Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  ‘Guillemote!’

  Guillemote’s smile was both fond and sympathetic: she put her hand on Catherine’s arm, genuinely concerned for her. ‘And you’re in love with him, my Lady. I have long suspected it.’

  Catherine’s tears welled and spilled over as she nodded. ‘Yes, Guillemote, I think I must be. Deeply in love.’

  ‘And … if he feels the same way about you, my Lady, you could both be deeply in trouble.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Summer 1424

  ‘Wel, sut wyt ti’r hen lwynog!’ Maredydd asked as he moved up to make room for Owen to sit next to him on their favourite bench in the tavern. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Llwynog? Fox? Why am I a fox?’

  ‘Because I haven’t seen you for such a long time. You must have been up to something crafty, something cunning. A little vixen, is it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Owen exaggerated. ‘The most beautiful little vixen you ever saw. Small, fair-haired, blue eyes, you know, big here, small here.’ He outlined the shape of a woman’s body lasciviously with his hands.

  ‘Get on with you. You won’t find one like that around here, more’s the pity!’ Maredydd drained his tankard and wiped his mouth. ‘I was just going to buy another one of these. D’you want one?’

  ‘Aye, why not?’ Little did Maredydd know, Owen thought, that he had already found her, though she was so far out of his reach that she might as well live on the moon. He watched as his cousin bought more ale and knew that he could never tell him or anyone else how he felt about Catherine. She would always have to remain a secret, locked in his heart.

  ‘The trick with women,’ Maredydd confided, setting two tankards down on the table, ‘is to go for the grateful ones.’

  ‘The grateful ones? Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s simple, isn’t it? They hang on your every word, obey your every command, and anticipate your every little whim … just for the joy of having you pleasure them. It’s true. Ask any ugly woman and, if she’s honest, she’ll tell you it’s true.’

  ‘So, the uglier the better, eh?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Just as long as she’s grateful. You know, a bit like the Duchess of Gloucester.’

  ‘She’s not ugly.’

  ‘No, perhaps not, she’s comely enough, I suppose. But if you compare her with her cousin, the Queen, I’d say she comes a pretty poor second.’

  Owen’s heart lurched. He agreed wholeheartedly with Maredydd but dared not risk betraying his own feelings about the Queen.

  ‘So, you’re saying that the Duchess probably feels grateful to the Duke for pleasuring her?’

  ‘Well, she’s forever fawning over him. An arrogant bastard, that one. Proud as a dog in a doublet.’

  Owen changed the subject. ‘Any more news about his plans to invade Holland?’

  ‘No, not yet. The Duchess is whelping, isn’t she? They’ll wait until that’s all out of the way before they make their move. I hope they don’t wait too long, though. I’m to go with them and I’m not getting any younger!’

  Jacqueline had been so excited, so happy throughout the spring and had developed an endearing little habit of patting her swelling belly and talking to the child within. Catherine often found her looking down at herself and saying such things as: ‘You little rapscallion! You wait until I tell Papa how hard you’re kicking me!’ And all the while her face was wreathed in smiles.

  There was nothing to worry anyone. Then, one sultry night in July, Jacqueline, attended by the midwife, Margery Wagstaff, and two of her assistants, smiled nervously at Catherine. ‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘Stay with me for a while.’

  These were the dog days, the hottest and most oppressive of the whole year. The air was still but, despite the stifling heat, a fire was kept burning in Jacqueline’s bedchamber so that a small cauldron of hot water was constantly available to the midwives. It made the room unbearable and for two long days and nights, poor Jacqueline sweated and strained and cried out in agony. For hours at a time, Catherine sat by the bed, holding her hand and trying not to mind how painfully her cousin’s fingernails were digging into her. Humphrey retired to the north tower of the castle where he was completely unable to hear his wife screaming. His son would be born eventually and there was nothing he could do. This was women’s work and no man had any business being anywhere near it.

  The midwives tried everything they knew but the baby wouldn’t come. Margery Wagstaff massaged ointment into the taut skin across Jacqueline’s swollen belly then shushed the others while she listened for a heartbeat. She felt for the child’s head but could only feel its buttocks. She tried to encourage the baby to move by opening and closing drawers and cupboard doors to simulate the opening of the womb. She smeared pepper under Jacqueline’s nose to make her sneeze. And still the baby wouldn’t come.

  ‘This one’s going to be a lazy little tyke, Your Grace,’ she said, teasing, to keep Jacqueline’s spirits up. ‘He likes taking his time so he’s always going to be late for appointments. You’ll have to train him well!’ Jacqueline smiled weakly between the searing pains of contraction. The child could be as lazy as he liked once he’d been born, she didn’t care. She just prayed that he’d be here soon.

  Catherine stayed with Jacqueline and did whatever she could to help. She soaked a cloth in cooling rosewater and gently cleaned Jacqueline’s face where it was streaked by rivulets of sweat running through the pepper grounds around her mouth. Poor Jacqueline had sneezed pitifully but to no effect and the baby was still firmly in her womb. The midwives had used all the techniques they knew and they began to talk of past experiences they could draw on. They even discussed whether, as a last resort, they would summon a doctor to cut the baby out. Catherine begged them not to.

  ‘She’ll surely die, if you do that!’ she whispered urgently. ‘You must not! The Duke will be very angry.’

  So Jacqueline’s agony continued and Margery Wagstaff urged Catherine to snatch a little sleep. As the hours went by, the midwives made several more attempts to turn the baby but without success. Out of earshot of his mother, they muttered to each other that if the child wasn’t already dead, he soon would be. He was having too much of a battle to be born. They had completely failed to turn him, so there was nothing for it but to haul him out as best they could and hope against hope that both he and his mother would survive. Getting a grip on a small leg, Margery Wagstaff looked around in desperation.

  ‘I’ll have to baptise him as soon as he’s out,’ she said. ‘It’s urgent. We might lose them both. There’s no time to get a priest. Get me the holy water. Does anyone know what he’s to be called?’

  The midwives shrugged, no one had told them that. ‘Richard is quite a nice name,’ one of them suggested. Margery looked down at the small body which she was trying to manoeuvre into the world. ‘Oh, God. Bad luck. This one’s a girl and by now it doesn’t matter what I call her. Get me the holy water. Now! Just get it!’

  ‘Tacinda is a pretty name for a girl,’ said the youngest midwife, as she handed Margery the bowl of holy water. ‘My sister called her little girl Tacinda. I really like it.’

  ‘Tacinda it is.’ Margery dipped her bloodied fingers into the water and made the sign of the cross on the forehead of the small baby girl. ‘In nomine Patris … et Filii … et Spiritus Sancti …’ The child was dead. She had never moved, never cried, never breathed. She had probably been dead since becoming entangled with the umbilical cord which was still knotted around her little wrinkled neck.

  Catherine had slept like a stoat, wary, half-listening for the cry of a new-born baby, but she’d heard nothing. By the time she came back into the room, Jacqueline had lost consciousness and the midwives’ most urgent task was to keep her alive. Two of them were trying to prop her up on pillows to ease her breathing while they cleaned her and changed her blood-soaked bedding. Margery Wagstaff took away the limp, lifeless body of the baby. She would wash the little one and lay her out, in case her poor mother should want to see he
r. Never having lived, she had not been given the last rites, but at least she had a name to take with her to the grave. The midwife muttered a prayer over Tacinda’s tiny corpse.

  Catherine wept.

  Humphrey had to be told, of course, and Catherine cast around in her mind for the best person to tell him. If only John of Bedford were here, he would know what to do, but John was still in Picardy after the latest in a string of recent victories in France. Margaret would have been another ally but she, too, was away from court. There was nothing for it but to tell Humphrey herself.

  She realised, afterwards, that she should have taken a few minutes to prepare herself, to wash her face and comb her hair at least. Her eyes were red with weeping for her cousin and the dead child and her hair was matted with sweat. No doubt her gown, too, was creased and stained.

  When she found him, Humphrey was with a group of a dozen or so friends in the north tower. The sound of high-pitched laughter and the music of psalteries reached her before she had even opened the door. Lolling in a cushioned chair, Humphrey had a wine glass in one hand and when he saw Catherine he gestured with the other hand to stop the music. Her appearance prompted a flurry of bows and curtsies among his companions and, kicking away his footstool, Humphrey rose to greet her, barely lifting a disdainful eyebrow at her dishevelled appearance. He bent over her hand and pressed it a little too warmly to his lips.

  ‘Your Highness. I am delighted to see you. You bring me news of my son?’

  She looked at him in disbelief. Was that all men cared about? Siring a son? Had he not thought that his wife had gone through exactly the same birthing agonies to bring him a daughter? And didn’t he care enough to ask how she was? Catherine tried hard to control herself.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, my Lord,’ she said. ‘The baby was a girl.’

  He frowned. ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t survive. She was such a pretty little thing but she was stillborn.’ Catherine swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay. ‘Jacqueline has endured three days of agony and to no avail. I’m sorry, Humphrey.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too, my Lady. How is the Duchess by now?’

  ‘Very weak, my Lord but, with God’s grace, she will survive.’

  ‘Then I won’t disturb her rest,’ he said. ‘Please give her my condolences. I will visit her in due course.’

  She felt more uneasy than usual about Humphrey. He had not once sent a message to enquire about Jacqueline during the whole time she had been in childbed and now it was as though he was enquiring after the health of someone he barely knew. ‘Come, my Lady,’ he said, ‘why don’t you join us for a little while? You must be tired. The music will soothe you. Look, we have some marchpane and we can call for more wine.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Catherine felt physically sick at the thought of marchpane and was barely able to trust herself to speak. ‘I must … I must … get back.’

  He bowed again, extravagantly, and Catherine turned on her heel. The sooner she was out of that room, the better. She was angry, angry, angry. Angry with Humphrey for his attitude and his superficial friends; angry with a God who allowed a much-wanted baby to die, strangled in her mother’s womb; angry with herself for being so close to losing control.

  By the time she reached her own rooms, the tears were coursing freely down her cheeks but she didn’t much care who saw them. Guillemote put an arm around her shoulders to steady her and helped her towards a chair.

  ‘The baby died, Guillemote. The baby died. Oh dear God, why do babies die when so much love awaits them if they live? Why, Guillemote? Why? And poor Jacqueline. So much pain!’

  ‘There, my Lady, sit for a moment while you compose yourself and I will find you a clean gown. And why not let me wash your hair? You know how it always calms you.’

  Catherine sat meekly in her shift, while Guillemote washed her hair in her favourite soap of Marseilles, rinsing it several times with infusions of rosemary leaves until the water ran clear. It dried quickly in the warmth of the July day and Catherine began to relax under her maid’s practised hands.

  ‘How is the Duchess by now, Your Highness?’

  ‘She was sleeping when I left her, Guillemote. She will need to sleep for several hours to regain some of her strength. Though it will take her a very great deal longer than that to get over losing her baby.’

  ‘No doubt the Duke will visit her when she wakes. That will make her feel better.’

  ‘I expect he will, though he seemed rather preoccupied with his friends when I saw him. Tell me, Guillemote, do you know who they are? His friends?’

  ‘Oh, his usual clique I expect, Ma’am. You know, people like John Robessart, Sir John Kirkby, some of his Italian friends, too, I shouldn’t wonder. They like their wine and their music.’

  ‘There was a woman there, too, a woman with a high-pitched laugh … dark hair … a crimson gown … I had never seen her before.’

  Guillemote paused uncertainly and then said: ‘That would be Eleanor Cobham, Ma’am.’

  ‘Eleanor Cobham? I don’t know the name. Who is she?’

  ‘She’s one of the Duchess of Gloucester’s ladies, I believe.’

  ‘Then what was she doing with the Duke?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say, Ma’am, but there has been gossip.’

  ‘Not about her and the Duke?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Ma’am. There, now. I have finished dressing your hair. Take a look in your mirror, my Lady. Are you pleased with it? Yes? Well, now let me help you into your robe de chambre while I go to the wardrobe. Shall I bring out the new yellow gown for you to wear?’

  Guillemote was babbling, trying to divert Catherine’s attention and discourage her from asking any more questions about Eleanor Cobham. Gossip among the castle servants was rife. The Cobham woman was quite brazenly flaunting her friendship with the Duke. No one knew if he had bedded her yet but even if he hadn’t, it would only be a matter time before he did. Or so the gossip went. Catherine was bound to hear it eventually.

  Leaving her mistress sitting at her dressing table, trying to come to terms with what she had just heard and with everything else that had happened that afternoon, Guillemote went in search of the yellow gown. She knocked at the door of Owen Tudor’s small office next to the big wardrobe room. He was sitting at his table, working on a new duty rota for the laundresses. He looked up and smiled as Guillemote came into the room.

  ‘Bonjour, Guillemote. How are you? What can I do for you?’

  ‘The Queen’s new yellow gown, please, Master Tudor. It’s stored in Cupboard Three, I believe?’

  ‘It is. And you may take it with pleasure as soon as I have entered it into the Wardrobe Acquisitions ledger. It’s brand new so I don’t want to lose track of it. And what, pray, is that grubby garment you’ve got there?’

  ‘It needs to be laundered. Her Highness was wearing it while she attended the Duchess of Gloucester at her lying-in. It’s a bit the worse for wear.’

  ‘Has the Duchess had her baby?’

  ‘Aye, a dead one. And a girl at that.’

  Owen rose from the table, concern in his face. ‘That’s dreadful news! I’m so sorry to hear it. How is Her Grace?’

  ‘Exhausted, from what the Queen said.’

  ‘And how has the Queen taken it?’

  ‘Rather badly, Master Tudor. She’s very upset. I think perhaps she’ll never stop weeping.’ Guillemote looked up at him, her brown eyes narrowing, wise as a monkey, an idea forming in her mind. As casually as she could, she said: ‘I … er … I need to run another errand before I return to the Queen. I wonder whether you’d be kind enough to take the yellow gown to her and tell her I have been delayed? I shouldn’t be long.’

  Unaware of the maid’s subterfuge, all Owen could think of was that he would see Catherine. He took the yellow gown and draped it over his arm. Guillemote watched him as he walked quickly up the corridor. She would take her time going back.

  Owen stopped outs
ide the Queen’s private rooms and knocked at the main door. There was no sound from within. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and put his head around it. There was no one there. He entered the antechamber, closing the door behind him, and looked around for somewhere to leave the gown where the Queen would be sure to see it. The place was as quiet as the grave.

  ‘C’est toi, Guillemote? Is that you?’ Coming from an adjacent room, the voice was muffled but Owen was in no doubt whose voice it was. Panic seized him and rooted his feet to the spot. He realised that he was quite, quite alone with the Queen.

  Catherine was puzzled. She thought she’d heard a sound but, surely, Guillemote would have answered her call. She went to the door of her bedchamber and opened it to see Owen standing in the middle of the outer room, her yellow gown over his arm. Emotion overwhelmed her. Here, above all others, was the one person she most wanted to see.

  ‘Master Tudor! Owen!’

  ‘Your Highness, I … I … Guillemote asked me to bring your gown. But if you’re alone … I could always come back …’

  ‘No, please. Come in. I’m pleased to see you. I’m very, very pleased to see you. I need you. That is … I need … I need to talk to you … to …’

  She held out her hand and he reached out to take it. The yellow gown fell to the floor.

  Afterwards, they couldn’t remember who had made the first move. All they knew, all they cared about was their tremendous need, each for the other. They clung together, half laughing, half crying, muttering endearments in French, in Welsh, snatching shallow breaths and little kisses, not quite knowing what was happening and yet certain that what was about to happen was inevitable.

  Catherine’s robe de chambre fell from her shoulders and she stood before Owen clad only in her shift. He held her at arm’s length and looked at her for a long moment, his eyes drinking in every detail of her, the way her head was set on her long neck, the creamy pale skin of her shoulders, the breasts high and proud against the fabric of her shift. She could hardly bear it. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t stare at me like that. Please, just … take me. I’ve waited too long. Come, my love, please.’