‘Don’t have any more of those spiced dates, Edmund,’ she whispered, ‘or you’ll have to explain yourself to your mother!’
‘She’s not here,’ Edmund whispered back dramatically, ‘and when the cat’s away, the mice can play! The nice, spicy mice can eat as many dates as they like!’
Catherine smiled. ‘All right, my little mouse. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
Mouse? Her little mouse? Edmund flushed a dark red and he was aware of a pleasurable sensation in his loins. He remembered that, in his schoolroom, the very mention of the word ‘mouse’ had set the other boys sniggering behind their hands. Perhaps Catherine was trying to hint at something. He felt very confused.
Edmund’s mother, Margaret, had been invited to the party, of course, but wouldn’t countenance such a thing on the Sabbath, though she was the only one who had declined the invitation. ‘It’ll end in tears,’ she predicted ominously. But everyone else had accepted with alacrity and now the crowded nursery was becoming overheated.
Jacqueline jumped up onto a bench and clapped her hands, calling for attention. ‘Come, everyone, we’re going to play hide-and-seek. Now I want the adults to go and hide first. Then, after a count of ten, the children have to go and find them. Then we’ll do it the other way round.’
‘Where can we hide?’ called the Countess of Westmorland. ‘Anywhere?’
‘No, not just anywhere. Hiders must find hiding places here in the nursery or in the great hall or the inner ward but don’t stay out there too long and get cold. And don’t go near the kitchen, whatever you do, or you’ll upset Anton! When you hear me ringing this bell, you must all come back here because it means that there will be some children who haven’t found any grown-ups. Now, grown-ups – off you go to find a hiding place! I’m going to count down from ten before the seekers come to find you. Come on, children, help me to count. We’re going backwards, remember! You’ll need to concentrate!’
There was an undignified scramble as the adults ran off to find hiding places. Catherine stood watching them with an indulgent smile on her face and little Henry still saucer-eyed astride her hip.
‘Ten … nine … eight … Wait! Wait! Aren’t you playing hide-and-seek, Catherine?’ Jacqueline asked.
‘No. I must stay here with the King. He’s too young to play!’
‘We’ll look after the King, Ma’am,’ said Joan Astley. ‘Why don’t you go and enjoy yourself for once. I’ll put him in his high cradle, where he can sit up and see everything that’s going on.’
‘Yes, go on, Catherine,’ said Jacqueline. ‘You go and hide. Go on. We’ll start counting again. Ready children? Ten … nine … eight … seven …’
Catherine managed to squeeze herself into a narrow cupboard at the far end of the main hall, near the dais. It was where the domestic servants kept spare linen for the royal table and there was just enough room for someone as slim as Catherine to get inside. She crouched in the dark, feeling a little foolish, her heart thumping after the effort of getting away from her young pursuers before Jacqueline had reached ‘… three … two … one! Ready or not, they’re coming!’
She heard someone approaching, an adult by the sound of the footsteps, rather than a child. Someone else looking for somewhere to hide. Bad luck, she thought, she had found this good hiding place first. The cupboard door opened and Edmund Beaufort was surprised to find the Dowager Queen of England doubled up and crouching inside it.
‘Your Highness! I … I’m …’
‘Go away, Edmund, I found this place first!’ Edmund seemed remarkably tall when viewed from the level of his knees. ‘Go on, go away! Find somewhere else to hide!’
‘But I’m a seeker!’ he protested. ‘And I’ve found you!’
‘You can’t be a seeker, you’re not a child! Now, go away and let a child come and find me.’
‘I’m being a seeker because there aren’t enough children to go round.’
‘Then help me up, please Edmund. I should get back to the nursery. I shouldn’t be playing silly games like this, I’ve a child of my own to care for.’
She gave Edmund her hand and as he helped her to her feet, he made a clumsy lunge towards her, trying to take her in his arms. ‘I’m not a child, you know,’ he said, his face turning a dull red, ‘I’m … I’m not a child. I’m a man. And I have found you. And I … I wish …’
‘Edmund, you’re drunk! How dare you!’ Catherine pushed her hands against his chest and he stopped abruptly, hanging his head, looking for all the world as though he had been slapped.
‘Edmund, you’ve gone too far. Don’t you dare do that again!’ She felt confused and frightened but she needed to remind the young man standing miserably in front of her that she was the Queen, a grown woman, five years his senior, a widow with a child of her own and all the responsibilities that went with her position.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What the hell is going on here?’ A stentorian voice rang down the hall and Catherine looked up to see the Duke of Gloucester striding towards her, followed by his brother.
‘Your Highness! Is this man bothering you?’ he demanded.
‘No … no … er, we were playing hide-and-seek,’ stammered Catherine, her cheeks blazing with embarrassment; she wasn’t at all sure what Gloucester had seen. ‘I was hiding in the cupboard … Edmund was a seeker and he found me … he was helping me up …’
‘Playing hide-and-seek!’ Humphrey’s face was purple. He turned to his brother. ‘John, didn’t I tell you …!’ he began.
‘Oh, Humphrey, I’m sure it’s all harmless enough,’ John protested calmly.
‘And what are you doing here, young man?’ Gloucester demanded of Edmund.
‘I’m, um, well, I’m playing hide-and-seek too.’ As he said the words, Edmund realised how very silly they sounded. He might have thought of a more reasonable explanation had he been entirely sober.
‘Hide-and-seek? On the Sabbath? That is the most disrespectful …’
‘My Lord,’ Catherine interrupted him, drawing herself up to her full height though Gloucester still towered above her. ‘You will kindly moderate your words. This was the most innocent of children’s games. It is the baby’s first birthday, so we were having a little party for him, that is all.’
‘I see,’ said Gloucester in an icy voice. ‘And do you think it appropriate, my Lady, to celebrate the birthday of His Highness the King by hiding in a cupboard with a man?’
‘My Lord, how dare you make such an accusation!’ Catherine was upset now and very angry but Gloucester’s fury had not abated. She looked helplessly at John of Bedford who was standing behind his brother and felt relieved when he gave her a broad wink and moved between them, taking charge of the situation.
‘That is how the game of hide-and-seek is played, Humphrey,’ he said. ‘You should know that, you’ve played it often enough yourself.’
‘But not on a Sunday,’ Humphrey muttered resentfully. ‘And certainly not when we’re supposed to be in mourning.’
Catherine looked down at her white mourning gown. The bodice was covered with the baby’s sticky gingerbread finger marks. Summoning all her dignity, she straightened her back, turned on her heel, and began walking towards the nursery with Edmund Beaufort trailing sheepishly behind her.
John of Bedford placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Try not to judge her too harshly, Humphrey. You said yourself only last night that she’s young and, after all, it is the little one’s first birthday. And it’s Saint Nicholas’ Day, too, a special day for children. They should be allowed to play together and exchange gifts. It’s all part of the tradition.’
‘She needs to learn to restrain herself,’ muttered Gloucester. ‘Or she’ll never be a fit mother for the King. You wait and see, John. You just wait and see!’
Catherine’s hands were shaking. Gloucester had followed her to the nursery where Jacqueline was still standing on the bench, shouting encouragement to
excited adults and children alike.
‘Jacqueline!’ he barked. ‘Get down from there, madam! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘Tut, Humphrey,’ said Jacqueline lightly. ‘We’re playing a game of hide-and-seek, that’s all. It’s a lot of fun.’
‘Having fun is not something you do on a Sunday. Get down from there, for God’s sake, and show a little decorum. This is no example for the children.’
John of Bedford spotted Catherine sitting in the corner of the room, anxiously plucking at the stained white fabric of her gown. ‘I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry,’ she said, shaking her head from side to side.
‘Catherine, please. Don’t. Don’t torture yourself. You have done nothing wrong.’
‘But I have, I’ve defiled the memory of my husband. Your brother will never forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive, Catherine. Ignore Humphrey, I don’t know what’s got into him. I think he’s feeling the strain of wanting to marry Jacqueline and not being allowed to.’
Catherine shook her head helplessly. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Of course I am. Now, the party seems to be breaking up. Well, let’s face it, Humphrey has rather ruined the atmosphere. I’m sure he’ll apologise to you when he comes to his senses. So why don’t you go and wash your face and change your gown. You’ll feel better when you do. I’ll say goodbye to everyone for you. I’ll thank your guests for coming and see them to the door. Where’s your maid?’
Guillemote was hovering on the edge of the fracas, concerned for her mistress, and she quickly led Catherine away and back to her own chamber. It was quiet there and, after she had washed her face and changed into a clean gown, Catherine asked Guillemote to brush her hair, something she had always found soothing and relaxing.
Eventually, she felt calm enough to return to the nursery and what she found there surprised her very much indeed. The big room looked as though a whirlwind had passed through it, leaving a trail of half-eaten food, discarded pewter plates, empty wine jugs, and goblets. It was deserted, except for the tableau in the centre of the room. His Royal Highness the King of England and France was sitting in his high cradle. Bending over it and holding the baby’s hand was a tall, dark-haired man with his back to her and, much to the child’s obvious delight, he was counting Henry’s fingers one by one.
‘Modryb y Fawd,
Bys yr Uwd,
Pen y Cogwr,
Dic y Peipar …
A …
‘Jolie cwt bach!’ Catherine finished for him, wide-eyed and very close to tears as the baby crowed in delight.
Startled, the man spun round. ‘Your Highness!’
Catherine stared at him as he bowed to her, gaining the impression of curling dark hair, intense brown eyes, and a wide, sensuous mouth. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m Owain ap Maredydd ap Tudur ap Goronwy Fychan, Ma’am,’ he said, then smiled disarmingly. ‘But hereabouts I’m known as Owen Tudor.’
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Catherine was the first to recover her composure. ‘Jolie cwt bach,’ she said again. ‘How do you know this?’
‘It’s just a children’s finger-game, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘All children know it in Wales.’
‘Ah, Wales. My husband the King told me about that. Are you from Wales?’
‘I have that honour, my Lady,’ he bowed but kept watching her.
‘Then you will tell me, please, what is this little game? I would like to teach it to my son. After all, he is the Prince of Wales.’
Owen’s smile was a degree colder this time. If only she knew how much he hated hearing her use that title in relation to the heir to the English throne. But how could she, a French woman, possibly know how strongly it was resented, not only by him but by all the Welshmen who had fought for their freedom under Owain Glyndŵr, the man who had more right to the title ‘Prince of Wales’ than any son of an English monarch.
But he didn’t want to lose his job and neither did he want to hurt her feelings. From what he’d heard, she had been through some unendurable experiences lately; the loss of her sister, her husband, and her father. Poor woman, he thought, feeling oddly protective towards her. He smiled.
‘If it is your wish, Your Highness, I will be honoured to teach it to the King. Perhaps when he is a little older and has a few more words in his vocabulary.’
Catherine smiled back at him as she lifted the baby out of his high cradle. ‘And then you will confuse him with new words in a new language, just as he is beginning to learn his first words in English.’
‘And in French, of course.’
‘No,’ said Catherine, a shade too quickly. ‘No, not much in French. It is not … how shall I say … it is not encouraged.’
Owen raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Then I can assure you, my Lady, that no one is going to encourage him to learn Welsh! It is an ancient and beautiful language but considered very crass in the English court.’
Joan Astley bustled in through the open door. ‘Oh, Your Highness, I’m so glad you’re here, I thought the baby was with the Countess Jacqueline but I have just seen her with the Duke and she said she thought the baby was with me.’
‘Please, Joan, don’t worry. His Highness was quite safe. He was learning a little finger-game in Welsh from this gentleman.’ She turned to Owen. ‘I’m so sorry, what did you say your name was again?’
‘Owen, Ma’am, Owen Tudor.’
‘Owen Tudor,’ Catherine repeated. ‘Well, thank you, Master Tudor. As you said, the King will need to be a little older before he learns the rhyme but I would like you to teach it to him.’
‘I would be honoured to do so, Your Highness.’
Catherine handed the baby to Joan Astley and Owen bowed low as she left the room. As he straightened up and looked at her retreating figure, he had a curiously protective feeling towards her, though he wasn’t at all sure why.
Chapter Twelve
England, Christmas 1422
Grand boughs of green holly had been brought in to decorate the Great Hall of Windsor Castle, and mistletoe hung discreetly in certain doorways. The great Yule log was turning slowly to ashes on the fire but because of the recent death of the King, the festive season was being celebrated with only modest feasting. Nevertheless, in the castle kitchens, Anton was supervising the roasting of geese, swans, chickens, wild boar, and suckling pigs to satisfy the appetites of the royal family and their guests.
While the court was still in mourning, Owen and Gilbert were often glad to escape from the restrained atmosphere of the castle to the more convivial surroundings of the tavern at the sign of The Swan, where Owen found himself much in demand to lead the raucous singing of carols with his crwth. Gilbert, who had unexpectedly proved himself to be a very capable tabor player, was intrigued by the strange Welsh instrument which he had never seen before but he was delighted by the sounds it made when Owen drew a horsehair bow across the strings. The two were quick to realise that as long as they were prepared to accompany the singers, they wouldn’t have to pay for a single tankard of ale all night.
‘Thish is the life,’ Gilbert observed.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ agreed Owen. ‘But they’ll soon stop buying ale for you when you start getting the rhythm wrong. Behave yourself! Slow down.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll just finish this one.’ Gilbert drained his tankard and set it down heavily on the table. ‘Hey, Owen, let’s play another carol.’
‘Which one do you fancy?’
‘“The Whore’s Bed.”‘
Owen grinned from ear to ear. ‘The what?’
‘No! Sorry. I’m sorry. “The Boar’s Head”. “The Boar’s Head Carol”,’ Gilbert enunciated carefully. His eyelids were beginning to droop.
Owen let out a great whoop of laughter. ‘Come on, then, my drunken friend. “The Whore’s Bed Carol” it is!’
They were nearing the end of the last verse when Maredydd saunter
ed into the tavern with some of his friends from the guard room. Hearing the familiar sound of the crwth, he was pleased to see his young cousin leading the singing, ragged though it was. Then again, in Maredydd’s opinion, the English were useless singers. He pushed his way towards Owen and Gilbert, just as the noisy revellers had reached the chorus.
‘You’re late tonight!’ Owen mouthed at him above the din. Maredydd shrugged. He’d come to search for Owen in order to pass on some news but that would have to wait until Owen and Gilbert had stopped being the centre of attention. He found a space on a bench near the fire and sat down.
Gilbert was the first to give up. He slumped down on to the bench beside Maredydd. ‘I can’t do it anymore,’ he said. ‘I must be getting old.’
‘What, at twenty-six? Nonsense!’ said Maredydd scornfully. ‘Wait ‘til you get to my age! You’ve just drunk too much, that’s all.’ Gilbert nodded, putting his elbows on the table in front of him. Within minutes his head was cradled on his arms and he was fast asleep.
Owen had to battle through “The Contest of the Ivy and the Holly” on his own before the singers would let him go but finally they did, clapping him on the back and pressing yet more ale on him. He shook his head, smiling, and pushed his way through the crowded room to join his cousin and the somnolent Gilbert.
‘How is he?’
‘Asleep. Says he’s getting too old for it.’
‘What? He’s only three years older than I am!’
‘Oh, to be twenty-three again,’ Maredydd said, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m sure poor old Gilbert would agree with me.’
‘No doubt he would if he was sober enough,’ said Owen. ‘Anyway, what news from the guardroom?’
‘Well, it’s only a rumour, but some of us might be going to Holland fairly soon,’ Maredydd confided. ‘At least, that’s what they say. There’s nothing official yet.’
‘Why Holland?’
‘The Duke of Gloucester is getting a battalion together. It’s some quarrel about the Countess Jacqueline’s disputed lands, as I understand it.’
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 16
