Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

Gilbert stared at Owen, open-mouthed in astonishment. The Queen knew him by name!

  Chapter Thirteen

  England, Summer 1423

  In Catherine’s later memories of that summer in Windsor, the golden days stretched out behind her, long and lovely, each one bringing her new strength to face her life as a widow. When she wasn’t with the baby, she was rediscovering the pleasures of music, playing her harp and learning new songs. The songs were sadder now, songs of yearning, of love and loneliness and she sang them with feeling, remembering how she and Henry had found such pleasure in singing together.

  Now the remaining Henry in her life was growing to be a happy, healthy child, curious about the world around him and learning new lessons every day. Earlier in the year, the Council had appointed Richard Beauchamp, the highly respected Earl of Warwick, to be the young King’s guardian with particular responsibility for his education. Catherine felt quite happy about this but, remembering John of Bedford’s advice, she spent as much time with her little boy as she possibly could, taking great delight in looking after him, feeding him, playing with him, teaching him, and watching him grow. The King was eighteen months old now and, as long as he held onto his mother’s hand, he could walk quite well.

  Edmund Beaufort watched the two of them for a long time. They were on their own, unattended by either guards or nursemaids. Mother and toddler walked slowly hand-in-hand in the sunshine, safe in the inner ward of the castle, she anxiously watching in case he should fall, he trying his baby best to walk like an adult and looking to her for approval. Edmund’s heart was close to melting. He had never quite got over the gawky embarrassment of the episode with the Queen in the cupboard six months ago, on the occasion of the King’s first birthday. He still flushed a dull red when he remembered it but nothing had ever been said since. The trouble was that what he had blurted out at that time was the truth. He might be five years her junior but he was not a child and he had some very un-childlike feelings towards his sovereign lady.

  Catherine caught sight of him. ‘Edmund!’ she called. ‘You’re back from France. How lovely to see you. Come, let’s find somewhere to sit in the shade and talk. You seem to have been gone a long time.’

  ‘Just eight weeks or so, Your Highness. We arrived back in Windsor quite late last night. It’s good to see you again. You’re looking well.’

  ‘I am, thank you. And look at the King! See how well he walks! Hasn’t he grown since you last saw him?’ She bent down to pick up the baby and swung him up astride her hip. ‘We’ve run away from his nurses, Edmund. We don’t have time on our own very often, do we, Henry?’ The child was sucking his thumb and regarding Edmund solemnly as he and the Queen settled themselves on a sunlit bench against the wall. ‘Now tell me, Edmund,’ she said, ‘what news of the Duke of Bedford and his new Duchess?’

  Edmund, with his sister Joan and their mother, had been in Paris to attend the wedding of John of Bedford to Anne of Burgundy, a hastily arranged affair but an alliance which seemed to have placated the bride’s brother. There was no more talk of the challenge to a duel with Humphrey and everyone breathed a little more easily.

  ‘The Duke and Duchess are well, my Lady, and everyone was delighted at the marriage,’ said Edmund. ‘My mother remarked that she had never seen so many smiling faces in one place.’

  ‘When was the wedding?’

  ‘On the thirteenth of May at Troyes, in the church of St Jean-au-Marché.

  Catherine smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased. That is where Henry’s father and I were married almost exactly three years before them. I do hope they’ll be happy. I’m sure they will; Anne is delightful and I’ve become very fond of John since he’s been my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me. I almost forgot. The Duke particularly wanted to be remembered to you, Your Highness, and he asked me to tell you that you were right. Just that. He didn’t say what you were right about but he asked me to be sure to tell you. I’m glad I remembered.’

  ‘I’m glad you remembered, too,’ said Catherine. She knew what John meant, that he had found his new bride to be an amusing, witty, and pleasant companion, just as Catherine had described her. She sincerely hoped they would be very happy.

  It seemed to be the season for weddings. In early September, the Duchess of Clarence was telling Catherine delightedly about the plans for the wedding of her daughter, Joan.

  ‘And since she is to become Queen of Scotland, she will have the finest wedding money can buy,’ said Margaret emphatically. ‘Her uncle Henry Beaufort will pay for it. And willingly.’

  ‘Well, he can certainly afford it and he does seem to be fond of them both.’

  ‘I’ve asked him to conduct the ceremony as well,’ said Margaret. ‘I trust we will be graced with your presence among the guests?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. After all, I was instrumental in getting the King’s agreement to the match.’

  Margaret smiled at her. ‘They are both very grateful to you, my dear. In fact, the whole family is delighted that you were able to help.’

  ‘Believe me, my Lady, it was a pleasure. A very great pleasure indeed,’ said Catherine, recalling the night of her coronation and hiding a rueful smile.

  Then towards the end of October, the Earl of Warwick requested an audience with her. She liked Richard Beauchamp; his wife, Elizabeth, had died not long after Catherine herself was widowed and she had always felt that his sympathy and condolences were very genuine. Today, his face was wreathed in smiles as he bent to kiss her hand.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he greeted her, ‘I wanted you to be among the first to know of my great good fortune. I am to be married again!’

  ‘Married? Then I am delighted for you, my Lord!’ She was quite surprised at the news since she hadn’t heard the castle gossip about the determined widow who had made a beeline for the good-natured Earl the moment he was out of mourning for his late wife. ‘Who is the lady who will have the privilege of becoming the new Countess of Warwick?’

  ‘The Lady Isabella, the widow of my cousin, the Earl of Worcester, Ma’am. She’s a fine woman, a very fine woman. I’m greatly honoured that she has agreed to be my wife.’

  ‘Indeed. And I’ve no doubt that she, too, appreciates the honour that you have done her in asking for her hand in marriage.’

  ‘Well, we aren’t in the first flush of youth, my Lady,’ said the Earl who was still just on the right side of forty. ‘At our age, companionship is just as important as any other feelings we might have for each other. That and, of course, the consolidation of our lands and properties.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘Of course. Does she bring a large dowry?’

  ‘Property, Ma’am,’ said the Earl, matter-of-factly. ‘A considerable amount of land in the West of England as well as the lordship of Glamorgan which is, of course, a very large area.’

  ‘Indeed? And where is that?’

  ‘In Wales, my Lady, in the south of that country, along the coast.’

  ‘Ah. And is that anywhere near Monmouth, where my late husband was born?’

  ‘Not far, Ma’am, no, not far at all. It’s a pleasant four or five days’ ride from Monmouth Castle. But you must remember that you, too, have property in Wales. It was part of your dower settlement.’ The Earl, a member of the Council, was quite familiar with the provisions which had been made for Catherine. ‘You have your dower palaces and manor houses of course,’ he went on, ‘but you also have dower lands in Anglesey and Flintshire as well as in Leicester and Knaresborough.’

  ‘I know Leicester, of course, but the others? Are those in Wales?’

  ‘Not Knaresborough, Ma’am. That’s in Yorkshire, not too far from York, which you are already familiar with. But Flintshire is in the north of Wales, on the English border and Anglesey is a large island just off the North Wales coast.’

  ‘You’ll pardon a Frenchwoman’s lack of knowledge, my Lord. This is still something of a foreign country to me.’

  ‘
Of course, Ma’am, perfectly understandable. But you should travel to see these places and familiarise yourself with them. After all, they are yours and they are fully staffed, ready and waiting for your visit.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I should. Perhaps next spring, when the weather improves.’

  Joan Astley was dressing His Highness the King for the State Opening of Parliament. He had quite a vocabulary of words by now, though to Catherine’s great disappointment the first word he ever said was ‘Joanie’. Now the King was yelling ‘No, no, no!’ at the top of his voice as Joan tried to button him into a crimson velvet gown. Having succeeded, she turned her attention to the little cap he was to wear on his head. The ingenious design incorporated a miniature crown in its turned-up brim. ‘Who is Joanie’s little kinglet, then?’ she whispered in his ear as she contrived to give him one last small hug without creasing the crimson velvet.

  ‘Is His Highness ready, Joan?’ Catherine asked as she came into the nursery followed by the Earl of Warwick.

  ‘He is, my Lady, but I don’t think he likes his clothes very much.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Catherine. ‘I don’t like them either.’ She had no idea who had made the decision that the child should be dressed up like a big doll. She suspected Elizabeth Ryman, probably acting on the instructions of Humphrey of Gloucester. It was just easier not to interfere.

  ‘I think His Highness looks very fine,’ said the Earl of Warwick, putting his face close to the baby’s and adopting the faintly silly tone of adults trying to arouse a baby’s interest. ‘And he’ll look even more the king when he has his orb and sceptre, won’t you, sire?’ The Earl held out the miniature gold sceptre to Henry who grabbed it from his hand. He looked at it for a moment and then tried to put it in his mouth.

  ‘No, no, Your Highness, you mustn’t eat it!’ said the Earl, trying to pull the King’s hand away from his mouth. Henry clenched his little fist around the heavy, solid gold sceptre and, with a sudden movement, hit the Earl over the head with it, just above the eye, really quite hard. The Earl flinched and bit his tongue before smiling as though nothing had happened.

  ‘My Lord!’ Catherine was all dismay. ‘Let me see your forehead. Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re going to have quite a swelling there. I’m so sorry. I’m sure His Highness didn’t mean it.’

  ‘No, of course he didn’t, Ma’am. Please, don’t give it a moment’s thought.’

  ‘I have a little paste of comfrey root, my Lady,’ said Joan Astley. ‘I always keep some to hand in case the King should happen to fall and cut himself. If His Lordship will permit me to apply a poultice of it to his forehead, it will help to take the swelling down.’

  They entered Parliament an hour later with Queen Catherine walking a few steps in front of the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. The whole procession was led by His Highness the King, still brandishing his miniature gold sceptre, in the arms of the Earl of Warwick whose good-natured countenance was rather marred by the rapidly darkening bruise around his half-closed eye. An amused murmur ran around the chamber of the House as everyone tried to guess how the Earl, so soon to be married to a famously domineering wife, had come by such a painful-looking swelling.

  Catherine did not attend the Earl of Warwick’s wedding to the Lady Isabella, though she was pleased to hear that the bridegroom’s black eye had disappeared in time for the ceremony at the end of November. By then, Catherine had taken his advice in the matter of her dower lands. Other than what the Earl had told her, she really had little idea of precisely what constituted her inheritance.

  She informed Sir Walter Hungerford that she would like to know more about her properties and where they were situated. Sir Walter was delighted to realise that she was taking an interest in her future in England and suggested that a list of her dower lands should be drawn up, including facts and figures, staffing levels, tenants, rents, and income for each one. Perhaps he could even arrange to have copies made of some precious maps, so that she could study all this information at her leisure. He thought that two of the royal clerks could begin work on the project immediately so that she could soon have a document which would help her pinpoint exactly where her properties were and the value of each one.

  Several days into the job, Gilbert got up from his chair, yawned, and stretched his back luxuriously. ‘Do you think the Queen will ever visit all these properties?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d like to think that she will visit Anglesey,’ said Owen, ‘though it will take her weeks to get there, with all the cartloads of belongings she’ll be taking with her.’

  ‘That’s where you come from, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a place called Penmynydd. It means “top of the mountain” but the strange thing is that it’s in the flattest part of the whole island!’

  ‘I always said the Welsh were illogical,’ said Gilbert, though he had never said so before and had no idea why he said it now.

  Owen ignored him, remembering the long journey south nearly a year ago. ‘It took me months to get here,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t in any hurry, mind. Just as well, really, because I met a man in Shrewsbury who slowed me down quite a bit. We decided to travel together and he talked nearly all the way about his dreams of becoming a glover, of all things, in London.’

  Gilbert laughed. ‘He probably believed that old chestnut about the streets being paved with gold,’ he said.

  They had all but finished their work a few days later when Sir Walter Hungerford came bustling in to the Library.

  ‘Quick!’ he said. ‘Quickly, tidy the place up, for heaven’s sake. Her Highness the Queen is on her way to see you.’ He bent to pick up some stray scraps of parchment off the floor. Owen and Gilbert began gathering together quills, ink, parchment, and powder. Owen was trying to rub an ink stain off his middle finger when the door opened again.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Sir Walter Hungerford bowed extravagantly. He hoped that, behind him, Owen and Gilbert were doing the same. He hadn’t had time to remind them and good manners were so important. He wouldn’t want to upset the Queen.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sir Walter.’ Queen Catherine entered the room with her ladies. ‘Please, would you introduce the two gentlemen who have been working on my documents. I look forward so much to seeing what they’ve been doing.’

  ‘Of course, my Lady. This is Master Gilbert Wilkins. He has been in our service for five years now and is highly skilled in the copying of maps. And this is Master –’

  ‘Master Tudor! I didn’t know that you were one of the gentlemen Sir Walter recommended so highly.’

  Sir Walter Hungerford’s jaw dropped as he saw the Queen’s dazzling smile directed at the clerk. It almost seemed as though there was no one else in the room. Owen Tudor bowed again. ‘I was deeply honoured, Your Highness, to have been chosen for the work. Both Master Wilkins and I felt very privileged to be of service to you.’ He was at pains to encompass his colleague in his response.

  ‘Then tell me, Master Tudor,’ said the Queen, ‘is the work finished yet?’

  ‘Indeed, Ma’am, we finished it today. We were going to ask Sir Walter to present it to you in the morning.’

  ‘But I want to see it now. Please, show me.’

  Sir Walter stood to one side as Owen and Gilbert spread out sheets of parchment on a table for the Queen to inspect. She exclaimed with pleasure at the maps, wanting Gilbert to show her exactly where Westminster was, where Knaresborough was in relation to York, and where Glamorgan was in relation to Monmouth. She wanted to know where Flintshire was, then Anglesey.

  ‘Master Tudor should tell you about Anglesey, Ma’am,’ said Gilbert. ‘It is his home.’

  ‘Is that so, Master Tudor? Then, please be so kind as to show me where your home is.’

  ‘This is the island, my Lady, just off the coast of North Wales.’ Catherine bent over the map and, standing so close to Owen, she was surprised by a strong urge to stroke the soft dark hairs on the back of his wrist where he had pushed up his sleeve. She followe
d his finger as it traced the route to Penmynydd.

  ‘My home is almost in the centre of the island. Gilbert has inscribed the English name on the map but the Welsh name for Anglesey is Ynys Môn. The Island of Mona.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Catherine, aware of the effect that Owen Tudor was having on her, kept her head down, hoping she wasn’t blushing. ‘How interesting. And is it very beautiful?’

  ‘Very beautiful, Ma’am. In fact, it is a well-kept secret that when Our Lord created Wales, he made the most beautiful country he possibly could, with high mountains and deep lakes, with delightful little streams trickling down the valleys.’ Owen, enjoying the rapt attention of the Queen, began to embroider the tale. ‘Yes, the Lord crafted this wonderful country so lovingly that the Archangel Gabriel questioned whether any country could possibly be so perfect and whether there were any disadvantages in living there. The Lord replied that, sadly, there was one disadvantage: the people who lived in Wales would have the world’s most obnoxious neighbours!’

  There was a long, embarrassed silence. Every face in the room was totally impassive until the Queen had reacted to Owen Tudor’s joke. He watched her face as his own creased into a huge smile. Then, after a pause, the Queen laughed delightedly. ‘Oh, you mean the English! Yes, yes, of course, the English are the … what was it? … the obnoxious neighbours! Master Tudor, it is very wicked of you to say such a thing!’ She laughed again and, reassured, her ladies tittered behind their hands. Gilbert let out a huge guffaw and even Sir Walter emitted a sound which rather resembled a neighing horse.

  ‘I trust you are pleased with the work, my Lady,’ he said, thinking that he would really have to have a word with the Welshman. How dare he tell crass little jokes to Her Royal Highness the Queen like some court jester! Who did he think he was?

  The Queen had noticed his look of annoyance. ‘I’m delighted with the work, Sir Walter. It is exactly what I needed and, please, don’t think badly of Master Tudor. I did enjoy his amusing story. Indeed, it might even apply to France and her neighbour Spain! You must remember that he and I are both foreigners in England.’ She turned to Owen and Gilbert. ‘However, thanks to you two gentlemen, I now have a very much clearer idea about my new, adopted country. I’m very grateful to you both. Good afternoon to you.’ She turned to leave the room as the three men bowed again.