Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘What does King Henry look like, my Lady? Did you think him handsome when you met him?’

  ‘I have told you, Catherine, more than once. He is a fine-looking man, a man’s man, a warrior king. I’ll wager he can make a woman feel like a woman in every sense of the word …’ She threw a scornful look at her husband and added, ‘which is more than can be said for some.’

  Queen Isabeau was clearly nervous about the meeting. Now and then she would get up from her seat to pace up and down the deck, from prow to stern and then back again. She was at her most elegant today, her forehead smooth and high with finely plucked eyebrows emphasising the shape of her large, blue-grey eyes. A delicate veil in the palest shade of lilac drifted down from the tip of her pointed headdress and heavily jewelled sleeves protruded from slits in the seams of her purple, ermine-lined cloak. A small lap dog with ridiculously short legs and a sharp, shrill bark did its best to keep up with her pacing but succeeded only in waking the King.

  ‘Dear God!’ he squealed, ‘keep that animal away from me!’

  Catherine put an arm around his shoulders, soothing him. ‘Hush, Papa. It is only Maman’s little dog, Cherie. She won’t harm you.’

  ‘Where are we? Where are we going? What are we doing in the middle of this river? We’ll drown! We’ll surely drown! Who will save us?’ The King of France was rocking to and fro like a child.

  ‘We are going, my Lord,’ Queen Isabeau silenced him, ‘to meet King Henry of England with a view to negotiating a marriage contract between him and our daughter Catherine. She will become Queen of England as soon as a reasonable dowry can be arranged.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand crowns!’ quavered the King, jabbing the air with his forefinger. ‘That’s what I said last time and I’m not going to offer any more than that. Two hundred thousand crowns. He’s very lucky to have her! Two hundred thousand. That’s my last offer …’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Charles,’ said Queen Isabeau irritably as she sat down next to him, ‘you’re not at a cattle market. Besides, he is demanding eight hundred thousand. God only knows where we will find such a sum of money.’

  ‘It is unreasonably high,’ agreed the Duke of Burgundy, ‘but it will be interesting to see whether, having met the Princess Catherine, King Henry will lower his price.’

  The Queen stood up again, suddenly tense, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘I can’t go on with this. Not under these circumstances.’

  ‘What, Maman? What do you mean?’

  ‘I really don’t think that your father can contribute anything at all to this dialogue. He’ll loll around in a chair, babbling and farting like a big baby. His behaviour is hardly likely to impress the King of England!’

  She clapped her hands loudly. ‘Take him away,’ she said through clenched teeth as two of the King’s body servants moved swiftly into position on either side of him. They took most of his weight between them and manoeuvred him towards the rear of the barge. Docile as a lamb, he smiled affably at them both. ‘And make damned sure,’ added the Queen, ‘that nobody sees him!’

  Catherine watched as her father was taken away. She had spent a great deal of time with him in the eight months since they had both returned to court, she from the convent at Poissy and he from his enforced confinement in St Pol. His behaviour often swung between elation and depression but, on the days when he was at his best, she took great delight in his company; she fretted about him on the days when he was locked in his room.

  On his good days, they would walk in the palace garden together, talking at length. The King would confide in her his hopes for the future and for the marriage which would unite France and England, bringing an end to decades of battle and bloodshed between the two countries. Partly out of affection for her father, Catherine had slowly begun to accept the idea of marriage to the King of England.

  This was not one of her father’s good days and she knew that her mother was right in not allowing him to attend the meeting. In fact, he seemed particularly bad today, querulous and nervous, inclined to shy away from everyone, holding his arms over his head as though to protect himself. In his youth, her father had been known as ‘Charles the Well-Beloved’. Now they called him ‘Charles the Mad’.

  The barge was pulled into line with the landing stage and, standing behind her mother as they both waited to be helped ashore, Catherine felt the steadying hand of her uncle, John the Fearless, under her elbow. The moment had come; she was about to meet the man her parents wanted her to marry. Would he be a brute, as Sister Supplice had warned her? A bully? Or would he be charming and difficult to resist, as her mother had described him? She would soon find out.

  Meticulous preparations had been made for the meeting. Two pavilions had been erected in a field near the landing stage, matching exactly in size and design, one for the French delegation and one for the English. Guards were stationed along the deep ditch which surrounded three sides of the enclosure and the fourth side, equally well guarded, was bounded by the River Oise. The pavilions were linked by a covered walkway to a marquee in the very centre of the compound, the neutral territory where negotiations would take place. The blue and gold royal flag of France, fluttering slightly in the breeze off the water, was being raised high above the nearest pavilion as Queen Isabeau approached it on the arm of the Duke of Burgundy. Catherine followed, a few steps behind.

  Once inside, Guillemote helped Catherine remove her heavy cloak to reveal a loose, sleeveless mantle over a close-fitting gown of pale green, buttoned up modestly to her throat. Her hair was neatly braided under an arched crown and she looked both virginal and regal.

  Queen Isabeau peered into her daughter’s face, scrutinising her appearance, then pinched her cheeks in an attempt to bring some colour to them.

  ‘You’re a bit pale,’ she said, pushing a stray curl back into place under the crown, ‘but we’ve done well with you. And it was certainly worth spending the extra money on that gown. The colour is so lovely, the pale grey-green of young sage leaves: it complements your eyes beautifully. We must remember how flattering it is. You look for all the world like a queen, Catherine.’ She paused. ‘Queen Catherine! How easily the title trips off the tongue!’

  ‘My Lady,’ said Catherine, ‘you are sure, aren’t you, that this marriage is really the best thing for France?’

  The Queen gripped her daughter’s wrist. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Catherine, how many times must I tell you? It is the only thing for France,’ she said in an urgent whisper, ‘the only thing that will bring about some measure of peace. Henry wants Normandy and Aquitaine and he is not going to give up easily. He’s ruthless. What land we don’t relinquish, he will take by force, as he took Rouen. That siege lasted so long, the wretched townsfolk were reduced to eating rats to stay alive.’

  ‘Ugh! He doesn’t sound very pleasant.’

  ‘Believe me, Catherine, strong kingship has nothing to do with being pleasant! But at least he’s tolerably handsome. You can’t have everything. And France will have a strong ruler in Henry, even if he is a foreigner. Your poor father hasn’t been much of a figurehead for his people. No, I believe that Henry will be good for France.’

  At the sound of a bugle-call outside the pavilion, the Queen jumped anxiously to her feet. ‘What’s that?’ she demanded. ‘Are they here yet? How many are there? Dear God, I wish I wasn’t so damned nervous about this meeting!’

  The Duke of Burgundy peered past the guard. ‘It’s … yes, my Lady, it’s the English. King Henry has arrived.’

  ‘Is he alone?’ demanded the Queen. ‘How many men-at-arms does he have with him? Are his brothers there?’

  ‘How should I know? But he’s certainly got plenty of men-at-arms. At least, oh … five hundred, I’d say, at a rough guess.’

  ‘One or two of his brothers are sure to be with him,’ said the Queen, ‘they say all three of them are very supportive: the Duke of Clarence, the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of er … of er … Gloucestershire.’ She hesitated over the na
me, then mispronounced it.

  ‘Then perhaps Catherine can work her magic on the Dukes,’ said John the Fearless, smiling at his niece. ‘Perhaps she can persuade them to convince their brother to drop his unreasonable demands for money.’

  Averting her gaze as King Henry approached, Catherine noticed for the first time that the buckle on her left shoe was crooked. Keeping her head bent, she listened avidly to what was going on around her. Above the muted buzz of voices from the assembled crowd of French and English dignitaries, she heard the English King greet her mother.

  ‘Queen Isabeau! Such a pleasure to see you again and I am sad to hear that His Highness the King is indisposed.’ The low voice continued in fluent, impeccable French with a slight accent. ‘But, my dear lady, I cannot tell you how delighted I am that the Princess Catherine is here with you. And if it please you, Ma’am, I should like to be presented to your daughter. That is if she truly is your daughter.’

  ‘What can you mean, Your Grace?’ The Queen seemed startled.

  ‘I mean that she could be a heavenly creature who has strayed here from the Elysian Fields, the paradise where heroes are granted everything they ever wished for. Can it be that my wishes are granted, even before I reach Paradise? Can it be that the Princess Catherine is as beautiful as her portrait?’

  Blushing furiously, Catherine kept her eyes firmly fixed on her crooked shoe buckle. She heard the relief in her mother’s nervous laugh. The Queen, back on the familiar ground of courtly compliments, had recovered her composure. She could play this game with the best of them.

  ‘Come, Sire, I assure you she is my daughter. She has my eyes, or so they say.’

  ‘Then she is indeed blessed with beauty,’ said King Henry, bending to kiss Isabeau’s hand. She still seemed flustered, not at all herself.

  ‘Come, Catherine,’ she said. ‘Raise your head, child. King Henry would look on your face.’

  Catherine raised her head and looked into the face of the man who would rule her destiny and the first thing she noticed about him was his long neck. She realised that she had never asked her mother how old Henry was and she was surprised to see plentiful strands of grey in his brown hair. He must be quite old, she thought, at least thirty. Perhaps even older than that! Then she noticed the scar on his right cheek, white and puckered, running parallel with his aquiline nose and stopping just short of his eye. It was the one thing which marked him out as a warrior. Otherwise, for some strange reason, his face reminded her of a priest she had once known in her convent days at Poissy, lean but somehow gentle, with understanding in the mild brown eyes. Despite what the captain of the guard had said, the King didn’t look like the spawn of the Devil. In fact, Catherine rather liked the look of him.

  The two parties faced each other across the negotiating table. Henry, sitting almost directly opposite Catherine, seemed reluctant to take his eyes off her. She looked down at her lap whenever she caught his glance, feeling confused, aware that she was blushing again.

  Then the negotiations began in earnest. Objections were raised to every suggestion from the French and, though he agreed that Catherine was in many ways very suitable to be Queen of England, Henry was adamant that he had every right to expect a handsome dowry from her parents, though that was only one of many points at issue. Back and forth, back and forth went the arguments. Catherine’s attention wandered as the voices droned on and she tried to stay alert in the warmth of the tent by identifying members of the King’s entourage. They had all been presented to her but she was confused by their unfamiliar English names. There appeared to be several dukes and earls present. She had heard the names of Exeter, Warwick, and Huntingdon, though she wasn’t at all sure which was which. And her mother had been right in guessing that some of the King’s younger brothers would be with him. She had been introduced to the Duke of Bedford, a tall man with a round face, slightly pointed nose, and twinkling eyes. The one with the longer, more handsome face who was now sitting on the other side of the King was his youngest brother Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester. As he had bent to kiss her hand in greeting, she had been surprised to hear how his title was pronounced, as though it had only two syllables instead of three. She had also felt rather disconcerted by the way he stared at her when he straightened up again, seeming reluctant to let go her hand.

  Henry was, without doubt, the most charismatic of the three English royal brothers. She stole a glance at him while he was pressing home an argument. The eyes which she had thought mild and priestly at first, now burned with concentration as he met argument with counter-argument. She felt frustrated at having to sit there listening to the political bickering which was going on all around her, particularly since she didn’t understand most of it. Her sole interest was the King. How could she possibly know how he would be as a husband if she was only able to listen to him arguing? She wanted to get to the man, the real man who had made the charming assumption that she had strayed into his life from the Elysian Fields, the heroes’ paradise. She quite liked the idea of a hero as a husband, though she would never have admitted as much.

  She laid her hand on her mother’s jewelled sleeve. ‘My Lady,’ she said, with half-closed eyes, ‘my Lady, I feel faint.’

  ‘Do you, Catherine?’ The Queen gave her a shrewd look. ‘Yes, I see. It is rather warm in here. Perhaps you had better leave the room for a little while.’

  Catherine pushed back her chair, rose, and began to make her way out of the negotiating tent with the attentive Guillemote close behind her. King Henry raised his head at the disturbance. ‘Is the Princess Catherine unwell?’ he asked.

  ‘She feels a little faint, my Lord,’ said Queen Isabeau. ‘It is very warm in here.’

  ‘Then please, she must make use of the amenities which have been placed at my disposal. They are next to the river and very cool. She must sit there and rest awhile. In fact,’ said the King, pushing back his own chair, ‘I shall make it my responsibility to ensure that she is comfortable.’

  This was more like it, thought Catherine, straightening her back as the King came towards her. She curtseyed and smiled at him as he took her hand and drew her arm through his, steering her away towards the English pavilion. John the Fearless made as though to follow them but Queen Isabeau grasped his arm.

  ‘Let them go. Catherine doesn’t need a chaperone. She is not stupid. She will come to no harm.’

  Muttering under his breath and rubbing his elbow where Isabeau’s fingers had gripped it like a vice, John resumed his seat and watched as the Princess Catherine left the negotiating tent with the King of England.

  ‘Come, my Lady, would you like some refreshment?’ Henry asked, smiling as he pulled out a chair for her to sit at a small table in his private quarter of the English pavilion. They were alone, save for the presence of two guards. ‘Sweetmeats, perhaps? A little marchpane? A goblet of wine?’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness, but no,’ said Catherine, smoothing down the skirt of the sage green gown. She didn’t trust herself to relax; she hated the sickly-sweet taste of marchpane and wine would surely go straight to her head. The King took the other chair and held out his hand across the table towards her, palm upward.

  ‘Give me your hand, Catherine.’ It was not a command, nor yet a plea. Catherine hesitated, then put her small hand in his: big and calloused, it was a soldier’s hand but warm and dry to the touch.

  ‘That feels good, Catherine. Your hand is so very small and soft. My hand wants to curl around it and look after it. Do you think you would like that? Do you like me just a little, perhaps, though I’m a soldier with a soldier’s ways, rough and ready?’

  ‘Your Highness … Sire, I … so many questions. I … I cannot answer them all.’

  She felt his hand closing around hers. ‘Catherine, I have gazed for many an hour at the miniature painting I have of you and tried to imagine how it would feel to touch the real princess. Now I know and the sensation pleases me greatly. I would find it very easy to cherish you and to rule over
France and England, justly and wisely, to the greater glory of God.’

  Though she had been the one to contrive this meeting, Catherine felt a little dizzy with the speed at which events were proceeding. ‘But, Your Highness,’ she protested, ‘it will take me a great deal of time to learn the English tongue. I know only a few words, which I learned at the convent from Sister Supplice.’

  The King laughed and his grip on her hand relaxed a little. ‘It’s not so difficult. But I’ll wager that Sister whatever-her-name-was didn’t teach you the kind of words I want to hear you say, Catherine!’

  ‘My Lord!’ This time Catherine succeeded in snatching her hand away from his.

  ‘I’m sorry, Catherine. I jest. But, I assure you, you really must not worry about the English language. French is still the language of the English court, as it has been these many years, though I would wish that English was more widely spoken. I do my best to encourage it. Perhaps, as you begin to learn the English tongue, you will inspire others to do the same.’

  Catherine was not at all sure about that. She was only too pleased not to have to worry about learning to speak English. ‘Do you speak any other languages, my Lord?’ she asked, making conversation.

  ‘Oh, indeed. As it happens, I have more than a little Welsh. I was born in the town of Monmouth, you see, and spent much of my childhood there. My nurse made sure I had quite a repertoire of Welsh nursery rhymes.’

  He laughed and, smiling, reached for her hand again, holding it upright this time. Then he began to recite, pointing first to her thumb then to her fingers one by one.

  ‘Modryb y fawd,

  Bys yr uwd,

  Pen y cogwr,