Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  Uppermost in Catherine’s mind was her coronation. It had been arranged for Sunday, the twenty-third of February in Westminster Abbey and she was full of questions about what she could expect.

  ‘Leave it all to Humphrey and to Dick,’ said her husband as they took breakfast together in their private solar at Eltham. ‘You concentrate on looking your prettiest for the people who will, no doubt, flock to see you, my love. Apart from that, you just need to repeat your vows. Don’t bother to learn them. They’ll be in Latin, not English, so you’re unlikely to make mistakes.’

  ‘Dick? Who is Dick?’

  ‘Whittington. Richard Whittington. He has just stepped down as London’s Lord Mayor for the third time. Unprecedented. You’ll like him, he’s very generous. He’s forever saving fallen women and the like. Richest man in London.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s a mercer and a good one. Top of his trade. It means he can lend us money when we need it for troops and supplies. His terms are good, too.’

  Catherine looked puzzled. ‘He lends you money? But you are the King!’

  ‘My dear love, the crown is constantly in need of money. You should know that. Your father’s court is one of the poorest in Europe. Wars don’t come cheap, which is why I need people like Dick Whittington. My uncle, Henry Beaufort, is another source of finance, but then he, too, can easily afford his magnanimity. He gave us fourteen thousand pounds before the last French campaign.’

  Catherine still disliked being reminded that her husband had been responsible for the deaths of so many of her fellow countrymen. She changed the subject.

  ‘When will I meet him? Your uncle?’

  Henry hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I have sent a messenger to invite him to your coronation but have had no reply as yet. Still, my brother and Whittington will attend you so you’ll be in good hands.’

  ‘I wish you were going to be with me, too.’

  ‘Etiquette forbids it, my love. I’ve already been crowned. So it would make no sense. Besides, it’s you the people will want to see. Humphrey will be my representative at the ceremony, and Dick will represent the people. Dick deserves favour. He has always been generous and God knows what I would have done without him in the past. If it wasn’t for him and his apparently bottomless coffers, victory in France would have been twice as hard to achieve.’

  There was that reminder again. Catherine made a light-hearted reply. ‘And perhaps we wouldn’t be married,’ she said.

  ‘And perhaps we wouldn’t be married,’ Henry agreed, dropping a kiss on top of her head as he rose from the table. ‘So we have even more cause to be grateful. Anyway, I’ve sent for him and for Archbishop Chichele. Humphrey, too, of course. He’s organising the whole thing. Those three will tell you all you need to know about the ceremony. Humphrey has arranged a meeting here at Eltham to advise you, so that you will know exactly what to expect.’

  Richard Whittington was the first to arrive. He was really quite an old man, his hair and his neat beard were white but he stood straight-backed and walked well and there was a look of great honesty about him. He bent low over Catherine’s hand when she offered it to him to be kissed.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘It is the greatest honour to be asked to advise you in the matter of your coronation.’

  Catherine inclined her head and murmured a reply just as the Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, was shown into the room, closely followed by Humphrey of Gloucester, carrying a ledger and a sheaf of documents. Gloucester took immediate charge of proceedings, calling for chairs to be arranged around a table, with a clerk sitting at a desk nearby to note what had been agreed.

  Catherine watched all three men as discussions began. Richard Whittington and Archbishop Chichele both seemed very pleasant in an elderly, avuncular way, smiling as they told her about the arrangements which had already been made. She warmed particularly to Henry Chichele. His was a powerful face with slightly protruding eyes of a piercing blue which wore an expression of determination tinged with curiosity. She had first met him two years ago when, having been with Henry at the siege of Rouen, he had stayed on in France for the meeting in Poissy. It took her a moment to place him in her memory of that day, having met so many English noblemen at the same time. She remembered the babble of English voices which had been so difficult to understand. She understood them very much better now and felt a great deal more confident these days, now that she was married to Henry and about to be crowned his queen.

  ‘So I’m afraid there is no avoiding that problem, my Lady,’ Gloucester’s voice cut across her reverie.

  She tried not to look startled. ‘Pardon?’

  Humphrey gave her an irritated look. ‘My Lady, since your coronation is arranged for the third Sunday in Lent, certain restrictions must be observed and this will clearly affect the type of food which can be served at the banquet following the ceremony. We would like to know whether you have any preferences for dishes which do not contain meat.’

  ‘We must not gainsay the teachings of the Holy Mother Church,’ Henry Chichele agreed. ‘The eating of meat cannot be allowed.’

  ‘How many courses do we expect to be served?’ asked Humphrey.

  ‘At least five,’ said Richard Whittington. ‘So someone will have to be very inventive with fish!’

  Humphrey looked up, annoyed at the disturbance as the door suddenly burst open to admit the King, closely followed by a tall man in the dark robes of a bishop. Catherine rose from her seat in surprise. She had thought Henry to be in Westminster. He hadn’t been expected here at Eltham.

  ‘My love,’ he said without preamble, grabbing her hand. ‘This is going to be such a wonderful coronation. I would like you to meet my dear kinsman, Bishop Henry Beaufort, my Lancaster uncle on my father’s side. He was in London after all, when I had thought him away and about his business in Winchester.’

  ‘And his cup runneth over,’ said Henry Beaufort, smiling at Catherine as he bent to kiss her hand. ‘My dear lady, I am enchanted. Everything I have heard about your beauty is evidently true.’

  ‘I told you, Uncle, didn’t I?’ Henry was excited. ‘Is Catherine not the most exquisite creature?’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed. And well is she named. My late mother was named Katherine and she, too, was a renowned beauty in her day.’

  ‘Then history is repeating itself,’ said Henry. He turned to his brother. ‘Humphrey, are things going well?’

  ‘Everything is in place,’ said Gloucester. ‘Whittington has made some very interesting suggestions about how London will stage a memorable welcome for the Queen, and the Archbishop is pleased with my arrangements for the Abbey church, are you not, your Grace?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord Duke, and now I have your assurance that the rules governing Lent will not be broken, I am perfectly happy with everything,’ said Henry Chichele. ‘There will be no meat served at the meal to celebrate the coronation. But that is now more a matter for the Westminster palace cook than for me. We men of the church should concern ourselves more with the spiritual aspects of the occasion, rather than the secular ones. Don’t you agree, Bishop?’

  He turned to Henry Beaufort, who chuckled in agreement. ‘Yes, I dare say so. But a meal consisting entirely of fish is surely unlikely to stimulate the appetite.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said!’ agreed Whittington. ‘How many ways are there of dressing up a poor fish! Could he be served as pudding with a sweet custard sauce?’

  Catherine grimaced and amid the laughter, the King held up his hand for silence. ‘Ah,’ he said in a conspiratorial voice, ‘but we have a trick up our sleeves. We have brought a chef with us from the royal kitchens of France. If anyone can rise to the challenge, Anton will.’

  Guillemote found England a very confusing place but it was unthinkable that she should desert Catherine. Like Anton, the chef, she had grown up in the service of the Valois family and they had both been brought to England to serve Catherine. Neither of them questioned
the decision.

  So here she was in a foreign land where people spoke in a foreign tongue and confused her even further by having foreign names. And now she worked with three English women, all of whom had been newly recruited to Catherine’s service by the Duchess Margaret and all of whom had exactly the same name: Joanna. They, too, had found it confusing but had solved the problem with much merriment by using each other’s surnames, Troutbeck, Courcy, and Belknap. The three Joannas. Catherine and Guillemote promptly nicknamed them Les Trois Jo-jo.

  Now, in the Palace of Westminster on the morning of February the twenty-third, Catherine stood in her dressing room. She was clad only in her shift, a kerchief tied over her neatly braided hair. The Duchess Margaret watched intently, scrutinising every detail as the women dressed the young queen for her coronation. Catherine held up her arms obediently as Troutbeck and Courcy, one either side of her, lowered a magnificent gown of white embroidered silk over her head. Guillemote busied herself with adjusting the tapes in the lining of the garment which would lift Catherine’s small breasts and present a pleasing outline under the bodice. Troutbeck turned her attention to attaching the ornate sleeves to the bodice of the gown while Courcy addressed herself to the problem of getting the sixteen small, fashionable buttons at the back of the bodice to line up correctly with their corresponding button loops. Then Guillemote untied the flimsy kerchief which covered Catherine’s hair and stood back to look at her mistress with a critical eye.

  ‘How do I look?’ Catherine’s voice sounded small.

  ‘Pale, my Lady,’ answered Guillemote. ‘You always do when you’re wearing white. Try pinching your cheeks.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ said Belknap. ‘It won’t last. If we use a little brazilwood, the colour will remain in Her Majesty’s cheeks throughout the day.’

  ‘She must not look like a painted doll,’ said the Duchess Margaret in some alarm.

  ‘Don’t worry, my Lady, she won’t. I’ll only use a little of this.’ Joanna Belknap picked up a small pot of brazilwood chips which had been soaking in rosewater. ‘There’s no need to use very much of it. Besides,’ she added, ‘it’s very expensive. It comes all the way from the Orient.’ Barely moistening a cloth with the pink liquid, she applied it lightly to Catherine’s cheeks, while Guillemote held up a hand mirror for Catherine to watch her progress.

  ‘For pity’s sake, don’t drop any on the gown!’ said the Duchess, who had never come across the precious cosmetic aid. ‘It will stain it!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Your Grace, I’m being very careful.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a lot better,’ said Troutbeck, peering closely at Catherine as Belknap stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘You look very beautiful, my Lady.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, you do. You look very beautiful,’ the Duchess agreed. ‘I’m sure the King will approve.’

  ‘Thanks to you, all of you,’ said Catherine, smoothing down her skirts. ‘Now, where is my cloak? It must surely be almost time to leave for the abbey.’

  It was. Henry awaited her and she felt a curious mixture of elation and nervousness when she saw the pride in his eyes as he accompanied her to the door of the Palace. He bent to kiss her before the hasp was lifted.

  ‘This is your day,’ he whispered, ‘so God be with you, sweetheart. I will be awaiting your return tonight.’

  Then the heavy door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. The crowd of people who had gathered outside shouted and waved at their first glimpse of Catherine. Smiling broadly, Henry took her by the hand and escorted her to where Richard Whittington was standing with Archbishop Chichele and the Duke of Gloucester. With due ceremony, the King kissed the hand of his queen and presented her to the representative of his people. Whittington greeted her with a smile and bowed low. Then he held out his left arm to escort her and she placed her right hand on it, straightening her back as she did so. She heard a barked order and a drum roll before the bugle-horns sounded a fanfare. Then she and Richard Whittington, walking behind the Duke and the Archbishop, moved off slowly under a silken canopy held aloft by the Wardens of the Cinque Ports in all their regalia, on the short procession from the Palace to the Abbey.

  Smells were what Catherine always remembered. The holy oil with which she was anointed by Archbishop Chichele smelled musky and old, while the Archbishop’s robes were perfumed with the incense he had burned in countless celebrations of the mass, not quite disguising the odour of sweat as he stood in front of her, holding her crown aloft in both hands before placing it on her head. Despite the weight of it, she held her head erect, and when the ceremony was over she rose with dignity from her throne and followed the Archbishop as he led the coronation procession out of the Abbey. The great west door was thrown open and the newly crowned Queen of England emerged into the cold, damp February air as the Edward Bell in the tower started to chime a deep, sonorous note. It was a signal for the huge throng of people crowding around the Abbey steps to start cheering and it seemed that they could go on cheering all day and all night without tiring. Standing under the silken baldaquin, which did little to keep off the mizzling rain, she smiled for them and waved at them, delighted by their approval and the warmth of their welcome.

  The great crowd of people, their enthusiasm undiminished by the weather, seemed reluctant to let her go but the royal procession eventually moved off towards the Palace of Westminster for the coronation feast. Inside the Palace, the great and the good jostled to be near their new Sovereign Lady and the presence of so many nobles was causing some anxiety for the Duke of Gloucester. He hovered anxiously as everyone took their places according to rank, lest arguments should arise about who had the right to sit closest to the royal dais and who must sit below the salt.

  When the babble of voices subsided and everyone was seated, a steward made a sign to the Master of the King’s Music and two bugle horns played an exultant fanfare. The guests rose to their feet and began applauding as Humphrey of Gloucester escorted the Queen towards the high table. He appeared to be limping slightly so Catherine gave him a sympathetic smile as he helped her to negotiate the step up to the dais. She stood for a moment at her place between the royal guest, King James of Scotland and Bishop Henry Beaufort, the smile never leaving her face while the guests continued to applaud her. Then, as Humphrey of Gloucester took his own place next to King James, Bishop Beaufort held up his hand for silence and said grace.

  It had taken the utmost skill to turn the Lenten fish into a meal worth eating but Anton had excelled himself. The guests were presented with eels, sea bream, conger, sole, chub, barbell with roach, fried smelt, crayfish, and baked lamprey. Hawthorn leaves, red haws and dates with mottled cream garnished dishes of carp, turbot, tench, perch with gudgeon, crab-fish, prawns, fresh sturgeon with whelks, and roasted porpoise. The subtleties decorating the high table represented Catherine’s own emblems and symbols, which delighted her.

  Too excited to do much more than push her food around her platter, the young Queen became aware that her immediate neighbour, too, seemed to have lost his appetite. James of Scotland toyed with his food and looked longingly down the body of the hall to where a group of young noblewomen sat together. Henry Beaufort watched him with some amusement.

  ‘Don’t worry, my boy, she still loves you!’ he said and laughed.

  ‘Does she, Sire? How do you know?’

  ‘Because she told me so,’ Beaufort replied, his eyes twinkling.

  Catherine was curious. ‘Who loves you?’ she asked, craning her neck to see who the King of Scotland was looking at.

  ‘My young niece, Joan,’ said Henry Beaufort, ‘my late brother’s daughter. A charming girl and a credit to the family. Nothing would please me better than to see her married to His Highness. I would be prepared to perform the ceremony personally. I might even be prepared to pay for the wedding!’

  ‘So many girls are called Joan,’ Catherine said, ‘or Joanna. It is very confusing. Which one is she, my Lord? Show me.’

  James point
ed out a cool beauty in a blue gown, who raised her fair head at that precise moment and caught his glance. She gave him a radiant smile and a little wave of acknowledgement. He waved back.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her to marry you?’ Catherine asked.

  James looked morose. ‘I already have and she is willing to be my bride,’ he said.

  ‘Then what is stopping you?’

  ‘The King, my Lady.’

  ‘My husband? Why so?’

  ‘Because I am not here in England as his guest, your Highness. I am to all intents and purposes a political prisoner and he will not grant his permission for our marriage.’

  ‘A prisoner?’ Catherine was very surprised at this. James was certainly not treated like a prisoner. In fact, Henry seemed very fond of him.

  ‘I was seized and abducted when I was a child, my Lady, many years ago, before your husband came to the throne, and I have been at the English court ever since. But it has suited the King’s purpose to keep me here. He demands a very high ransom from my people for my return – though I confess that I have no wish to return to Scotland without Joan as my queen.’

  ‘But Joan is my husband’s kinswoman, the Duchess Margaret’s daughter.’ Catherine frowned as she tried to understand the problem.

  ‘She is indeed,’ agreed Bishop Beaufort on the other side of her. ‘She was the last of the children born to the Lady Margaret when she was married to my late brother John.’ The Bishop crossed himself before continuing. ‘Then, after his death, Margaret became the Duchess of Clarence when she married the King’s brother Thomas. So, my Lady, young Joan is your niece by marriage.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said with another exaggerated frown of concentration, at which her companions smiled. ‘And the King refuses to allow you to marry my niece, eh? Well, we’ll see about that!’ Then her frown melted into the sunniest of smiles. ‘I’m sure I can help.’ She was confident of being able to swing Henry’s opinion and she genuinely did want everyone to be as happy as she was that day.

  She chose her moment carefully, waiting until she and Henry were lying in their canopied bed with the heavy curtains drawn around it for warmth in the draughty room. They had made love, not with passion but with the certainty of satisfaction which is the particular prerogative of the happily married. Now they lay side by side, Catherine’s head in the crook of Henry’s arm, their legs still entwined, their skin still damp from Henry’s pleasure. She decided to test her strength.