She pulled him towards her bedchamber. Stumbling, awkward, he tore at his clothes, his doublet, his undershirt. Lifting her arms, Catherine drew her shift up over her head and Owen caught his breath at the beauty of her body. He cursed the inconveniences of buttons and laces, of hose and shoes.
At last, he measured his naked length against hers, savouring the sensation of her skin against his, the smell of her hair, rosemary and lavender. He was rigid with desire for her and she, her eyes closed, was moving her head slowly from side to side, moaning softly from somewhere deep in her throat. Feeling his hand on the smooth skin of her thighs, pressing them apart, she moved willingly under him, her hands clasped behind his head, her body arching to receive him. Then they became one, moving together in a primeval rhythm which seemed to last for an eternity yet was only a brief moment in time. They had ceased to be queen and commoner, mistress and servant; they had become man and woman, Adam and Eve.
Owen and Catherine. It was all that mattered.
Guillemote found the yellow gown and Catherine’s robe de chambre on the floor when she returned an hour or so later. She picked them up and folded them carefully. There was no sound from beyond the closed doors of the Queen’s bedchamber.
Chapter Sixteen
Winter 1424 - Spring 1425
Every time she looked at Owen, Catherine was overwhelmed by the realisation that her desire for this beautiful man was equally matched by his for her. Torn between the enormity of what had happened to them and the need to guard their secret, they were at great pains to behave normally in public, to all outward appearances still mistress and servant. But on chilly autumn nights, as logs crackled in the small grate in Catherine’s bedchamber and with the door firmly locked, Owen loved to lie on a goatskin near the hearth with his head in her lap, gazing into the flames and listening, fascinated, to stories of her childhood and her life in the convent. He felt he almost knew the gossiping Sisters Consolata and Madeleine and he felt genuinely grateful to Sister Supplice for having been so loving and protective towards Catherine, the little girl who’d been first neglected and then exploited by her own family.
How different from his own upbringing. He told her tales of his early childhood on the island of Anglesey, growing up as a member of what had once been the most powerful family in North Wales, Tuduriaid Penmynydd, the Tudors of Penmynydd. He explained to her why their loyalty to their kinsman Owain Glyndŵr had cost them their authority, their lands, and, for some, their very lives in the face of incessant English military aggression. Then he amused her with stories of the itinerant Welsh bards, the praise they would lavish on their wealthy patrons, the extraordinary beauty of their love poems, and the subtlety of their poetic insults to each other. He sang to her the songs of his homeland in a language foreign to her ear but delightful in his singing. He painted word pictures for her of his native island, the sunlit strand of the Menai Strait against the majesty of mountains in the distance, across the water.
The beauty of natural things had always been something Owen took for granted but now he was full of wonder, he looked at everything through new eyes. He greeted every sunrise with a glad heart and the joyful certainty that the coming day would bring him some proper purpose to be in the Queen’s presence, even if only for a few moments. His life now revolved entirely around her. They both delighted in the little things they learned about each other and, at every opportunity, they made love joyously and generously. Everything was perfect, except that they dared not speak their love aloud.
Delighted that her royal mistress had found a measure of happiness at last, Guillemote did everything she could to ensure that Catherine and Owen were able to spend time together undisturbed and she guarded their precious secret as jealously as they did themselves. Guillemote had no way of knowing whether this affaire de coeur was really only a passing fancy on Catherine’s part; she was, after all, her mother’s daughter and Queen Isabeau had been well known for her amorous dalliances. But there was a new lightness in Catherine’s step, a note of laughter and gladness in her voice, and Guillemote vowed to guard that for as long as it lasted. So this new love was at the very centre of all their lives, a beautiful, fragile thing, stoutly defended from the outside world.
Now it was Catherine’s turn to keep a secret from her cousin. Jacqueline had remained very ill, confined to bed for many weeks, lying pallid and listless against the pillows, her eyes dull with sadness. Catherine almost despaired of ever seeing her once-playful cousin laugh again. Yet she did recover slowly and eventually she was able to walk a little in the garden, leaning heavily on Catherine’s arm while they talked of the future. Soon, Jacqueline said, Humphrey would have persuaded Parliament to provide financial backing for his attempts to pull an army together. Soon, she claimed, Humphrey’s troops would march on Holland to defeat those who had deceived her and soon, she added, Humphrey would have every right to call himself the Count of Holland, Zeeland, and Hainault.
Catherine said nothing but prayed that Humphrey would fail to raise the money to enable him to carry out his ill-advised, insane plans. She was also desperately anxious that Jacqueline wouldn’t overhear any gossip about her husband and Eleanor Cobham before the whole affair blew over, as it surely must. She wouldn’t have Jacqueline hurt for all the world. She had suffered enough.
By October, Humphrey, as Warden of the Cinque Ports, had managed to assemble a fleet of some forty ships and Jacqueline had taken her leave of Catherine and travelled to Dover to join her husband as he prepared to sail for Holland with a scratch army. When news of Humphrey’s intentions reached John of Bedford, he hurriedly made the crossing from France, hoping to persuade his brother to change his mind but, stubborn as well as reckless, Humphrey would have none of it.
So John of Bedford was forced to stay on in England through the turn of the year, in order to take the reins of government and to chair the Council during Humphrey’s absence. He did both with great efficiency and in an unusually calm atmosphere.
Henry Beaufort fell into step beside his nephew as they were leaving a Council meeting towards the end of April. ‘I thought this morning’s meeting went very well,’ he remarked with his hand on his hat to keep it on his head in a gusting wind. ‘Things are so much easier when you are in charge.’
John smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, my Lord Uncle,’ he said, ‘but Council members all have the same concern at heart and that is to govern the country efficiently in the name of my young nephew, the King. But yes, you’re right, things do seem to be going well at the moment.’ He sighed deeply before continuing. ‘My only regret is that my dear wife remains in France. We were forced to spend Christmas apart and I haven’t seen her for several months. I miss her very much. I hope it’s not too long before Humphrey gets back from Holland and is able to take charge of things again.’
‘We’re better off without him,’ muttered Bishop Beaufort. ‘He’s far too ready to pick a quarrel and he’s very selfish. By the way, did you know he had taken a mistress?’
‘Really?’ said John, unconcerned. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s probably no more than a dalliance. Does Jacqueline know?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. The wife is always the last to find out. I don’t know how he keeps it a secret, though. I’m told she’s one of Jacqueline’s ladies – I use the term loosely. So she’s gone to Holland with them, of course.’
‘Does the Queen know about it?’
‘I’ve no idea. But you know how women love to gossip.’
‘I told you, didn’t I,’ said John, ‘that I’m intending to spend a few days in Windsor next week? So I shall see Catherine and I look forward to that with great pleasure. At least I’ve got some good news to give her after this morning’s meeting.’
‘Yes, she’ll be pleased to hear the Council’s plans for Baynard’s Castle. I think she’s finding Windsor a bit restricting. There’s still a battalion of women surrounding young Henry and they don’t seem keen to let her near him.’
&
nbsp; John was not pleased to hear that. He felt strongly that the only way for a little child to learn about life was at his mother’s knee and Henry must be allowed to be a child before he was forced to be a king. He would talk to Catherine about it.
Bluebells nodded their pretty heads among the damp grass under the trees and the scent of wild garlic was everywhere as John and his small entourage rode towards Windsor. Pale sunshine filtered through the branches and a blackbird whistled like a Billingsgate barrow boy from a branch above their heads. John loved springtime in England, he loved the freshness of it, the smell and the sound of it, and it felt good to be riding through the English countryside on a gentle morning like this. True, there was a certain sadness in being parted from his beloved Anne but he intended to return to France as soon as he could. In the meantime, he always looked forward to seeing Catherine.
As he approached her private apartment, the door opened and he narrowly avoided colliding with a man who stepped adroitly to one side and bowed.
‘I’m sorry, Your Grace,’ he said politely. ‘Please excuse me.’
John nodded at him and smiled. Where had he seen him before? He was rather a pleasant-looking man: dark hair curling over his forehead, dark eyes, and a friendly demeanour. He must ask Catherine. He was probably one of her servants.
Seeing her, John promptly forgot to ask who the man was. She was looking well; she had lost that strained, haunted look. He was delighted by that.
‘Your Highness. Catherine, my dear, I am so pleased to see you.’ John bent to kiss her hand, savouring the familiar faint perfume of lavender. She really was a very beautiful woman, he thought. Gone were the rounded, girlish looks and in their place was a more mature beauty, exquisite skin, a fine profile, though she could never claim to be anything other than a Valois with that slightly elongated nose. But her eyes! They were lovelier than ever today. She looked … somehow … fulfilled.
‘John! I’m glad you were able to come. You’re looking well. Tell me, how is my cousin Anne? Have you heard from her?’
‘My dear wife is well, thank you, though I have been parted from her for too long. She delights me. Everything you said about her was true. She is my treasured companion. She makes me laugh!’
Catherine smiled. ‘Yes, that’s very important. Come, let’s sit and catch up with what’s been happening to us both since we last met.’ They talked, like the old friends they were, for some time before John remembered that he had some good news for her.
‘Now, tell me, Catherine, how would you like a fine home of your own, where you could be your own mistress, rather than live at court?’
Catherine was instantly on her guard. ‘Why would I want to do that? I wouldn’t go anywhere unless I could take little Henry with me. John, remember the Book of Ruth, “whither thou goest, I will go.” That’s how I feel about my son. I won’t leave Windsor while he is here.’
‘It’s not a matter of your leaving Windsor, Catherine. Not at all. Let me explain. There were several important items on this week’s Council agenda and two of them concerned you. One was that Dame Alice Boteler has been appointed governess to the King.’ Catherine made as though to interrupt. ‘No, let me finish. It’s a good appointment, really. She’s a sensible woman and will see to it that the King is taught courtesy and good manners. These are imperative for a young man to learn, especially a king.’
‘I can teach him those things.’ Catherine’s expression was mutinous.
‘Catherine, you know as well as I do that your son is public property. Everyone wants a say in his upbringing. Don’t break your heart over that. Trust Dame Alice. Believe me, she has wisdom and is infinitely preferable to several other women who might have been given the job.’
Catherine gave a sigh of resignation and John continued. ‘The other piece of news should cheer you up, Catherine. The Earl of March has died, a victim of the plague, I’m afraid.’
‘The plague? Surely not!’
‘Please, dear Lady, don’t be alarmed,’ John said, then crossed himself fervently. ‘The Earl was in Ireland so there is no risk of infection here in London.’
‘That is small comfort. And did you say that this is supposed to cheer me up?’
‘No, no, of course not. But, sadly, the Earl was a gambler and lost much of his personal fortune, so his property now reverts to the crown and the Council has decided that it will become a dower residence. As the Dowager Queen, you may live there by the grace and favour of your sovereign son if you wish, on condition that you keep the buildings and gardens in good repair. That is all that will be required of you. And it is a very elegant house,’ he added.
‘But where is it? How far from Windsor? From Westminster?’
‘Very near to Westminster. It’s on the riverbank, close by the Priory of the Black Friars. And if the court should happen to be at Windsor, and you wished to see the King, it’s no great distance by river barge. It is very convenient. It’s called Baynard’s Castle.’
‘Ah, yes, I have seen it from the river. But if I went to live there, I still think that I would miss my son unbearably. Not that I see a great deal of him as it is.’
John looked at her dejected face. He was very aware that, as a foreigner, she was still regarded by some with suspicion. There was not much he could do to change that attitude and not much comfort he could offer her. He sighed and took her hand in his.
‘My dear Lady, he is the King. He is not as other children are and he never can be. Believe me, if it was what you wanted and I could arrange it, you and he could live together happily in the country, away from the pressures of court and of Parliament. You could churn your own butter … keep a goat … Henry could have a puppy …’
‘He’d prefer a kitten.’
‘Oh, a kitten, then!’ There were limits, even to John’s patience. ‘Come Catherine, believe me, Baynard’s Castle is ideal for you. You’ll be in London, at the centre of things. It will be entirely yours. Your home. People will come there only at your invitation. And it is so very convenient. My dear, you only need go next door to choose your gowns!’
Catherine turned sharply to face him. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Baynard’s Castle is right by the Great Wardrobe. That’s where all the royal family’s most valuable possessions are stored. The ceremonial Robes of State are kept there, tapestries, furnishings, plate, some silverware and jewellery as well as furs and everyday clothes.’
‘Then it could be quite a convenient place to live.’ Catherine’s mind was racing. Here was a chance for her and Owen to spend more time together without raising suspicion. He was, after all, her Clerk of the Wardrobe and would need to visit the great royal storeroom quite often. What could be more natural? And, though Henry would remain at Windsor in the care of Elizabeth Ryman, she could still see him easily enough.
The Ryman woman was making her increasingly nervous, appearing in unexpected places, seeming to be watching her, spying on her. But she would have no business in Baynard’s Castle and no excuse to visit it, other than by Catherine’s express invitation, so there would be no possibility of her stumbling upon Catherine and Owen in a private moment. Yes, a move to Baynard’s Castle suddenly seemed to be the solution to most of Catherine’s problems.
‘D’you know, John,’ she said slowly, ‘I think Baynard’s Castle might suit me very well.’
John of Bedford sighed and shook his head. Women were such strange creatures. Stubborn as mules and quoting from the Bible one minute and then, as soon as you mentioned their gowns and fripperies, they became compliant and biddable. He would never understand them.
Catherine hadn’t planned that Henry should have a kitten, at least, not until John of Bedford had assumed he might like a puppy. But when she suggested to him that he might like a pet cat, his little face lit up with pleasure so he was allowed to choose one from a litter which one of the stable cats had produced. One of the lads who slept in the hayloft had been feeding the mother cat and said the kittens must be ab
out two months old by now, perhaps more. It had been perishing cold when they were born, anyway; he remembered that. So three of them were brought into the nursery in a hay-lined box and Henry stroked their soft heads while he decided which one he wanted as a pet.
‘This one,’ he said, gently lifting out a pretty brown tabby. ‘Look, Maman, Virgin Mary did that mark.’ Tenderly, he traced the M in the markings on the little creature’s forehead with his finger and the kitten didn’t seem to mind a bit. Catherine wondered where on earth he’d heard the story about the Virgin Mary.
Joan Astley glanced apologetically at the Queen. ‘He likes tales of the saints and the Holy Family, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘He’s always asking for them, so I told him the story about the Virgin Mary and how she blessed the cats in the manger at Bethlehem for keeping the Christ child warm.’
‘Warm little Jesus,’ said Henry solemnly, still holding the tabby kitten very gently in his arms. ‘Little Jesus cold.’
‘What will you call her?’ asked Catherine.
‘Doucette,’ said Henry.
‘That’s a good name. She is very sweet.’
‘Let’s hope she’s good mouser,’ said Owen unsentimentally when Catherine told him about the kitten later that night. ‘Cats are a lot more valuable when they’re good mousers. Worth a groat. It’s the law in Wales.’
‘You have laws about cats?’ Catherine asked in disbelief.
‘Indeed we do. Our laws were made by an old king called Hywel Dda, Howell the Good.’
‘A relative of yours?’
‘Oh, yes. Long, long ago. Many generations. But his laws still hold good. He said that a new-born kitten is worth a penny until it opens its eyes, then tuppence until it kills its first mouse then, when it’s a good, adult mouser, it’s worth a groat.’
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 22
