Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  John shrugged. ‘Then he cries. Catherine, the fact remains that, young as he is, he is still the sovereign. His presence in Parliament is needed to ratify, to sanction, to approve, to disapprove … well, almost anything, really. There is little or nothing that Parliament will do without the King’s permission. Or, in this case, his presence. So, I’m afraid you will have to take him to Parliament from time to time. But make sure that you are the one who is with him … and no one else.’

  Catherine shook her head in disbelief as John went on. ‘Catherine, the truth of it is that the Members of Parliament will decide themselves what they want to do. But they do need to be able to claim that certain things were done in the presence of the King … and that he did not disapprove of their decisions.’

  ‘But this is insane! He can’t even talk yet, let alone ratify or sanction anything. And his head is certainly not big enough to wear the crown!’

  ‘No, of course not, nor will he be able to carry the orb and the sceptre,’ John agreed, smiling again. ‘But there are scaled-down versions of all three being made especially for him.’

  Ten days later, on the way to attend the State Opening of Parliament, Catherine found herself riding in a curious vehicle. It was a lofty two-wheeled cart fashioned to look like a throne, painted white and gold and drawn by four ornamentally caparisoned white horses, two either side of the central shaft and each with a knight of the realm walking at its head. Little Henry was sitting on her lap, wrapped up warmly and wearing a coronet of finely worked filigree gold, light as thistledown and lined with soft wool. To her great relief, he had become quite used to her again and sat quietly now, staring, fascinated, at the cheering crowds of people thronging the streets, his chubby hand curled around a small sceptre of solid gold which was perfect in every detail. Balanced in the palm of her hand, Catherine held a miniature orb for him, much as she might have held a toy ball in the nursery. Together, she and Henry travelled through the streets of London towards Parliament, accompanied by members of the aristocracy from all over England.

  That night, in the moments before sleep, she recalled the faintly ridiculous way in which those scions of England’s noblest families had crowded around to greet the young King, first bowing to him then fawning over him with silly expressions on their faces, like apprentice nursemaids. Even the Chancellor had looked on fondly as the infant King babbled and dribbled, then said that His Highness had spoken his mind quite clearly on several subjects, though by means of another tongue. There was applause at that, and much avuncular laughter.

  Catherine remembered what John of Bedford had said about those who would want to influence the child in order to achieve their own ends. She wondered which of them it would be.

  The Bishop of Winchester was hurrying to a meeting, one at which he hoped to influence the thinking of the other sixteen members of the ruling Council of England. Beaufort wished heartily that his late nephew had not been quite so adamant on his death bed. Henry could always be remarkably obdurate if he chose to. There was all that nonsense about the Cardinal’s hat, for instance. When Pope Martin V had offered Beaufort a cardinalate nearly five years ago, Henry had absolutely forbidden him to accept it, stubbornly convinced that his uncle and the pontiff were plotting to take over the English church. Uncle and nephew had a serious disagreement over that and it wasn’t until after Henry’s wedding to Catherine that they’d patched up their differences.

  What was on Beaufort’s mind now was that, in his will, Henry had made it quite clear that after his death, John of Bedford must be made Regent of France. Since John was expected to be abroad more often than not, Humphrey therefore became Chief of the Council which meant that – by default – he was Regent of England: king in all but name.

  To Beaufort’s way of thinking, it would have been far better to send Humphrey off to France where he would have stood a fairly reasonable chance of getting himself killed. Bishop Beaufort was no great admirer of the Duke of Gloucester. And what in Heaven’s name, Beaufort fumed as he quickened his step, did the headstrong idiot think he was doing with the Countess of Holland? He was inviting disaster! Surely, surely, he couldn’t be thinking of marrying the woman? That would be certain to incur Philip of Burgundy’s wrath and risk ruining everything Henry had worked for, fought for, and indeed died for, in France. It was imperative that the Philip should continue to be an ally of the English and that was far more likely to be the case if the Countess Jacqueline remained married to the Duke of Brabant, however unsavoury a character he was.

  He really must bring up the subject at today’s Council meeting, though it would be devilishly awkward to do so with his arrogant nephew sitting at the head of the table. Perhaps it would be better to take a low-key approach and suggest other good reasons for keeping Burgundy in a sweet temper, rather than say anything about Jacqueline.

  The meeting went on all day and Henry Beaufort felt exhausted by the end of it. He had spoken eloquently and convincingly about the need to keep the Duke of Burgundy kindly disposed towards England but it had taken all his debating skills, his guile, and his subtlety to get his way.

  During the course of the afternoon, the Council voted for small changes to its own constitutional structure. After much debate, the members deemed it wise that, for what they saw as the best of reasons, the Duke of Gloucester’s headship of the Council should be nominal rather than absolute. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, lighted candles were placed down the centre of the long table and the meeting eventually drew to a close. Entirely democratically, it had been agreed that henceforward the Duke’s title would be ‘Protector’ rather than ‘Regent’.

  Gloucester was furious. It was quite clear in his mind that loss of authority on the Council also meant loss of his entitlement to rule the country He tried his best to recall exactly how he had come to be demoted and detected the cunning intelligence of his uncle but couldn’t remember a single thing Bishop Beaufort had said which might have influenced the other members of the Council.

  Humphrey of Gloucester had never particularly liked Henry Beaufort. That day, he began to hate him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Windsor Castle, December 1422

  Jacqueline went in search of her cousin and, guided by the sound of a song being sung by a singer with a pretty voice and a pronounced French accent, found Catherine, dressed in a mourning gown of stark white, kneeling on the floor of the nursery, building a bridge of brightly coloured wooden blocks for baby Henry.

  London Bridge is broken down,

  Dance over my Lady lee;

  London Bridge is broken down

  With a gay lady …

  How shall we build it up again?

  Dance over my Lady lee …

  How shall we build …

  ‘Oh, Henry, I’d nearly finished it!’

  The King was taking great delight in knocking down the blocks, squealing delightedly as he did so. Jacqueline hesitated before trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Catherine,’ she said after a moment. ‘Do you know what day it is?’

  ‘Saturday, isn’t it? All day. Sunday tomorrow.’

  ‘And what had you planned for tomorrow?’

  ‘Mass, of course, in the morning, but nothing special after that.’

  ‘Ah, I thought as much. You realise, don’t you, that it’s my godson’s first birthday tomorrow? I think we should celebrate the fact.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Catherine, sitting back on her heels as the King, with a wooden block in one hand, began banging all the other blocks with it. Catherine had to raise her voice to make herself heard. ‘I know. It’s the sixth of December: I hadn’t forgotten. But, Jacq, it’s the Sabbath. Besides, we daren’t play party games with the baby while the court is in mourning.’

  ‘The baby doesn’t know that! Look, it’s over three months since Henry died and over a month since the funeral. Why not just a quiet little celebration? Oh, come on, Catherine, it will do no harm. A small fête d’anniversaire in the afternoon, perhap
s, with some of his little friends?’

  ‘He hasn’t got any little friends.’

  ‘Well, we could ask the Countess of Westmorland to bring her young nephew the Duke of York. Then there’s the Earl of Ormond’s son, James, and little Thomas Roos.’

  Catherine looked doubtful. ‘They’re all a few years older than Henry,’ she said.

  ‘No matter,’ Jacqueline prattled on excitedly. ‘Henry needs a few playmates. Oh, and Catherine, we could ask Edmund Beaufort to come, too. He’s always seemed very fond of little Henry. And his sister, Joan, needs to get used to children if she’s to marry James of Scotland and give him an heir to the throne. She could do with the practice!’

  Catherine scrambled to her feet, smiling. ‘Yes, let’s do it!’ Suddenly she looked forward to a small impromptu party the next day, with just a few other children and adults in the nursery. Jacqueline was right, it was important to celebrate Henry’s first birthday, such a significant milestone in his young life.

  Anton was summoned to the nursery be consulted about food for the occasion and suggested honey cakes and gingerbread for the children with savoury pasties for the adults, followed by date slices in spiced wine. It was only an informal little party and there wasn’t time for elaborate preparations.

  Before giving the baby over to the care of Joan Astley, Catherine asked her to find Elizabeth Ryman so that she could inform her of the plans for the following day. She expected disapproval, of course, but she didn’t care. After all, she was the Queen and she was not going to be intimidated by the woman. Elizabeth Ryman did seem to disapprove of everything Catherine did in the nursery, an unconvincing sympathetic smile thinly disguising her contempt, though she dared not openly criticise the Queen.

  Next, Catherine went in search of Les Trois Jo-jo, to enlist their help in getting invitations written and delivered. The problem was that so near the Sabbath, there weren’t many staff on duty in the castle so Joanna Troutbeck was dispatched to search for messengers and Joanna Belknap was sent off to round up as many clerks and scribes as she could. Belknap returned with a scribe and two clerks and Troutbeck had found three messengers lounging around in the stables, playing a card game with some of the grooms. They all listened attentively as the Countess Jacqueline explained what needed to be done.

  All, that is, except Owen Tudor, whose attention wandered as he looked about him. It was the first time he had ever been into any of the private apartments in Windsor Castle and he could hardly tear his eyes away from the sumptuous tapestries and paintings that hung on the walls. The floor was covered, not with rushes and strewing herbs but with a thick woollen carpet of an intricate pattern. It must have come from the East, he thought, perhaps brought back from the Crusades. It was beautiful.

  ‘So, that’s the message. Have you all taken it down?’ Jacqueline asked.

  Owen hadn’t but he dared not say so. He could copy it later from his friend Gilbert, with whom he shared a carrel and an ink horn in the library. He nodded along with the others and they were dismissed.

  Just as they were leaving the room, Gilbert elbowed Owen in the ribs. ‘The Queen,’ he hissed. They stood aside, bowing extravagantly from the waist, as Catherine came back into the room, her mouth set in a determined line after a mildly unpleasant encounter with Elizabeth Ryman.

  Owen, his eyes averted, saw the passing swish of a long white gown and was aware of the faint perfume of lavender. He sneaked a look after she had passed but was rewarded with nothing more than the sight of the straight back of a slim young woman with fair hair coiled about her head. She wasn’t as tall as Owen had imagined her but she certainly carried herself well, he thought. So that was Queen Catherine.

  The Dukes of Gloucester and Bedford were enjoying the rare opportunity of spending an informal evening together in the Palace of Westminster, intending to pass the night there before travelling back to Windsor in daylight the next day.

  For Gloucester, it was an opportunity to talk to his brother privately about his concerns regarding Catherine. For Bedford, home in England for the coming Christmas holiday, it was an opportunity to talk to Gloucester about his concerns regarding Philip of Burgundy; he was quite certain in his own mind that having Philip remain loyal to the English crown was of crucial importance in maintaining a peaceful relationship with France.

  The two brothers had enjoyed an excellent supper and there was ample wine left in the decanter, glowing ruby red in the candle light. Humphrey held it poised above two goblets.

  ‘Will you join me?’

  John nodded, smiling. His brother’s well-known liking for Burgundy wine gave him a golden opportunity to introduce the subject he wanted to discuss.

  ‘You know, it would be a pity to have to give up drinking this excellent wine,’ he said, reaching out to take the goblet Humphrey was offering him.

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘Well, I’m deeply perturbed about Philip of Burgundy,’ John said. ‘I understand that he turned down an invitation to join the Order of the Garter earlier this year.’

  ‘He did. Not many people would do that!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said John, ‘it’s rather an insult to the English sovereign to decline it. But, worse than that, he didn’t come to London for Henry’s funeral. It wouldn’t have been much trouble for him. I thought that was very disloyal. He could have combined it with a visit to his new sovereign, our young nephew. I hope he’s not beginning to think that loyalty to the Dauphin Charles is advantageous.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. Did he give a reason for his absence?’

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘He’s certainly making life difficult for my poor Jacqueline,’ said Humphrey. John stiffened. The thorny subject of Humphrey’s relationship with Jacqueline had been introduced into the conversation rather earlier than he had intended.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, he absolutely refuses to entertain any suggestion that her marriage to that ugly little pansy the Duke of Brabant should be annulled.’

  ‘You can’t expect him to, not with so much of his own inheritance at stake. But Burgundy’s dangerous, Humphrey. And if you ever tried to marry Jacqueline, things could get very ugly indeed.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning, brother,’ said Humphrey. ‘But I’ll handle it my way. Relax. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Just think before you do anything rash.’ John was frowning. ‘Really, we do not want to annoy Philip of Burgundy. It could be disastrous for young Henry’s future.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Gloucester, eager to change the subject, ‘I wanted to talk to you about the Queen. Do you think she’ll want to go back to France, now that Henry has died?’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Isabelle did.’

  ‘Catherine’s sister?’ John raised his eyebrows and Humphrey nodded.

  ‘Well, she was a child bride if anyone was,’ John said. ‘Can’t have been more than seven when she was married to Richard and she was widowed at eleven, so there was nothing to keep her here. Catherine is twenty-one now and she has young Henry. She’ll want to stay if only for his sake. She dotes on the child.’

  ‘But what if she wants to marry again?’

  John wasn’t surprised that Humphrey had broached the subject of Catherine’s future but he thought it a little premature; she was still grieving piteously. He thought she’d be unlikely to rush into a second marriage.

  ‘No doubt she will in time,’ he said, ‘but while we’re still in mourning for Henry she is hardly likely to start behaving like an alley cat. Dear God, Humphrey, she is the Queen!’

  ‘Yes, but she’s also a damned attractive widow. She won’t grieve for ever. And I do remember Henry boasting that she was panting for him as soon as their bedroom door was closed. Rather more than was proper for a princess, he said. Like mother like daughter, no doubt. Queen Isabeau was the most aristocratic slut in Europe, according to some. A whore with a crown. Anyway, Henry said Catherine gave as good as she got
and, knowing Henry, she probably got it rather often.’

  ‘Humphrey!’ John was appalled. His brother was always inclined to talk smuttily in private but it was difficult to believe that he was talking about the young woman whom John had come to admire so much in the last dreadful months.

  Humphrey had the bit between his teeth. ‘Well, think about it. She’s young, she’s healthy, and I have it on her own husband’s own authority that she enjoys bed sports. She’ll find it difficult to restrain herself. Could be disastrous if she takes an unsuitable lover.’

  ‘You don’t know Catherine,’ John said, remembering the nightmare journey through France to Calais with Henry’s coffin. ‘I have spent a great deal of time in her company in recent months and I found her to be devoted to Henry while he was alive, as she is now devoted to his son. Be assured, Humphrey, she won’t behave with any impropriety at all. It is the last thing I’d expect of her.’

  Humphrey shrugged and poured himself more wine. ‘Time will tell,’ he said. ‘Only time will tell.’

  Anton’s honey cakes had all but disappeared, the adults had made short work of his delicious little savoury pasties, and four wine jugs stood empty on the table. Catherine was holding the one-year-old King of France and England splay-legged on her left hip while she fed him a gingerbread man. He held on to the sweet biscuit with both hands, not eating it but staring wide-eyed at all the people who were milling around his normally quiet nursery, playing guessing games, talking and laughing. A small see-saw had been set up in the corner of the room for the very youngest children and a side table was covered with a chequered cloth for board games. Edmund Beaufort was demolishing his third helping of dates in spiced wine when Catherine sensed him at her elbow.

  ‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘you were so wise to bring a royal chef back from France with you. These dates are sublime!’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying them.’ She had an idea that the sixteen-year-old had probably been at the wine jugs but at least he wasn’t making an exhibition of himself; not yet. He was at that amusing stage of tipsiness quickly reached by young men who think that they can hold their drink.