The two were alone in a small room behind the great library of Windsor Castle, entirely illegally. To be fair to Maredydd, he was doing a favour for his young kinsman, who had newly arrived at Windsor from the far north of Wales having used up what little money he had on the long journey south. He was desperately in need of employment and Maredydd knew that one of the household clerks, thanks to his unsavoury habit of frequenting the cheaper whorehouses of Southwark, had recently died of the pox. There was a vacancy.
Before his mishap with the ink horn, Owain had been leafing through columns of figures in a parchment ledger. Now he straightened up, rubbing his back. ‘The light is going,’ he said. ‘I can barely see what I’m doing. But I think I’ve got the hang of it.’
‘Not my line of business,’ said Maredydd. ‘We gentlemen-at-arms don’t concern ourselves with such things. Anyway, you shouldn’t appear to know too much about the accounting systems, otherwise Hungerford will want to know how you came by the knowledge. And we’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Let’s go into the town, then,’ said Owain. ‘I’ve worked up a rare thirst squinting at those books.’
‘Let’s find something to eat first. We’ll see if we can scrounge something from that pompous little Frenchie in the kitchen.’
This was a quiet time of day for the kitchen staff, the debris from the midday dinner had been cleared away and the scullions had finished their cleaning and scouring. With order restored to his realm, Anton was standing at a table in his private room at the back of the main kitchen, next to the larder. This was the inner sanctum where he stored his most expensive ingredients: sugar, sweet galingale, and grains of paradise. Here the kitchen accounts were kept and it was here, under lock and key in a small coffer on a high shelf, that he kept his precious copy of Le Viander, a collection of recipes written by the great Valois family chef Taillevant and given to him as a gift on completion of his apprenticeship in the Valois kitchen. With pestle and mortar in hand, he was grinding valuable imported sugar and spices for a poudre-douce when Maredydd knocked at the half-open door.
‘Entrez!’, he trilled and looked up. ‘Ah! The ‘andsome Welsh gentleman-at-arms! And why are you not at the funeral?’
‘Someone has to look after the shop. Windsor can’t be left unattended while everyone else is weeping and wailing at Westminster. They’ve left twenty of us to guard the place but I’ve just come off duty.’
‘And now you are going into the town, perhaps, to drink your English ale?’
‘In the absence of Welsh ale, my friend, English ale will have to do. But first we need some food, if there’s any going. Can’t drink on an empty stomach.’
‘We?’ Anton looked past Maredydd to where Owain was waiting outside the door. He put down the pestle and mortar and stepped out into the kitchen. ‘Ah, oui!’ he said, his eyes widening appreciatively. ‘And who is this?’
‘My young kinsman, Owain. He is hoping to find work here at Windsor very soon.’
‘So am I!’ said Anton.
‘So are you what?’
‘So am I ‘oping ‘e will find work ‘ere at Windsor very soon.’
‘Back off, you French fop-doodle,’ Maredydd threatened him. ‘My cousin is no gentleman of the back door. Leave him alone!’
‘Mared, paid!’ Owain said quietly. ‘Gâd iddo fo.’
‘What language does he speak? Is this Welsh?’
‘Yes. And he doesn’t want to talk to you in that or any other language. Look, just give us a hunk of bread and cheese each and we’ll piss off, out of your kitchen, then you can get back to prettifying your poxy peacocks, or whatever it is you do in here.’
‘All right, all right.’ Anton closed his eyes and held up his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘No offence meant.’
‘None taken,’ muttered Owain.
‘The goat’s cheese is good,’ Anton said grudgingly. ‘You must ‘elp yourselves, mes amis.’
Sitting on a bench outside the kitchen, Owain sank his teeth into a chunk of crumbly white cheese, only half-listening to Maredydd as he fumed about the Frenchman’s overt behaviour. Owain, an undeniably handsome man, had learned to ignore such reactions in other people. Growing up, there had been times when he had cursed his looks, the deep brown of his eyes, and the way his dark hair curled over his forehead. Even when he was a very small boy, his nurse had once found him in front of his mother’s mirror, trying to pull out his long, black eyelashes because he thought they made him look like a girl.
He recounted the story later that evening when he and Maredydd were sitting in front of a peat fire in the tavern at the sign of The Swan, with their elbows on the table, each cradling in his hands a pewter tankard of the alewife’s finest ale.
‘It hurt like hell,’ said Owain. ‘Do you remember Megan?’
‘Megan? No, why should I?’
‘No, of course, you’d have been away with your father’s army when I was that age. Well anyway, Megan was my nurse and she said my eyelashes would just grow back but they’d be twice as long and there’d be twice as many of them. That stopped me!’
‘Can’t change what God has ordained. You were the one who got the looks in the family.’ Maredydd looked up as two other gentlemen-at-arms approached the table. ‘Hey, Will! How are you?’
‘Hey, Mared! Who’s your friend?’
‘He’s my kid cousin.’
‘First cousins, eh?’
‘Er, no, not quite. His father was my father’s cousin so I suppose he’s my second cousin, really.’
‘He’s family, anyway. Another Welshman, then. What’s yer name, mate?’
‘Owain ap Maredydd ap Tudur ap Goronwy Fychan,’ said Owain.
There was a startled silence. ‘What? That’s not a bloody name. It’s a disease of the throat!’
‘No, no, it’s my name,’ Owain explained earnestly. ‘It tells you who I am. “Ap” just means “son of”. You know, like the Scots have “Mac”. So I’m Owain, son of Maredydd. He was the son of Tudur …’
‘… and Tudur was the son of Goronwy Fychan.’ Maredydd finished for him. ‘I explained all this to you years ago, Will, when you were bleating on about my name. We’re proud of our lineage where we come from.’
‘Sounds like it. This is Harry, by the way, he’s new around here, too. Will and Harry. Good old English names. Keep it simple, I say. Now, where’s that ale? Before I die of thirst!’
They went about the business of buying their ale, chivvying and teasing the alewife’s daughter as she filled their tankards from an earthenware jug. Owain turned to Maredydd and spoke to him in Welsh.
‘Why do they find my name so amusing?’
‘It’s ignorance. You’ll get used to it. They mean no harm but they see us as foreigners. I’ve given up trying to tell them that we were here first, that we are the ones who speak the old language of Britain. They won’t have it. They don’t want to understand. They see us in the same light as the French or the Spanish, any foreigner, anyone who isn’t English.’
‘That’s a pity. Theirs is such an ugly language.’
‘Don’t tell them that,’ Maredydd warned. ‘The best thing is just to fall in with them and try not to be too different. You’ll get on much better that way.’
Will came back to the table with a tankard in his hand and sat down next to Owain. ‘Listen, mate, I can’t be doing with that name of yours. What did you say it was, again?’
Owain took a deep breath and smiled. ‘It’s Owain,’ he said as Harry took a seat opposite them.
‘That’s a stupid name, for a start,’ said Will. ‘Owain. O-wine. “Wine! Oh, Wine!”‘ he mimicked in a high falsetto voice. ‘Oh, I must have wine!’
Harry laughed at his friend’s joke. ‘Stick to beer, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s simpler.’
‘Look, Will,’ Maredydd said, trying not to lose his temper, ‘call him Owen. It’s near enough. He’ll answer to it, don’t worry.’
‘Owen what, though?
‘Ap
Maredydd,’ said Maredydd.
‘That’s your name,’ said Will. ‘Can’t call him that. It’s too confusing.’
‘Ap Tudur, then.’
‘What about the last bit, you know, where it sounds as if you’re going to spit or be sick or something?’ Will made some disgusting coughing, spitting noises in his throat and Harry, a willing audience, guffawed again.
‘Look,’ said Maredydd, getting dangerously irritated, ‘we’ll keep it simple. Just call him Owen.’
‘All right, Owen,’ said Will. ‘And what was the other name again?’
‘Tudur,’ said Owain, giving the name its correct Welsh pronunciation.
‘Teed … er? T … t … tudduh? How did you say it again?’
‘Tudor will do,’ Maredydd said. ‘It was his grandfather’s name. He can be Owen Tudor. Even you should be able to remember that name, surely.’
‘Owen Tudor?’ Raising his eyebrows, Will looked at Harry. ‘Not very memorable. What do you think, Harry?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll go down in history,’ he said. ‘But what’s in a name? Call a whore “my Lady” and she’ll still lift her skirts.’
Will yelled with laughter, slapping his thigh. ‘So do plenty of fine ladies, I can tell you! Well, welcome to Windsor, Owen Tudor. How do you like your new name, eh? Let me baptise you with this heavenly liquid!’ Dipping his fingers into his tankard, he flicked a few drops of ale in Owen’s face.
Despite the number of people crowded into the abbey church at Westminster, it was cold. Sitting with Jacqueline between Humphrey of Gloucester and John of Bedford, Catherine felt too cold to shiver. Her feet were numb and, glancing down the row of royal mourners, she could see that Margaret was rubbing the backs of her hands in an effort to warm them. Next to her sat James of Scotland, with Margaret’s daughter Joan, and her youngest son Edmund Beaufort. Behind them sat other noble lords, friends of the dead king, members of his entourage, and some of those who had fought alongside him. The abbey church was packed with people.
Henry’s coffin, draped in black velvet and cloth of gold, was drawn right into the nave as far as the choir screen by four great destriers, each fully caparisoned and led by a knight in armour. The huge black war horses were positioned in line in front of the high altar, pawing the ground and snorting, nervous in a strange environment, wary of the flickering candles. On a command, the knights raised their hands to their helmets and removed them. Symbolically, they then stripped off their weapons and their breastplates, handing each item to their armourers. Turning to the horses they took the protective chanfrons off their heads, then removed every other item of equestrian armour until the great beasts stood before the altar, their bare flanks gleaming dark in the candlelight, calm by now and as quiet as the animals in the stable at Bethlehem. Now the final requiem mass could begin and Henry’s body would be committed for burial. The warrior King had been ceremonially divested of the armour which he had required in this world. He would have no further need of it. There were no wars in heaven.
Sir Walter Hungerford was expected to arrive at any moment and Owen was told to take a seat and wait for him in the castle library. He marvelled at the windows of white glass which flooded the big room with light and he was amazed at the number of books it contained, probably at least forty, maybe more. The Expedition of Godfrey of Boulogne was here, alongside The Chronicles of Jerusalem as well as the complete works of St Gregory and a beautifully bound copy of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.
Owen jumped to his feet as the door opened suddenly to admit four sombrely dressed men with two clerks following close behind them. Caught with a copy of Le Roman de la Rose in his hand, he looked around furtively for somewhere to put it as the clerks started arranging benches and chairs. With his back to the table, Owen managed to put the book down without being noticed but he wanted the ground to swallow him up.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Walter Hungerford, ‘are you the person who is waiting to see me about the clerk’s job?’
‘I am, my Lord.’
‘Then I’m sorry, young man, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you today. It’s not convenient. I have a meeting now with the late King’s brothers and His Grace, Bishop Beaufort. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘What time would you like to see me, Sire?’
‘What? Oh … let’s say ten of the clock, shall we?’
‘Certainly, Sire.’
Owen had begun to move towards the door when Humphrey of Gloucester spotted Le Roman de la Rose on the table. ‘Wait!’ he said quickly, ‘have you been looking at the late King’s books? Fingering them?’
‘Er … yes, my Lord, I’m sorry,’ Owen confessed. ‘But my hands are clean and I’ve been very careful with them. They aren’t harmed in any way.’
Sir Walter seemed unconcerned. ‘So you can read, can you?’ he asked.
‘I can, Sire, yes. I can both read and write.’
‘Good, good. Very well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. What was your name again?’
‘Owain ap … er, Owen Tudor, Sir Walter.’
‘Owen Tudor? You don’t sound too sure! Is that a Welsh name?’
‘Yes, Sir Walter. Yes, it is. It’s an English version of my name.’ Owen was backing slowly away. ‘If you will excuse me, then, I will return tomorrow. Good day to you, my Lords.’ He left the room as quickly as he could and a clerk closed the door behind him.
Humphrey of Gloucester reached out and picked up Le Roman de la Rose from the table where Owen had put it. ‘I hope that Welsh lout hasn’t marked this with his dirty thumbprints,’ he said. ‘It’s a beautiful book.’
‘I don’t suppose he has,’ said John of Bedford, ‘he seemed a decent enough fellow.’ He was anxious to begin the meeting. ‘Now, my Lords, we have met to discuss how best to run this household for our young nephew, the King, so we must make a start. Sir Walter? Where would you like to begin?’
Walter Hungerford looked up from a sheaf of documents in front of him. ‘Well, I suggest that we keep Elizabeth Ryman on in her general capacity. The King is in good hands there. I understand that his wet nurse is no longer needed and has been dismissed. She has been replaced by a sensible young woman called Joan Astley. Mistress Ryman tells me that she’s been very highly recommended but she’s costing us twenty pounds a year. That’s a considerable sum. Hopefully she’ll be worth the money.’
‘He’s been weaned then,’ observed Henry Beaufort. ‘So he’s going to need a governess soon.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ protested John. ‘He’s only a baby. Probably just needs his mother to keep an eye on him.’
‘No,’ said Humphrey sharply, a little too sharply. The other men around the table looked up. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Look,’ he lowered his voice, ‘we need to be a little careful here, a little circumspect. I don’t think we should encourage his mother to spend too much time with him.’
‘Why ever not?’ John asked.
Humphrey shrugged. ‘She’s French,’ he said, ‘so, of course, she can’t be trusted. She might try to influence him too much. Besides, she’d only speak French to him and he needs English as his first language. You know how strongly Henry felt about that.’
‘You have a point, I suppose,’ said Henry Beaufort, ‘though I’m not sure that I agree with you.’
Sir Walter, sensing a political argument in the making, tried to steer the conversation around to practicalities. ‘I understand that one of the things which most concerned the late King in making his will was that debts had to be repaid as a matter of urgency and it seems to me that it would be sensible to monitor our costs more closely. Now, we’re short of a clerk so I propose taking on another one, someone who’s had a reasonable education. He won’t need much in the way of payment, maybe twelve or thirteen pounds a year. I think I have just the young man for the job.’
‘Not that lout who was here a few minutes ago?’
‘Hmm? Yes, as it happens. I will interview him
formally, of course, but I think he’ll do nicely. He has a cousin who already works here – one of the senior gentlemen-at-arms. Seems a good man. He recommended that kinsman of his.’
‘But … but he’s Welsh!’ Humphrey objected. ‘And you certainly can’t trust them!’
‘Oh, you can’t tar them all with the same brush,’ said Henry Beaufort. ‘I think my nephew the King was actually rather fond of the Welsh, once he’d managed to subdue them. You know, people like Davy Gam. D’you remember him, Humphrey? Dead now, of course. Looked like a cross-eyed goat but he was very loyal. Henry knighted him on the battlefield. And the Welsh did give Henry excellent service at Agincourt. You, of all people, should know that.’
‘Yes, perhaps so,’ Humphrey agreed grudgingly. ‘They’re not bad bowmen.’
‘They’re excellent bowmen,’ said John, ‘especially the men of Gwent and Glamorgan. It’s the wood they use, you know –’
‘My Lords,’ Sir Walter interrupted, ‘I would be grateful if you would simply agree to the appointment of another member of clerical staff. It may not be for very long, just until we get things properly organised.’
‘Well, you’ll need to talk to the man, Sir Walter,’ said Humphrey. ‘What was his name again? He didn’t seem very sure!’ He laughed.
Sir Walter Hungerford chuckled. ‘Didn’t he say it was Tudor? Owen Tudor? Something like that. Now, gentlemen, where were we?’
It wasn’t quite dark in the nursery and Elizabeth Ryman sat in the firelight, a bowl of frumenty on the table in front of her, trying to feed it into the unwilling mouth of the King of France and of England. Grizzling, the baby kept trying to push her hand away. ‘Mistress Astley!’ she called. ‘Joan, come and see what you can do with him. I don’t know what’s the matter. He’s very bad-tempered.’ She got up from her seat by the fire as Joan Astley came in to the room. Joan was a round-faced, matronly young woman of generous proportions who adored babies and seemed to be able to do anything with them.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 13
