Almost unawares, she had started thinking of Henry as her firstborn because she was also sure by now that he would have a brother or a sister within the next six months. When she was at this stage in her first pregnancy, it had been a cause for great celebration, she was carrying the King’s child, the much-wanted, long-awaited heir to the thrones of England and France. She had fulfilled the wishes of her royal husband and everyone rejoiced. She was the means by which the great Lancastrian line of kings would continue.
But things were very different this time and one thing was clear: she had no idea how she was going to keep it a secret but nobody at court must ever know about this baby. She was still the Queen, the Dowager Queen, the mother of the King, and yet, like any common kitchen wench, she had been got with child by a servant.
Chapter Seventeen
Summer 1425
Though Catherine had always felt relaxed and comfortable at Windsor, by now she was glad to be away from there because by every action, every instruction he issued, Humphrey made it abundantly clear that she was no longer a person of any importance in her son’s life. He had established himself as the authority to whom everyone should defer; his decisions were final. The King’s mother was of no consequence and John of Bedford was still in France so Humphrey was the King’s sole guardian, the Duke Protector. There would be no argument.
Wary of almost everyone around her these days, Catherine couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that Elizabeth Ryman was spying on her and reporting back to the Duke, so she was pleased to think that she would see a great deal less of her in future.
It also pleased her that she need have nothing more to do with Eleanor Cobham, the woman who had usurped Jacqueline’s place at Humphrey’s side. Catherine had taken a deep dislike to her and found it difficult to decide whether that was simply because of what had happened to Jacqueline or because there was something in Eleanor’s dark, haughty face that defied anyone to question her position in the Duke’s life. He was rarely seen these days without Eleanor somewhere near him, hanging on his every word, an expression of adulation in her calculating eyes. She was, beyond question, a beautiful woman, but it was the kind of chiselled beauty which had a hard edge to it. More than once, she had tried to claim friendship with Catherine, calling her ‘my dear’, as though they were on intimate terms. It took all Catherine’s self-control not to claw the woman’s face.
So she was pleased to be in charge of her own small household and she enjoyed the responsibility of making decisions in the day-to-day running of Baynard’s Castle. Guillemote was with her, of course, as were Les Trois Jo-jo and her domestic staff. She’d had to leave Anton behind in the King’s service, though he did promise to keep her supplied with her favourite cakes and biscuits. She remembered how his culinary genius had been thwarted during the visit to York, four years ago, when news came of the Duke of Clarence’s death. She had wanted to celebrate her pregnancy then, something she certainly couldn’t do now. The circumstances were very different. This time, she dared not arouse suspicion.
Owen’s joy that Catherine was to bear his child was overwhelming but knowing what her pregnancy could mean to them both if it became public knowledge engulfed him in horror. Woe betide them if Gloucester should ever find out. He’d find a reason to pack Catherine off to a nunnery at the very least and Owen himself would probably lose his head.
They locked themselves into Catherine’s bedchamber, telling Guillemote that they must not be disturbed under any circumstances. Guillemote, having heard Catherine vomiting in the latrine twice since Sunday, had a shrewd idea why.
‘We can’t stay in London, Catrin,’ said Owen. ‘We must get as far away from court as we possibly can.’
‘But I like Baynard’s Castle, I feel safe here now that we’ve settled in. And it’s only a short river journey to Windsor if I should wish to see Henry …’
‘Cariad, look at me,’ Owen took both her hands and pressed them together, covering them with his own. Then he kissed the tips of her fingers, his face very close to hers. Raising his eyebrows, he gave her a quizzical smile. ‘Catrin, your pregnancy is the logical conclusion of what you and I have been doing to pleasure each other, isn’t it?’ She dropped her gaze and nodded, smiling despite her anxiety. ‘And the logical conclusion of your pregnancy is that you will give birth to a child. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you can’t do that here in London, can you?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. You cannot take the smallest risk that someone will guess that you’re pregnant. Imagine what Humphrey of Gloucester would do if he found out! So I think it’s high time you visited some of your dower properties in Wales, don’t you?’
‘Wales? But it is such a long way away from here!’
‘Exactly. So, let’s make some plans.’
It was a pleasant day, sunny with a light breeze off the Thames, so, with very few pressing duties to attend to, Henry Beaufort took a small mounted guard of half a dozen men with him as he set out to conduct some private business north of the river. During the morning he called on his vintner and they spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour together while the Bishop tasted a number of newly imported wines. Having made his choices, Henry placed his order and concluded his business. Then he took his leave and, climbing the mounting block outside the vintner’s premises, thought it odd that the man closed the door behind him rather more quickly than was polite. It was only then that he became aware of a gaggle of wharf men gathering outside the tavern at the sign of The Crane and they were inching threateningly towards him. He was on his horse in an instant and his guards quickly took up their positions around him.
‘Oi, Bishop! Over ‘ere!’ Despite himself, Henry looked towards the group of wharf men. There appeared to be about twenty of them, armed with long staves of wood which they began to bang rhythmically on the ground as they moved to form a semicircle, getting closer. The tall man who was shouting with his hands cupped around his mouth was clearly the ring-leader.
The captain of the guard manoeuvred his horse into a more defensive position near the Bishop’s black stallion. ‘Leave them to us, my Lord Bishop,’ he said, ‘we’ll soon see them off.’
Henry held up his hand to silence the man, though his heart was thudding with fear. ‘No, let’s hear what they have to say. I need to know what’s going on.’
‘You don’t scare us, Bishop!’ shouted the ringleader. ‘You nor your guards neither. And you’ll never get us to work with them foreign bastards. They’ve got to go. English workers need the jobs.’
‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!’ chorused the group, beating the rhythm of their chant on the ground with their staves. ‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Henry. ‘Wait! Listen to me! I understand your concerns but I assure you that restrictions have been placed on the movements of foreign merchants and those in their employment. The Council has passed the legislation.’
‘Yeah, but it hasn’t stopped them, has it? It’s all your fault, you two-faced cheat. You say one thing to them and another thing to us. We should have listened to the Duke. He was right.’
‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!’ The mindless chant continued among those at the back of the group who couldn’t quite hear what was going on at the front.
‘Are you a man of God, Bishop?’ asked the ringleader, mocking.
‘Of course!’
‘So if we threw you in the dock you’d float, wouldn’t you? Your angel wings would ‘elp you to swim. Come on, lads! Let’s shove ‘im in the dock. ‘E won’t drown. God is on ‘is side!’
Henry was terrified now as one of the wharfmen ducked suddenly forward and grabbed his horse’s bridle. The agitated animal started neighing with fear, jerking its head away from the assailant, spittle gathering in the corners of its mouth. The guards flailed from left to right with their short swords and when the captain drew blood the crowd fell back a few paces before one of the thugs turned his
long wooden stave and prodded Henry’s horse in the rump with the sharpened end. The black stallion reared up, pawing the air in terror and nearly unseating Henry who clung on to its mane, trying to force its head down. The crowd scattered and the horse, seeing a gap between them, darted forward.
Henry was still clinging on as the frightened animal, given its head, cantered past the Vintners’ Hall, through the Vintry, and on to Three Cranes Lane, sending startled street traders running for cover and scattering cabbages and parsnips in its wake. Riding furiously at the gallop, one of Henry’s guards managed to overtake him and grabbed the loose bridle, heading off the horse until it was forced to stop, rolling its eyes and side-stepping fretfully. Henry slid out of the saddle, trying to hide the uncontrollable trembling in his legs.
‘My Lord Bishop,’ said the Captain, riding up alongside, ‘are you hurt?’
Henry, temporarily winded, shook his head.
‘The church of St Michael Queenhithe is no great distance, my Lord. Perhaps you could rest there for a while. You must be feeling badly shaken.’
‘No … thank you … no,’ Henry panted, bent double as he tried to catch his breath. He had heard that the new incumbent at St Michael’s was a skinny, sanctimonious prig who kept an empty cellar and Henry was badly in need of a drink. No, he would bypass St Michael’s.
‘St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe is almost as near,’ he said to the captain as he straightened up, his breathing rather less painful now. ‘I know the Rector there. He’s a good man. He’ll give me a glass of decently strong mead, at least.’
The Reverend Marmaduke de Kyrkeby was already entertaining a guest when Bishop Beaufort was shown into the room. ‘Ah,’ said Beaufort as they rose to greet him, ‘de Kyrkeby and Gray. I couldn’t have asked for more! I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. Both of you. Let me sit down. I need a drink. I’ve just had the most distressing experience.’ He sat, heavily, and the other two clerics started fussing around, finding a goblet and filling it.
‘There, my Lord Bishop,’ said Marmaduke de Kyrkeby, handing him a generous measure, ‘that will steady your nerves and calm you down. Now, tell William and me exactly what happened.’
The Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe was an inch or two shorter than Bishop Beaufort. His greying hair was thinning on top of his head but still grew in a profusion of curls where his plump neck showed above his collar. William Gray, the newly nominated Bishop of London, might have been his twin brother, with the same receding hairline and was comfortably full in his skin. The three men had always been relaxed and easy together, contemporaries who had struck up a friendship on meeting for the first time in Oxford as undergraduates and had remained friends ever since their student days. Beaufort’s royal blood had ensured his rapid rise through minor orders to an early prebendary at Lincoln, quickly followed by the deanery of Wells. William Gray, too, had pursued a successful career in the Church, culminating in his recent nomination as Bishop of London. On the other hand, de Kyrkeby, never an ambitious man, had remained in relatively minor orders throughout his career, settling happily at St Andrew’s, where he had served as Rector for many years. It was a fairly wealthy parish and provided sufficient income for his modest needs. His only temptation was a glass of good wine and he gave in to that fairly frequently on the grounds that, since it was his only vice, it was hardly likely to cause The Almighty much offence.
‘A most excellent vintage, my old friend,’ Beaufort said, reaching out to accept a second glass. ‘Tell me, Marmaduke, what do you know of your charming new neighbour at Baynard’s Castle?’
The Rector’s eyes twinkled. ‘Her Grace, the lovely Queen Catherine? William and I were just talking about her. I know very little, I fear. I should have called upon her before now to pay my respects and bid her welcome to this lovely part of London. How very remiss of me!’
‘I have never had the pleasure of meeting her,’ said Bishop William Gray, ‘but I’m told she is delightful and very easy on the eye.’
‘She is,’ agreed Henry Beaufort. ‘I’m pleased to say that I have come to know her quite well. Indeed, I’m delighted to say that though I am merely her uncle by marriage, she has the grace to call me by that name. And she is, I assure you, as charming as everyone says she is. Would you like to meet her?’
‘Very much!’
‘Let’s go now, then,’ said Beaufort, impetuously. ‘Baynard’s Castle is such a very short walk from here. Leave your wine, both of you. It’s a decent vintage, so it won’t hurt it to mature for another hour or so.’
Beaufort had recovered now, after his frightening experience in the Vintry, though there was still a worm of worry at the back of his mind. That thug had said something about listening to ‘the Duke’. He can only have meant Humphrey of Gloucester. The debonair, handsome Humphrey was popular with Londoners and Beaufort had been warned that he was stirring up trouble.
Guillemote was busy folding some of Catherine’s gowns and putting them carefully into coffers. She was frowning, deeply troubled by recent developments. Catherine and Owen had taken her into their confidence and told her of the coming baby. They would go to Wales, they said, where Owen had friends. But Guillemote wasn’t at all sure where that was, nor was she sure what clothes the Queen would need when she got there.
Owen had already made lists of what needed to be packed in the way of jewellery and tableware. Now it was Guillemote’s turn to pack her mistress’s gowns, undergarments, and shoes, just as she would have done for any journey to any one of the crown’s residences outside London. Except that there wasn’t a lot of point in packing too many of Catherine’s gowns, well, not the ones that couldn’t be let out as her waistline spread. Perhaps the seamstress, Molly Betts, would have to be let into the secret.
Catherine was with Owen in her private solar, his arm across the back of her chair, her head on his shoulder as they discussed their problem for the hundredth time. Owen was deeply worried about arranging the journey to Wales, though he hadn’t said so. Perhaps Ludlow would be a better place. But, wherever they went, they’d have to leave soon. Catherine, twitchy as a cat, nearly leapt out of her seat when there was a quiet knock at the door.
‘Just a moment,’ she called, patting her hair into place.
‘Your Highness, you have visitors,’ said the castellan as Catherine opened the door a crack, screening Owen from possible prying eyes. ‘His Grace the Bishop of Winchester is here with two of his colleagues and has asked if they can see you. That is if it’s convenient.’
‘Bishop Beaufort! Yes, yes, of course. Tell His Grace that I will join them shortly.’
‘Very well, Ma’am.’
Waiting in the Great Hall with the Reverend Marmaduke de Kyrkeby and Bishop William Gray, Henry Beaufort had noticed the coffers and boxes stacked against the wall.
‘Is someone on the move?’ he asked when the castellan returned. ‘Can’t be the Queen moving out, she’s only just moved in.’
‘I understand that Her Highness intends visiting some of her dower properties, my Lord Bishop,’ said the castellan, as he showed them into a large, comfortable room overlooking the river. ‘Those coffers will be loaded in preparation for her journey when we have more details of her itinerary and a date for her departure.’
Henry Beaufort frowned. There was too much going on these days that he didn’t know about. He certainly hadn’t heard about Catherine’s plans to visit her dower properties, though he did remember Walter Hungerford telling him some time ago at a meeting of the Council that she had expressed a desire to do so. He wondered where she was intending to go. Wallingford, perhaps? Hertford again? Leicester?
‘Wales,’ she answered firmly when he asked her a little later.
‘Wales?’
Marmaduke de Kyrkeby put his hand over his mouth to hide a smile when he saw his old friend Henry Beaufort’s face. He looked astounded.
‘Yes, Wales, my Lord Uncle. I have two dower properties there, one on the Isle of Anglesey and one in so
mewhere called Flintshire.’
‘Yes, of course. I was aware of that. But nobody has ever actually visited them. They’re in North Wales, after all.’
‘Then there’s all the more reason to go there,’ said Catherine. She looked at her late husband’s uncle, then across at his two friends sitting side by side, the Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe and the Bishop of London. She had been pleased to meet them both and delighted that Henry Beaufort had made the spontaneous gesture of bringing them to see her. He had always been kind. Catching her eye, he gave her a quizzical glance.
‘Why have you decided to do this now, my dear?’ he asked gently.
‘It’s … well … it’s as good a time as any, my Lord Uncle. You know, travelling is always more pleasant in the summer months. I shall return before the winter sets in, certainly in time for Christmas.’
‘But you don’t have to go there at all. You could visit your other dower lands nearer home. You wouldn’t be so far away from your son.’ He was testing the water, probing her decision to journey such a distance with no obvious necessity to do so. There was something here that was not quite right. There had to be an explanation for this apparently sudden decision, this reckless scheme.
‘Now tell me, my dear, the real reason why you’re doing this.’
Catherine broke down. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She sobbed for the unknown fate which awaited her and her unborn child. She sobbed that in her nightmares there were men shouting and horses going too fast as they carted Owen from Newgate to Tyburn, where he would pay the ultimate price of his love for her. The tears had been stopped up for too long, now they flowed like a stream.
At first, none of the clerical gentlemen knew what to do. They looked at one another helplessly and questioningly over Catherine’s bowed head while her shoulders shook. Tentatively, Bishop Beaufort reached forward to put a comforting hand on her arm but she pulled back as though he’d burned her with a hot poker.
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