a small cloth-of-scarlet draw-stringed pouch lying on the bed near Catherine’s hands. It was the first day of January. He had left a final New Year gift for his mother.

  During the early hours of the morning, when she next woke, I showed her the pouch. ‘Shall I open it, Mademoiselle?’ At her nod I loosened the draw-string and from within slid a tablet of gold on which a crucifix was moulded, set about
with pearls and sapphires.

  I held it up for her to see and she smiled. ‘He wants to pave my path to Heaven,’ she whispered.

  Then I read the letter to her which the king had brought.

  —ξξ—

  To Catherine, Dowager Queen of England from Charles VII of France.

  Sister,

  I feel able to call you that once more, now that I sit on the throne which your treacherous marriage tried to deny me. To achieve this my rightful place, much blood has been shed and many lives lost, including that of your lord and husband, Henry of Lancaster. Now his cause in France is finished and word has reached me that your life may also be nearing its end. The time has come for us to be reconciled.

  I have long lived under the shadow of our father’s illness, fearing that the madness might strike me also and I imagine that you may have feared a similar fate but they tell me your malady is not of that nature. We seem to have escaped the curse of insanity and I pray God that it will not afflict our children. Our countries need strong and wise rulers.

  I will include this letter among others being sent to the English court, in the hope that it will be delivered to you safely. It brings my prayers for your recovery but should God not grant it then may He send you a swift release from your affliction and gather your soul to Heaven.

  I am once more your loving brother,

  Charles

  Written at the Palace of the Louvre on the feast of St Nicholas 1436.

  —ξξ—

  I lowered the letter and peered past the candle by which I had read it. I expected Catherine’s eyes to be closed, but they were wide open. Reflected in them were the dancing flame and an expression of intense anger.

  ‘Burn it, Mette,’ she said and her next words came in short bursts on a series of laboured breaths. ‘Charles never did know – when reconciliation was possible – and Henry should not read – about our father’s madness. Burn it now.’

  I put it on the fire and watched it shrivel into ash. She was right. It was far too late for reconciliation with the brother who had labelled her a traitor. She was no longer a daughter of France; she would die a queen of England.

  Then she said her final words. ‘I love you, Mette. Call the abbot. It is time.’

  After she had received Extreme Unction, three monks remained in the chamber to sing psalms in muted plain-chant, which set a mood of deepest melancholy. I felt numb as I sat on a stool at the bedside and watched Catherine’s face, motionless except for a faint movement of the nostrils and the dancing flicker of candlelight across the parched skin of her cheeks. The king’s crucifix tablet lay on her breast, rising and falling on breaths which seemed to come at ever greater intervals. After a time the abbey bell sounded for Matins and the psalmists ceased singing and filed quietly past, each murmuring a blessing and making the sign of the cross over her inert body as they left the chamber, bound for the church.

  So Catherine and I were alone when her last, long breath crept slowly and inexorably from her lungs like an invisible wraith. I waited for the next inhalation, but it never came.

  For some time I did not move. My body seemed to be in suspension as my thoughts wandered over the course of her life and the momentous events that had shaped it. I recalled the first time she had smiled at me by the light of a makeshift fire in our freezing turret room at the Hôtel de St Pol in Paris – the gummy baby smile that had sealed my life to hers. We had shared so much since; agonising partings and joyous reunions, the heart-rending madness of her father, the negligence of her mother, her flowering into a court beauty, the horror of Agincourt, terror at the hands of Burgundy, injustice and abuse, her all-too-short marriage to King Henry, the solemnity of her coronation, her magnificence as Queen Consort, the fear of barrenness and the triumph of an heir, the death of the king and the endless funeral cavalcade, the spite of Gloucester, the idyll of Hadham, our second loves, children and family life, happiness and fulfilment and then the fateful ride to Westminster that had brought us here to Bermondsey. Now I had witnessed her death and must live in a world without her. I would never again prepare her clothes, pin her veil, pluck her brow-line or arrange her hair. She would never again ask my advice, give me loving hugs or chastise me for being flippant and I would no longer have to chastise myself for putting her before my husband and my children. I had always thought to die first but God does not always permit the child to outlive the parent. The child of my breast, my beautiful princess, cherished queen and beloved friend had left me.

  Her hands were clasped over the mound of her belly, the ugly outward evidence of the dreadful growth that had stifled the life from her. For the thousandth time I condemned its cruelty and thought how much more likely it was that such an unspeakable thing had been conjured by witchcraft, rather than inflicted as divine punishment for any sin Catherine may have committed. She was not blameless, but nothing she had ever done or said could have deserved this disgusting and pitiful suffering. I wanted to take her hand in a final farewell but, as I gently prised her fingers from the tablet, something fell from between them which I recognised at once. It was the key to the concealed compartment in her travelling altar, the place where she kept all her confidential letters, some she had received and others she had written but been unable to send. On several occasions I had seen her slip folded papers into it, especially at times of crisis in her life. I reached out and felt gently in the neck of her chemise for the chain she always wore. It held the reliquary I had given her on her eighteenth birthday in order to hide the key safely from prying eyes but when I opened it I found it empty. I glanced from the key to the reliquary and then to Catherine’s sculpted face, serene and beautiful again now in the peace of death, and drew from them a message as if it had been penned.

  I was the only one who knew that the altar held a secret compartment, the only one who knew what she locked away in it and where the key was and it was I who would be bound to tend her first, after she died. Before she lost all strength and sensibility she must have managed to open the reliquary and remove the key, knowing that I would be the one to find it. She meant me to have the key and the contents of the altar because she wanted me to be custodian of the secrets it contained.

  Hearing the sound of footsteps outside the chamber door, I swiftly tucked the key into the purse I wore at my belt, then I bent to kiss the brittle skin of Catherine’s forehead.

  ‘Heaven take your grace,’ I whispered as the tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘God rest your soul, my little Mademoiselle.’

  48

  ‘Your task is now completed, Madame. The dowager queen no longer requires your services. Her treasurer will see to it that you are paid. You are free to leave.’

  I suppose it was inevitable that it should be the Duchess of Gloucester who was the one to bring an end to my time with Catherine. The thirteen-year-old beauty who had carried the queen’s train at her coronation and then been sent home was now the appointed official taking control of Catherine’s body, responsible for seeing to its embalming and preparation for the funeral and interment that would follow. I found it satisfactorily ironic that she should not be aware that the treasurer to whom she referred was my husband.

  ‘May I ask where she is to be buried, your grace?’ I did not expect to be invited to the funeral, but I believed I was entitled to know where I might be able to pray later at her graveside.

  Eleanor folded her hands and shook her head impatiently. ‘That is not yet decided. Her executors are in discussion about the funeral arrangements.’

  Although there was no possibility of it, I thought it would be fascinating to attend that meeting. The ‘discussion’ she mentioned was more likely to be a ferocious argument because, in a wayward moment when dictating her last will and testament to a monkish scribe, Catherine had decided to name as her executors the two great enemies on the council, the Duke of Gloucester and Cardinal Beaufort. Perhaps she had hoped in death to become an influence for peace between them, but I rather doubted it. I considered i
t more likely that it was her de Valois pride at work contriving posthumous payback to both of them for the game they had played with her life.

  Eleanor went on. ‘Ensure that you take nothing from this room that is not yours, Madame. My woman Hawisa has my full permission to search you on leaving. Any bequests the queen dowager may have made to you will be specified in her will and forwarded in due course.’

  I could not believe my ears. I had been Catherine’s trusted companion and servant nearly all my life and never so much as pilfered a hair-pin and I took it as an insult to be even suspected of such a thing. Then I remembered the key and sent up a silent prayer to thank whichever saint had caused Eleanor to warn me of the search. Perhaps it had been Catherine herself. I made a mental note to pay a visit to the latrine before leaving and conceal it very privately about my person; somewhere stolid Hawisa would never look.

  The duchess turned away and stood for some time gazing intently down at Catherine’s body stretched out on the bed. After the abbot and the apothecary had certified her death, I had taken it upon myself to arrange her as regally as possible; dressing her reverently in the blue brocade robe and scarlet, gem-studded mantle she had worn when she made her fateful visit to the king to warn him against the very woman who now loomed over her. Although her sickness had robbed her of her famous beauty, at least the fine clothes made her look suitably regal and the jewelled headdress concealed the terrible sparseness of her once thick and lustrous hair. If they made an effigy of her, like that which had lain on the coffin of the late King Henry, it would probably bear no resemblance to the vibrant beauty the people had called ‘the fair Kate’.

  ‘The apothecary says it was a canker that brought about her death,’ Eleanor remarked matter-of-factly.