As soon as she and her ladies had left, Sir Walter rounded furiously on Owen. ‘What on earth possessed you to tell the Queen that stupid story?’ he fumed. Then, as Owen grinned engagingly, so Sir Walter’s anger suddenly subsided and again he made the curious neighing sound which passed for laughter. Really, he thought, the Welshman wasn’t the kind of person you could stay angry with for long. No wonder the Queen was so charmed by him.
Sir Walter was to remember the expression of pleasure on the Queen’s face a few weeks later when Sir William Gifford, the seneschal of the castle, approached him with a problem. Gifford was a thin man with hunched shoulders, his face lined with the constant worry of staffing and running a huge household. He relied heavily on those staff members who held responsibility for various aspects of castle administration and worked well with their teams. He was delighted with the work of Anton, the French chef, and perfectly happy to leave the ordering of food supplies and the organisation of the kitchens to him, particularly now that the problem with his spice merchant had been resolved. The merchant in question had been cheating the system for years, growing proudly plump on the proceeds of his crime. It had taken a bit of clever financial investigation on the part of a shrewd castle clerk to identify the felon but when the merchant had been exposed for the trickster he was, Gifford was pleased to be able to tell him to his fat face that legal proceedings were already under way and that he could expect to be pilloried.
Now Sir William Gifford’s problem was a very different one. In this case, Richard Hinton, the Clerk of the Queen’s Wardrobe and one of his most trusted castle servants, had become increasingly blind over the past few years and had finally told him that he could no longer continue with his duties. Things had come to a head two days ago. The Queen had asked Hinton to procure some fine silk in her favourite sage green with a view to having a gown made for her niece Joan’s forthcoming wedding to James of Scotland. Hinton had infuriated her by purchasing an inferior quality silk in light blue. Being a man who had hitherto always prided himself on his work, he had been deeply upset about the incident. He simply hadn’t been able to appreciate the poor quality of the fabric nor tell the difference between the two colours.
Sir Walter was concerned. ‘Has Hinton tried bathing his eyes in beer?’ he asked. ‘They say it is very beneficial.’
‘He has. And it seems that his wife has also persuaded him to try warm bat’s blood, but it’s difficult to come by and he has had no great relief from it.’
‘You’ll be needing another Clerk of the Wardrobe, then. Had you anyone in mind?’
‘No. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Perhaps we should discuss it with Her Highness,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I will request an audience with her.’
They went together to see the Queen the following afternoon. The Clerk of the Queen’s Wardrobe was a senior staff position and a sensitive appointment, because whoever held the office would have to see a great deal of Her Royal Highness. It was crucially important that she should approve the choice and be able to trust the incumbent to oversee not only the purchase of fabrics, furs, and personal effects but also to be accountable for the safety and care of her jewellery, plate, and valuables and to supervise the work of her seamstresses, laundresses, and personal staff. It was a position of great responsibility.
Catherine welcomed them warmly. ‘Sir William,’ she said as the seneschal bowed low over her hand, ‘I haven’t seen you for some time. Is there a crisis in the household?’
‘I’m afraid there is, Ma’am. We’ve come to see you about the Clerk of your Wardrobe.’
‘Master Hinton? I’m very displeased with him. I had intended talking to you about it.’
‘My Lady, it appears that he is rapidly going blind and there is little that can be done about it. This is the reason …’ he didn’t finish his sentence before the Queen interrupted him.
‘Going blind! But he said nothing. The poor man. Has he tried bat’s blood?’
‘Apparently so, Ma’am. It seems that he has tried all known remedies but to no avail.’
‘Then that’s why he’s been behaving so strangely of late. I should not have been so quick to judge him. It’s really not his fault that he’s losing his sight.’
She rose from her chair and walked to the window, weighing up the problem in her mind. Turning back, she said: ‘If he has to leave my service because of his blindness, Sir Walter, there must be a way of offering him a small pension. If there’s a problem, it can come from the account which pays for my personal staff.’
‘That’s good of you, Ma’am. Yes, I’m sure we can help him. He’s been in the service of the royal family for so long that we can’t see him destitute. In the meantime, it’s rather urgent that we find you a replacement.’
‘You have someone in mind?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone obvious, my Lady, and it’s a sensitive appointment.’
‘Indeed. It has to be someone I like and can trust.’
All three were silent for a moment, Sir Walter and Sir William desperately trying to think of a solution to the problem and the Queen trying to quell the sudden, violent beating of her heart. When she felt more in control of herself, she spoke.
‘The two clerks who worked on the reports I requested on my dower properties seemed very efficient, Sir Walter,’ she said, as casually as she could.
‘Yes, Gilbert Wilkins is a certainly good worker,’ said Sir Walter. ‘If a little young for this job. It needs someone with authority.’
‘Is he younger than Master Tudor?’
‘No, Ma’am, Tudor is the younger of the two. I wouldn’t have thought him particularly suitable,’ said Sir Walter. Then he remembered the expression he’d seen on the Queen’s face when she realised that Tudor had been working on her property reports. ‘Of course,’ he said quickly, ‘if your Highness has any preferences in the matter, then we must accommodate them.’
‘Tudor!’ exclaimed Sir William Gifford. ‘Not Owen Tudor? That was the name of the clerk who discovered that the chef was being cheated by his spice merchant. A very clever piece of investigation.’
‘Yes, I heard about it,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Very clever.’
‘Rather an unusual name, I thought. That’s why I remembered it.’
‘It is unusual,’ Sir Walter agreed. ‘Welsh, originally.’
‘Welsh?’ Sir William looked doubtful. ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised that. You can’t trust them, you know. Dishonest. Cheat you as soon as look at you.’
Catherine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That is nonsense, Sir William,’ she protested. ‘Why should any one race be more dishonest than another? It’s individual people who are dishonest. Only a moment ago you were admiring Master Tudor for discovering that the chef was being cheated by his spice merchant. But now you know he is Welsh, you assume him to be dishonest! I cannot see the logic in that. Master Tudor has proved himself to be both honest and capable in the last few weeks. I was very impressed with his work on my property reports.’
Sir William paused. That had been quite an outburst and he had no desire to annoy his Sovereign Lady any further. ‘But would you be prepared to employ him as your Clerk of the Wardrobe, my Lady?’ he asked, sounding doubtful.
‘Yes, of course I would,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘Keeping wardrobe accounts is not so very different from keeping kitchen accounts, is it?’
‘Perhaps not, Ma’am.’
Sir Walter Hungerford sounded a note of caution. ‘As long as you’re sure that his little jokes won’t irritate you, my Lady. He seems to be of a rather playful disposition. That attitude might not be suitable in a position of authority.’
Catherine tried to look stern but came close to failing. If only these two decent, straight-laced old gentlemen knew how she longed for some gaiety in her young life, the opportunity to laugh.
What she said was: ‘If you’re suggesting Master Tudor for this appointment, Sir Walter, then I think he will do very
well.’
Sir Walter, who was actually suggesting no such thing, hesitated. ‘If you’re sure, your Highness.’
‘I am quite sure, Sir Walter. Please be so good as to speak to him immediately and inform him of his new appointment. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Catherine inclined her head to dismiss the two men. When they had left the room she picked up her little bell and rang for Guillemote.
‘Guillemote,’ she said slowly when her maid came running to do her bidding, ‘I think I’ve done something I might live to regret.’
‘And what is that, my Lady?’
‘I have suggested the name of Master Owen Tudor for the position of my Clerk of the Wardrobe.’
Guillemote saw the radiant expression on her mistress’s face. ‘Well, Ma’am,’ she said, ‘the prospect seems to make you very happy!’
Chapter Fourteen
England, Spring 1424
There had been so little travelling since the late King’s death that Sir Walter had almost forgotten what it was like. At one time, the court would journey regularly to stay for a few weeks at one or other of the great royal residences outside London, providing an opportunity for the King to meet his people throughout the country, people who were the source of his revenues. As a rule, there was one visit a year to Leicester, usually at Easter, and Christmas at Kenilworth had always been a source of great delight to the late King.
But the Queen now wished to break with tradition and spend the festive season somewhere different. Hertford seemed a good choice. It was an old, established castle some twenty-five miles to the north of London, well-appointed and comfortable. Catherine and her young son had been escorted there by Bishop Henry Beaufort and they were joined by the Duchess of Clarence, her son Edmund, and her daughter Joan. A few days later, the Duke of Gloucester arrived with the Duchess Jacqueline, and the final guest completed the royal party on Christmas Eve. He was James of Scotland, soon to be married to Margaret’s daughter. Catherine was delighted to see them both. They planned a February wedding in London and, whenever she wasn’t with her betrothed, Joan was either being fitted for some item of her bridal trousseau or closeted with her mother, putting yet more detail onto the plans for the ceremony and the elaborate celebrations afterwards.
Catherine left them to their lists and menus and went in search of Jacqueline. She had broken off a sprig of mistletoe from a bunch which hung in the great hall of the castle and, privately, she suggested to Jacqueline that she should pin it to her garter. It was well known, she told her earnestly, that mistletoe enabled a woman to conceive a child if she really wanted to. Jacqueline whirled around to face her, beaming with joy.
‘Catherine, I don’t need to! I didn’t want to tell you until I was absolutely certain but I know now that there will be a baby, come summer.’
The two women hugged each other ecstatically, both delighted at Jacqueline’s good fortune. All in all, it was a very happy Christmas.
The court remained at Hertford for nearly two weeks after Epiphany but Catherine wanted to be back in Windsor well before Candlemas in early February to allow plenty of time to prepare for Joan’s wedding on the twelfth of the month. The safe packing and transport of her boxes and coffers for the return journey had been entirely the responsibility of the new Clerk of the Wardrobe and he felt mightily relieved when it was all safely on its way back to Windsor. He wondered yet again why one woman needed so many clothes. And not only clothes: among the items in Owen’s care were the Queen’s personal plates, knives, spoons, and goblets, tapestries, and all her jewellery. Shoes, too. God’s knees! How many pairs did she have?
Guillemote, who had been a great help to Owen, pointed out that life on the road was always difficult for the Queen’s personal staff. There was never any guarantee that there would be adequate provision of rooms for bathing and hairdressing, not to mention laundering and making running repairs to clothes. At least now that they were back at home, there was a place for everything.
‘And everything in its place!’ said Guillemote, her hands on her hips, surveying the familiar royal storage rooms at Windsor. Everything had been unpacked and put away and now all that was needed was a decision from the Queen about what she would like to wear for her niece’s wedding.
‘Such a shame about the blue silk,’ muttered Guillemote. ‘Entirely the wrong shade.’
‘What shade of blue does Her Highness favour?’ asked Owen, looking up from the ledger he was working on.
‘She doesn’t favour blue at all, she never thinks it suits her, even though she has blue in her eyes. Though sometimes they look more grey than blue so perhaps that’s the reason why. Well, anyway, I doubt very much that we will be able to get what she wants in good time to have it made up into a gown for her to wear at the wedding.’
Owen got up from his seat. ‘Have you got a sample of the colour Her Highness likes, Guillemote? You know, a little scrap of fabric. Anything like that. Then I’ll see what I can do.’
Next morning, with a small offcut of sage-green silk in his pocket, Owen shivered as he stood on the river steps at Windsor. It was bitterly cold on the water so early in the day but at least the journey could be made quickly by boat. Acting on a hunch, he had summoned a wherryman to take him on a private errand.
Owen entered London Bridge from the Southwark end where trade was already brisk in the jumble of little shops on either side. He wrinkled his nose against the stench of weed, slops, and dead animals in the river below, looked around, and then made his way towards half a dozen shops grouped between the stone gate and the drawbridge on the west side. He had glimpsed a sign bearing the image of a gloved hand. On a trestle table in front of the shop, the glover’s assistant was busying himself with laying out his master’s wares in various colours, designs and sizes.
‘Rhodri Fychan! Sut wyt ti, ‘ngwas i?’ Owen said, delighted at having so easily found the friend he was looking for. He banged him heartily on the back. Rhodri turned.
‘Owain ap Maredydd! How the devil are you?’
‘Owain ap Maredydd no longer, my friend. I’m Master Owen Tudor now, I’ll have you know. A fine gentleman of the English court and in the personal employment of Her Royal Highness the Queen. Her Clerk of the Wardrobe, no less.’
‘Never! Oh, hoity-toity! So that’s how to get on in this world. Change your name, is it? I could be Master Roderick Vaughan, then!’
‘You could, but you’d be the same old Rhodri Fychan to me. How are you?’
‘Happy as a pig in sh … sh … Shrewsbury!’ said Rhodri, grinning. ‘Mind you, leaving Shrewsbury was the best thing I ever did. D’you know, I earn nearly two pounds a year more here in London. And the girls are prettier!’
‘And just as willing, I’ll wager!’
‘Aye, twice as willing!’ agreed Rhodri, leering. ‘And you? Have you got a girl, yet?’
‘No! No such luck,’ said Owen rather abruptly as the image of a young woman with blue-grey eyes and braided fair hair came, unbidden, into his mind’s eye. ‘Now, Rhodri, I’m here on the business of Her Highness the Queen.’
‘And what sort of gloves does Her Highness want?’
‘Rhodri, I’ll be honest with you. She doesn’t want any gloves. But – and it’s a big but – I will ask her if you and your master may wait on her when she is next at the Palace of Westminster and show her a selection of your wares. On the one hand, she might want your gloves. On the other hand, she might not.’ Owen laughed at his own unintended pun. Rhodri hadn’t noticed.
‘Really? Really! You wait ‘til I tell the master. He’s bound to give me a pay rise if you can find him favour with the Queen!’
Owen put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘First you’ve got to do me a favour.’
‘Anything, Owain, anything. Just tell me.’
‘Right. Information. You can tell me who is selling the best silk in town at the moment. And at the best price.’
Rhodri looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘
I don’t know much about silk but I’ll find out for you. Wait here.’ He disappeared inside the shop and came out a minute or so later with an older man who was rubbing his hands together obsequiously. ‘Owain, this is my master, Thomas de Gloucestre. He is a master glover but his family have been in the cloth trade for many years. He thinks he can help you.’
‘Is it silk you’re after, Master Tudor?’ the man asked. Owen nodded. ‘Well, as it happens, my own brother-in-law is a silk trader. And a very reasonable man. He has modest premises in Queenhithe and has just begun importing silk from France. From the town of Lyon, he tells me.’ He was looking intently at Owen. ‘Perhaps, if it is for the personal use of Her Highness the Queen, she would be pleased by the thought that the silk is imported from France.’
‘Perhaps she would. Now, if you’ll be so good as to tell me where to find your brother-in-law’s shop, I’ll pay him a visit.’
‘It’s a warehouse, Master Tudor, just behind Brook’s Wharf in Queenhithe, near the sign of the bear. Tell him I sent you and I’m sure he’ll give you a good price. And might I venture to hope that Her Highness would be interested in the purchase of some fine gloves in the near future?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Owen was already moving away. ‘Yes, the next time the court is in Westminster, I will let Rhodri know. It could be very soon.’
‘Diolch i ti, ‘rhen gyfaill!’ Rhodri doubted that his friend had heard his shout of thanks. It was lost on the breeze from the river.
The silks on offer were of a high quality at a reasonable price and Owen was delighted to find one in almost exactly the shade he was looking for. When asked how much he needed, he realised that he had absolutely no idea so he bought all the trader’s remaining stock of it and returned to Windsor with a neat package under his arm.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 19
