Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘But that doesn’t concern Gloucester, surely,’ said Owen. ‘I mean, what reason would he have to invade Holland?’

  ‘A perfectly good reason,’ said Maredydd, draining his tankard and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘It seems they’re getting married.’

  ‘Gloucester and the Countess Jacqueline? But she’s married to someone else, isn’t she?’

  ‘Not any more, apparently. Must have had an annulment.’

  ‘I wonder if the Queen knows,’ mused Owen.

  ‘The Queen? Why should you wonder if the Queen knows?’

  ‘Well,’ said Owen hesitantly, ‘I don’t think she’s quite as au fait as she might be with what’s happening at court. She seemed to be hinting as much when I was speaking to her.’

  ‘When you were speaking to her? You were speaking to the Queen? Duw Mawr! Good God! I’ve heard everything now!’

  ‘She’s very charming,’ said Owen, ignoring the blasphemy in both languages.

  ‘I’ll wager she is!’ Maredydd laughed. ‘But don’t worry about telling your new friend, the Queen, about this. She will have heard already. Everyone has.’

  The Queen had not heard. Jacqueline had not told her the news because Humphrey was quite adamant that it was none of his sister-in-law’s business and warned Jacqueline that it should be kept from her. Catherine was a widow now, he pointed out, so she could be dangerous. She had no husband to occupy her mind and her baby son was well looked after so he didn’t really need her. With time on her hands, Humphrey said, Catherine’s thoughts might well turn to political manoeuvrings. After all, her mother had been well known for it and there was no reason to suppose that Catherine would be any different. Since she didn’t recognise the authority of the Avignon Pope, she could well try to interfere with their plans.

  As far as Jacqueline was concerned, she had finally received papal dispensation to proceed with her marriage to Humphrey and she didn’t give a tinker’s cuss which pope had granted it. She stared time and time again at the piece of parchment in her hand and pressed the papal seal fervently to her lips. It was Pope Benedict’s written agreement to the annulment of her marriage to the Duke of Brabant, based upon her assertion under oath that the marriage was a sham and had never been consummated. Thank God! At last! She had read it and re-read it. By now, she knew the short message by heart and yet she couldn’t stop reading it. This was what she had spent so many months hoping for, scheming for, planning for, praying for, and now it was here, delivered by papal messenger direct from Avignon.

  She couldn’t risk anything going wrong, even if it meant distancing herself from Catherine, but it was difficult to keep the secret from her, particularly when they shared the same seamstress. The purchase of a length of white silk was carefully entered into Jacqueline’s wardrobe accounts ledger and its purpose recorded as the making of a gown for the Garter ceremony. Even if Catherine had seen it, she would have had no reason to question it.

  Catherine also accepted the fact that her cousin was away from court for a few weeks before Easter, because Jacqueline had always said that Humphrey wished to take her to visit his dear friend, the Abbot John Whethamstede at St Albans.

  It had thrilled Jacqueline to be welcomed to St Albans as the Duchess of Gloucester. It almost blotted from her mind the indignity of the little hole-in-the-corner marriage ceremony she had recently gone through with Humphrey. Though she had longed to be married by Archbishop Henry Chichele in the great cathedral at Canterbury, Humphrey had other ideas. He was impatient at the idea of wasting time and money by going through the organisation and extravagance of a cathedral wedding, however much Jacqueline might want it. And he was keen to become the Count of Holland, Zeeland, and Hainault at the earliest opportunity.

  The first Catherine heard of the marriage was when Elizabeth Ryman came into the nursery one April afternoon. The King was on his mother’s knee and she was dandling him up and down to the rhythm of a nursery rhyme.

  Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?

  Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

  One for the master and one for the dame

  And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.

  By now Joan Astley had joined in with the singing and the baby was laughing out loud and bouncing excitedly on Catherine’s knee, wanting more.

  ‘My Lady!’ Elizabeth Ryman had to raise her voice to make herself heard. ‘Your Highness! I have a message for you! His Grace the Duke of Bedford wishes to see you urgently.’

  Kissing the baby on the tip of his nose, Catherine handed him to Joan Astley.

  ‘I won’t be long, my little one,’ she promised him, standing up and straightening her skirts. ‘Very well, Mistress Ryman. Thank you. Where is His Grace?’

  John of Bedford had been shown into her private apartment and Guillemote was serving him a goblet of wine when Catherine arrived.

  ‘Your Highness! Catherine, my dear,’ he said, rising from his chair and bowing low over her outstretched hand. ‘It’s kind of you to see me and I’m sorry to demand an audience with you in this way but we must talk. It’s urgent,’ he added, as Guillemote withdrew.

  ‘Is it about my allowance?’

  ‘Your allowance? No, no Catherine, your allowance remains as it was agreed by the Council. It is sufficient for you, isn’t it? If not, I can go back to them to see if they will increase the amount.’

  ‘No, it’s quite generous, and I’m grateful. So what …?’

  ‘My brother Humphrey,’ he began ‘and your cousin Jacqueline …’

  ‘They haven’t come to any harm, have they? They’re all right?’

  ‘Well, yes, they’re all right.’ He paused. ‘They’ve been married.’

  ‘What? Married!’ Catherine was astounded. ‘But they can’t have! Have they had permission?’

  ‘They’ve had the permission of the Avignon Pope. Pope Benedict has seen fit to grant an annulment of Jacqueline’s marriage to the Duke of Brabant.’

  ‘But Benedict is not the Pope. Pope Martin in Rome is the only Pope. Benedict has no authority, no right to do that!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said John, ‘but much depends on where you stand with regard to the division in the Holy Roman Church. I agree with you but clearly Humphrey and Jacqueline believe that Pope Benedict has every right to grant an annulment of her marriage. Well, they must do. They were married some weeks ago, I gather, before they visited St Albans.’

  Catherine dreaded the answer to her next question. ‘Does my cousin Philip know?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes, he knows. And he is, apparently, furious. He has challenged Humphrey to a duel. And Humphrey is hot-headed enough to take up the gauntlet. They’ll kill each other.’

  ‘Oh,mon Dieu,’ Catherine rose from her chair and began to pace the room, realising the potential gravity of the situation. ‘I foresee trouble.’

  ‘Yes, very big trouble. I can’t see a way out of it. Except …’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Well, that … I don’t know. It depends on you. After all, you are the only one who knows all the people involved in the argument. Really knows them, I mean. Could you intervene somehow, do you think? They might listen to you.’

  ‘And they might not!’

  Catherine sank down onto a bench against the wall. What could she do? Where was she to begin? Humphrey wouldn’t listen to her, she knew that. And Jacqueline would agree with anything Humphrey said. The situation was too urgent to allow her the time to make the journey to France to see Philip of Burgundy in person and he would never be persuaded to come to England. Besides, he most certainly wouldn’t listen to a woman.

  It didn’t matter where Philip stood morally with regard to the schism in the Church because politically he would always side with whichever Pope refused to grant Jacqueline an annulment of her marriage. It was in his interests that she should remain married to the Duke of Brabant. He’d be likely to do anything in order to protect his own inheritance. Philip would, without doubt, c
ontest the decision of the Avignon Pope.

  Yet again, she regretted Henry’s passing; not only for reasons of her own grief but because her marriage to him had represented a strong alliance between their two countries. That alliance had weakened with his death; the bond was fraying rapidly. It must be re-made for her son’s sake and another dynastic marriage was the only way to do it. She looked hard at John of Bedford before speaking, knowing that once she had made her suggestion, there would be no retracting it.

  ‘You know, John, you’ve asked me to help and, you’re right of course, something must be done. Philip must be pacified. But you are the one who can best rectify this situation, not I.’

  There was a look of despair on John’s face. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Yes there is. Now, listen to me, John: Cousin Philip was my Aunt Margaret’s only son, which rather grieved my uncle, John the Fearless, I’m afraid. Philip was the one boy among six girls that lived. So he has several sisters.’

  ‘Surely you’re not suggesting, are you …?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Because the only way to strengthen the bond between England and Burgundy is through another marriage and now that Humphrey appears to have married Jacqueline, there is no one else. Thomas has died. You are the only one, the only unmarried brother.’

  ‘But … they say those Burgundy girls are as plain as owls!’

  Resisting the temptation to laugh at his indignation, Catherine laid her hand on John’s arm. ‘You know, sometimes a royal marriage works out well. My own marriage did, even though it was arranged under the terms of the Treaty of Troyes. And there is no reason why such a marriage shouldn’t work out well for you, too. Believe me, Philip’s sisters are not a bit like owls. They’re very charming young women. You must have met them when Henry and I were married.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I must have seen them, but I had no reason to remember them particularly. Besides, my dear Lady, you were the centre of attention on that day!’

  Catherine smiled her thanks for the compliment before she went on. ‘Now, there are two whom you might consider marrying, Agnès and Anne. Agnès is still a little young but Anne is now nineteen years old and has never been betrothed.’

  ‘That’s probably because she’s ugly,’ he muttered.

  She tapped his hand lightly in mock rebuke. ‘Now, my Lord, don’t be ungracious. Anne is funny, witty, and a wonderful companion. She was quite often at court in the year before I married Henry and I always enjoyed her company because she made me laugh. And she is very, very loyal.’

  ‘Does she bring a reasonable dowry?’

  ‘I imagine so, the family is not without wealth. But, John, a dowry isn’t everything. Henry dropped his demand for a dowry before we were married and that was the one thing which made our marriage possible. Don’t make difficulties for yourself. This is the only answer, I promise you.’

  There was a discreet knock at the door and Guillemote came back into the room with a small plateful of honey cakes which she set down beside John’s goblet of wine. As she bobbed a curtsey to him, John remembered how he had once followed her down a corridor and admired her trim waist, her strong, square shoulders, and her gleaming dark hair. Perhaps a pretty face wasn’t the only measure of an attractive woman and he remembered thinking that the Frenchwoman would make some man a good wife. Perhaps Anne of Burgundy would make him a good wife, a loving wife, and if everything Catherine had said about her loyalty and companionship was true, he would certainly be a lot less lonely than he had been of late. And if nature had not endowed Anne with great beauty, she would at least be grateful for a husband. Whatever happened, he would have to try to pacify Philip of Burgundy, so if he were to ask for his sister’s hand in marriage, the man would surely back down from his threats towards Humphrey.

  ‘Do you know, Catherine,’ John said slowly, ‘I think you might have had a very good idea.’

  She smiled again. ‘It’s the only way out of the problem. And I think you should go to France as soon as possible.’

  Safe on his mother’s lap and within the protective circle of her arms, the King watched, fascinated, as mummers re-enacted the story of St George. Young Henry wasn’t at all sure about the dragon, a fearsome-looking creature made of green woollen material stretched over a willow frame. Beneath its exaggerated body, two pairs of feet and legs in green hose and shoes were plainly visible but the child’s attention was riveted by the long red tongue which lolled out of the creature’s mouth and by the dreadful roaring noises it was making. He was thrilled with terror of the beast and cuddled ever closer to his mother.

  The guests and servants of the royal family thronged the grounds of Windsor Castle in celebration of St George’s Day. In the Upper Ward, archers were demonstrating their skills, jesters, and minstrels mingled with the crowds and there was an appetising smell of roasting ox on the fresh April air. High above the Home Park, a pair of magnificent peregrine falcons wheeled and swooped under the expert handling of the King’s Falconer.

  Owen Tudor and Gilbert Wilkins were watching the display and joined in the enthusiastic applause as the Falconer finally hooded his birds. They were thoroughly enjoying themselves. On the dancing green, some young people were whirling around in an impromptu dance to the accompaniment of a pipe and tabor. Owen would like to have joined in and cursed the fact that he had left his crwth in the dormitory, but he applauded the minstrels and the dancers before he and Gilbert moved on towards the crowd gathered around the mummers’ wagon.

  ‘Huh!’ Owen said dismissively, stopping to watch from a few yards away. ‘The English don’t know anything about dragons!’

  ‘That one looks a bit fierce from what I can see,’ said Gilbert. ‘Except for its feet. I didn’t know that dragons wore shoes, did you?’

  Owen wasn’t listening. ‘I should write a mummers’ play about the Welsh dragon,’ he mused. ‘I should write about the way the red dragon of Wales killed the white dragon of the Saxons and the ancient prophecy which says that he still sleeps under Dinas Emrys, waiting for the call to slay the English. And when the call comes and that battle is won, a Welshman will sit upon the throne of England.’

  ‘A Welshman on the throne of England?’ Gilbert snorted his derision. ‘Pigs might fly, my friend! Mind you, the Welsh enjoy a bit of fisticuffs, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Not unless we’re roused. We’re very peaceable in the main. We’d rather be writing poetry than fighting.’

  ‘Then why do you do it?’

  ‘I told you. We only react when other people attack us.’

  ‘People like us English, you mean?’

  ‘No, not you personally, Gilbert. You’re a very peaceful soul. I’m talking about greedy English landowners who aren’t satisfied with what they’ve got and covet what rightly belongs to us. They lie to us, too. We have to protect ourselves.’

  ‘Surely an Englishman wouldn’t lie?’

  Owen gave his friend an incredulous look. ‘What? You think an Englishman wouldn’t lie? Well, you ask my cousin Maredydd about his father’s neighbour, Baron Reginald Grey, the sly bastard! He was the biggest liar of all. He was asked to pass on a message from the King, asking Maredydd’s father to fight with the King’s army in Scotland. Henry IV that was, of course, when he came to the throne –’

  ‘But Maredydd’s father was Welsh,’ Gilbert interrupted. ‘Would he have fought for the English King?’

  ‘Owain Glyndŵr? Yes, of course he would, in a just cause. He was a very fair-minded man; a lawyer, trained in London at the Inns of Court. But Grey withheld the information, so the message never reached him. And then Glyndŵr was accused of treason! That’s when all the bad blood and resentment led to the insurrection: it was like bursting a boil.’

  ‘Resentment?’ asked Gilbert. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the English have been aggressive towards us for centuries, trying to get the upper hand, insulting us, attacking us, and passing laws to deprive us of our rights. And we’ve never regained tho
se rights, either.’

  Gilbert picked his teeth thoughtfully with a sliver of wood. Owen was a good friend but a bit misguided. A Welshman on the throne of England? A Welshman? Never! He hadn’t given very much thought to the relationship between England and Wales until he met this fiery Welshman who seemed to care about it with such passion. The Scots could be awkward, too, from what he’d heard. He was rather glad that he was English and didn’t have to prove anything – except superiority to the French, of course.

  The mummers’ play came to an end and, grinning broadly, the players walked hand in hand to the front of their wagon to acknowledge the applause of the crowd. St George posed in triumph with his foot on the neck of the dragon which lay prone at his feet, two pairs of green shoes sticking out from under it. The mummers bowed low to the young King, the Queen, and the other members of the royal party.

  As she applauded the performance, a sudden thought struck Catherine and made her laugh out loud. Queen Isabeau would surely love to have a dragon as a pet. From what she’d heard recently, her mother had now added a leopard and a monkey to her collection of exotic animals which already included a positive menagerie of dogs, cats, and birds. Catherine had a mental picture of her mother leading a big green woolly dragon around the gardens at St Pol. She wouldn’t need St George to protect her from the beast, it certainly wouldn’t have the temerity to eat Isabeau!

  Rising from her seat and handing young Henry to Joan Astley to be carried, she inclined her head to the mummers, smiled, and raised her hand in acknowledgement of their entertainment before beginning the short walk back to the castle with her ladies. Standing to one side as the Queen came towards them, Owen and Gilbert bowed low.

  ‘Good afternoon, Your Highness,’ said Owen as they straightened up again. The Queen looked in his direction and her face lit up with pleasure.

  ‘Good afternoon, Master Tudor,’ she said. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘Indeed, Ma’am, thank you.’