‘Catherine, what is it? Tell me, please tell me. I’m sure there must be something I can do to help.’
‘No, no, there isn’t,’ Catherine gasped between shuddering breaths. ‘Really, there isn’t.’
There was a tentative knock at the door and, when it opened, Guillemote’s head came around it. ‘Excuse me, my Lord Bishop,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, but I thought I heard crying. I wondered …’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Henry Beaufort crossed the room in three strides and grabbed her arm, dragging her back towards Catherine. ‘Why is your royal mistress so upset?’ he demanded, shaking her in his anxiety. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ Guillemote’s glance darted from one to the other like a frightened animal. She didn’t know what to say.
Catherine was knuckling the tears from her eyes. ‘It’s all right, Guillemote, don’t worry. Look, I need to speak to my royal uncle alone. Would you be kind enough to show the Rector and the Bishop into the library and find some refreshment for them, please. They might like a goblet of the Saint-Pourçain …
‘That would be most acceptable, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said the Rector, beaming.
Catherine smiled shakily. ‘It’s no trouble at all. And I believe there are still some honey cakes left.’ Marmaduke de Kyrkeby and William Gray followed Guillemote out of the room and Henry Beaufort turned to Catherine, all concern. ‘Now, my dear, please tell me what is troubling you.’
Catherine took a deep breath. If she told him about the baby, the secret would be out. There could be no going back. Could she trust him? Would he keep a secret? She had no idea but her instinct was to confide in him.
‘I am with child, my Lord Uncle,’ she said quietly. There was a long pause while he took in what she had said. Through the open window, she could hear the waters of the Thames slapping gently against the side of a boat and a moorhen’s rattling call in the reeds at the river’s edge echoed in the quiet room. Still Henry Beaufort didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was low and quiet.
‘You are with child?’ She nodded dumbly. ‘But your husband the King … is … dead. So who …?’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
‘Does it matter?’ She turned to look at him, pleading.
‘Yes, it does matter. Very much, I’m afraid. Is he at court?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘What do you mean by that? He’s not a commoner, is he?’
‘No, no. Not at all. He is high born. He is a noble man of ancient lineage. The blood of princes runs in his veins.’
Henry Beaufort went cold. ‘Not Humphrey of Gloucester, surely!’ He couldn’t endure the thought that his bombastic, arrogant nephew had lain with the widow of his own dead brother; sullied her, impregnated her. ‘Not Humphrey!’
‘No, not Humphrey, Uncle. Never Humphrey. Never.’
‘Thank God! Who, then? Not Edmund? Not my nephew Beaufort?’
‘No, no, not Edmund. He’s very young. I couldn’t think of him like that.’
‘Then tell me, Catherine, in God’s name, tell me. Who else has the blood of princes in his veins? Who has done you this wrong?’
She hesitated again. Getting up, she walked over to the window and looked out onto the calm waters of the Thames, thinking, trying to come to a decision. She had told him so much already that she needed to tell him everything but she must make him understand. She turned to face him.
‘It wasn’t wrong, my Lord Uncle. I went to him readily with my heart full of love. And he to me. We are deeply in love and we have been, these many months. We are both very happy and we cherish the wonderful secret of our child.’
‘Catherine, I beg of you. Please tell me, who is the father of this child?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Owen Tudor, my Lord Uncle.’ Beaufort looked at her, shaking his head, not recognising the name. ‘Who?’ he asked again.
‘Master Owen Tudor. He is my Clerk of the Wardrobe and serves me well.’
‘So it appears!’ Bishop Beaufort slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands. He remembered the name now, and recalled that Walter Hungerford had mentioned it admiringly, though he couldn’t quite remember why. After a long moment, he looked up at her. ‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘Owen Tudor is a servant.’
‘As it happens, yes, but …’
‘Queens do not lie with their servants.’
‘Perhaps not. But he’s not a common servant. His grandmother was the daughter of a Welsh prince and his is an old and honourable family, the noblest in Gwynedd. That’s in Wales,’ she added lamely.
He rose and took a few steps towards her, looking into her face. ‘And that impresses you, Your Royal Highness? A princess of the royal blood of France? You, the daughter of a king? The widow of a king? The mother of a king? That impresses you?’
‘Everything about him impresses me, my Lord Uncle. He has made me very happy. He is my best friend at court, my only friend. You see, I am denied access to my son. I’m allowed no part in his upbringing and yet I cannot bring myself to leave him and return to France. The English are very cold towards me. I am made to feel that I am not wanted here. The only time I am ever really happy is when I’m with Owen. He makes me laugh, he helps me forget my worries. He looks after me, cares for me. I would be very lonely without him.’ She looked up at Henry Beaufort, her eyes anxious and tearful. ‘But now that I am to have his child, Uncle, I’m very frightened of what will happen.’
Beaufort put his arms around his nephew’s widow then, his heart full of compassion, letting her cry quietly against his shoulder. Suddenly feeling very old, he remembered standing like this, over a quarter of a century ago, with his arms around another tearful young woman who had just told him about her pregnancy. Perhaps he should have married Alice, despite her quarrelsome family, but he’d chosen the church instead. He knew that Alice would never have loved him in the way that his own mother had loved his father.
He smiled at the sudden memory of his mother: she had been a Katherine, too, the Lady Katherine Swynford, mistress of the great John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. With no hope of ever being his wife, she had given the Duke a lifetime of devotion. Then, as a widower in old age, John of Gaunt had scandalised everyone by marrying his Katherine, and their four bastard children were declared legitimate and given the surname Beaufort. Henry himself was the second of them and his childhood memories of his parents’ devotion to each other still informed his concept of love. Perhaps, he thought, it was only the very luckiest people who experienced that kind of love once in a lifetime. He looked down at the top of Catherine’s head: she was still standing, though quieter now, within the shielding circle of his arms. Who was he to deny her the right to such a love?
Confiding in Henry Beaufort, however difficult, had been the right thing to do. He promised to return to Baynard’s Castle the next day, having persuaded Catherine not to do anything until he’d had a chance to think things over. He really didn’t see the necessity for her to travel all the way to North Wales, a dangerous and uncomfortable journey at the best of times. No, her secret could be just as well kept a lot nearer home.
‘Monmouth,’ he said as they sat around a table in Catherine’s private solar. By now they’d been joined by Owen Tudor and, despite himself, Beaufort could see what his nephew’s widow admired in the young man. He was very personable, well-spoken and intelligent, and he clearly adored Catherine. He was rather tall, too, and looked capable of taking care of her, but what pleased Beaufort most of all was that he seemed honest and trustworthy. Owen’s dark eyes and sensuous mouth impressed the Bishop not one jot but he nevertheless acknowledged that Owen Tudor was a handsome man. Women liked that sort of thing, he knew.
‘Monmouth, Your Grace? But it is not one of Her Highness’s dower properties.’
‘It isn’t. You’re quite right.’
‘Then, why …?’
‘Because it is right and proper that the King’s widow should wish to see the place where her late husband was
born,’ replied the Bishop. ‘Besides, it will keep my nephew Humphrey’s nose out of your business. If Humphrey thinks that the Queen is spending some weeks at Monmouth, he won’t question the fact. But we’ll be laying a false trail. You will both have gone somewhere else, not far away, where no one would dream of looking for you, a place where the baby can be cared for and left to be brought up in loving family surroundings when the Queen has to return to court.’
They were both looking at him questioningly, waiting. ‘And yes, Master Tudor,’ Henry Beaufort added with a twinkle, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that your baby will be born in Wales.’
Owen laughed softly. ‘Diolch i Dduw,’ he said. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘So,’ Henry Beaufort continued, pleased with his plans, ‘you’ve entrusted me with your secret, now I must tell you mine. There are several people who know what I’m about to tell you, but I’d still appreciate it if you kept the information to yourselves. The fact is that I have a daughter, just a little older than you are, Catherine. Her mother was Alice, the Earl of Arundel’s niece, and I didn’t marry her because … oh, well, it doesn’t really matter. It all happened a long time ago and much water has gone under the bridge since then. I wanted the baby named Joan, after my sister, but I understand that she prefers to be known as Jane these days. She is married to a good man, Edward Stradling, who seems to be responsible for almost everything that happens in South Wales.’
‘South Wales?’
‘You can’t have everything your own way, Master Tudor,’ said Beaufort, though his eyes were still twinkling. ‘You can’t have my nephew’s widow and a baby and a birthing place for her in North Wales, simply because that’s where you come from. Just be grateful that there’s a way out of this mess.’
‘Yes, my Lord Uncle,’ said Catherine, ‘we’re very grateful to you. It does sound like the solution to our problems, even though it is quite a long way to travel.’ Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed the older man.
‘It would have been even further to North Wales,’ grumbled the Bishop, pretending to sulk but pleased by the sensation of a young woman’s soft mouth on his cheek.
It was warm for early September and Catherine was grateful for a cooling breeze off the sea. She lay in a large, comfortable bed in an airy room overlooking the formal gardens which fell away in elegant graded terraces towards a secluded cove on the South Wales coast. For all its luxury, the castle of St Donat’s was very much a family home and she was sleeping well, entirely relaxed while she awaited the birth of her baby.
The journey to Bristol had been tiring but, by the time they reached the town, Catherine had made a subtle transition which, to all appearances, altered the nature of her relationship with Owen. Gone were the jewels, the formal gowns, and in their place, she dressed very much more simply, in the manner of a country gentlewoman. It delighted Catherine to realise that no one recognised her; she knew no one whom she met so there was no threat, no risk of anyone discovering their secret. She and Owen, relishing the heady sensation of appearing together in public for the first time, strolled around the bustling port of Bristol, enjoying the colour and the noise, exclaiming at the sights they saw, and listening to the foreign merchants blabbing away in a dozen different languages.
They walked the length of Broad Quay before they found the little ship they had been told to look for, the Rose of Lundy, lying at anchor. To the crewmen who were making her ready to sail, Owen and Catherine were simply wealthy passengers who had a few more servants than usual and needed to be ferried to the South Wales coast.
Sir Edward Stradling awaited them on board and greeted them effusively. He was a man some ten or eleven years older than Owen, tall and well-built with dark eyes and greying hair. They were to discover that he had a prodigious energy and was forever bustling about some business or other. For now, he was almost falling over himself to make them welcome and comfortable aboard the Rose of Lundy, where he appeared to be quite well known.
‘Oh, yes, I travel on this ship regularly,’ he explained, fussing with a warm blanket for Catherine’s knees. ‘She’s a good little coaster; cuts a fine feather in the Severn Sea when the winds are favourable. We’ll have you in Colhuw in no time!’
‘What brings you so frequently to Bristol?’ Owen asked.
‘Business. Last year, I was appointed High Sheriff of Somerset and Dorset and I serve as a Justice of the Peace in Somerset from time to time.’
‘Then shouldn’t you live in Bristol?’ asked Catherine.
‘Oh, no, Your Highness,’ said Sir Edward, then bit his tongue and looked around to see if anyone had heard what he’d called her. No one had. He was sworn to secrecy about her identity. ‘I’m so sorry! I forgot!’ he whispered and then went on. ‘No, I can’t live in Bristol because I am also Chamberlain of South Wales. And I need to get to Devon from time to time. I can see the Devon coast across the channel from my garden and sometimes it looks so close that I feel I could almost reach out and touch it. So you see, St Donat’s is really quite a convenient place to live, given a decent ferry which sails regularly on those routes between Wales and the west of England. Besides which, my dear wife Jane is so very happy living where we do.’
‘I look forward to meeting her,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m fond of her father. He has been very kind to me.’
‘And, indeed, to me,’ Sir Edward Stradling nodded with great enthusiasm. ‘So many appointments are within the gift of my father-in-law and he is most generous. Marrying his daughter was the best day’s work I ever did!’
Catherine was quite surprised by that, not by the fact of it but by the way it had been so readily confessed. ‘And you have a son?’ she asked.
‘Indeed. Our young Henry. He’s two years younger than your son, my Lady, His Highness the King …’ Again, his hand flew to cover his mouth as he realised he might have divulged dangerous information.
‘Please don’t worry, Sir Edward,’ Catherine smiled. ‘There’s no one listening.’
They arrived at the little port of Colhuw on the Glamorgan coast towards the end of that afternoon and Catherine was glad of a sturdy, sure-footed Welsh pony to carry her up the steep incline away from the sea. Several carts and horses awaited the party near the ancient collegiate church of St Illtyd to take them the last few miles of their journey west to the castle of St Donat’s. By the time they had been made welcome and comfortable, she was ready to sleep and sleep and sleep.
They couldn’t have been better cared for. Catherine half-opened her eyes now and looked towards where Lady Jane Stradling, the very picture of patience, sat in the window embrasure, quietly sewing while her royal guest slept. As soon as she realised that Catherine was awake she was on her feet and at the bedside, her sewing abandoned.
‘Your Highness! You’re awake!’
‘Yes, and as hungry as a hunter,’ said Catherine.
The baby was born two months later, with little trouble, in the big bed in an airy room overlooking the sea; a contented child, who appeared to be solemnly regarding the world through eyes the colour of forget-me-nots.
‘A girl!’ said her delighted father, when he was allowed into the bedchamber to see her. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Oh, Catrin, look at those tiny fingers! Aren’t they perfect? I’ve always wanted a daughter.’
‘Yes,’ said her equally delighted mother. ‘A girl. Tacinda.’
‘What? Tacinda? Is that to be her name? I rather hoped that, if we had a girl, we might call her Marged. Margaret, after my mother.’
‘No, not Margaret after your mother, nor Isabeau after mine. I’d like her to be Tacinda. I’m sorry, Owen, but I’ve quite set my heart on it. Do you really mind?’
‘No, of course not, cariad. You’re both safe and well and that’s all that matters to me. That’s much more important than what we call her. But …’ he hesitated. ‘But … Tacinda? What sort of name is that? Why have you chosen it?’
Catherine looked down at the child with forget-me-not eyes and blink
ed back sudden tears. ‘It’s the name the midwife gave Jacqueline’s daughter. And we owe that poor little baby a lot, Owen. She was the one who brought us together.’
Owen’s arms went around them then, the two most important people in his life, his beloved Catrin and their baby daughter. His heart was brimming over with love and pride but it ached at the thought that he would only ever be able to acknowledge them both in private. And if that was going to be difficult for him, how would Catrin ever forget that she had been forced to leave her precious baby in the care of strangers?
Chapter Eighteen
Winter 1425-1426
Waiting to disembark, the Duke and Duchess of Bedford stood on the deck of the Trinity Royal, their eyes screwed up against the biting wind, looking down at the flurry of dockside activity which greeted the arrival of the great ship at Dover. The gangplank, slippery as an eel, slid out of place yet again, accompanied by shouts and curses. John ground his teeth in frustration at the delay. He and Anne were both bundled up in warm, fur-lined cloaks and leather gloves but the cold still gnawed at their bones and every hour counted in their attempt to reach the Palace of Westminster before the weather closed in. Of having to be in England, John could at least look forward with pleasure to spending Christmas with his wife in convivial company and to seeing his young nephew, the King. Much to their regret, he and Anne had no children of their own.
To be honest, he would rather have stayed in France which felt more and more like home to him but, with the authority vested in him as first in line to the English throne, he’d had no option but to return in order to intervene in the ridiculous ongoing quarrel between his brother and his uncle. This visit was in response to an urgent message from Henry Beaufort in which the Bishop claimed that Humphrey was behaving erratically, in a way which threatened to endanger the life of the King. There was nothing for it but to respond to Beaufort’s request. Not knowing how long he would have to stay in England in order to settle the quarrel, John had brought his wife with him. He’d spent last Christmas without her and could not endure the thought of being parted from her again.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 25
