Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  They managed to reach Merton Abbey without any more delay and were pleased to find that Henry Beaufort had ridden out from London to meet them. But any thought of travelling further was frustrated by deep, drifting snow which had begun falling from leaden skies. A journey to Westminster to join the King and his mother would only have been undertaken by the foolhardy so, forced to remain in Merton, the three of them passed the festive season quietly together, though pleasantly enough.

  The bad weather and bitter cold persisted for several days, which gave Henry Beaufort ample opportunity to acquaint John with what had been happening over the past three or four months and Bedford was appalled by the stories of Gloucester’s rumour-mongering and aggressive behaviour. He heard how things had come to a head in a confrontation on London Bridge at the end of October when uncle and nephew, with their respective guards, had only just been kept apart by the intervention of Archbishop Chichele who managed to convince them that the young King’s interests were not best served by such an irresponsible display of bad temper by his uncle and great uncle, the two most powerful princes of the blood in England.

  ‘So you were both involved in that confrontation?’ John asked, not wanting to apportion blame until he was certain where it lay.

  ‘Indeed we were,’ said Beaufort, ‘and I confess I feel ashamed at that. But I’d had enough of Humphrey’s behaviour. He’d gone too far this time. He couldn’t be allowed to get away with what he did.’

  John raised his eyebrows. ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Well, there were several things, but the main one was that he abducted the King,’ Beaufort paused to let the seriousness of the allegation have its effect.

  ‘Abducted the King? You mean …’

  ‘He took the boy from his nursery, jammed some sort of makeshift crown on his head, then he and some of his cronies rode with the King through the streets, showing him to the people … waving at them … getting the child to wave. Humphrey is popular with Londoners. They were very ready to cheer him.’

  John was appalled. ‘What in God’s name did he think he’d achieve by doing that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. He did it to remind them that he’s the most important man in England, seen to be responsible for the King and therefore responsible for the country.’

  ‘It’s almost unbelievable.’

  ‘Not these days. Humphrey’s behaviour is unpredictable to say the least.’

  ‘And where was the King’s mother?’ John of Bedford wanted to know. ‘Where was Catherine when all this was happening?’

  ‘In the country,’ said Henry Beaufort, without offering any further explanation. ‘Though she has recently returned to court.’

  ‘Let’s call for some more logs for the fire,’ said John. ‘We have a great deal of talking to do.’

  Since the marriage of her daughter, Joan, to James of Scotland, the Duchess of Clarence had become a very great deal closer to her son, Edmund Beaufort. So she was delighted to welcome him when he arrived at Westminster some ten days before Christmas, to spend the festive season at court. She felt pleased that the somewhat gauche youth appeared to have grown up at last and become rather a dashing young man. It would be a great deal easier to find him a suitable wife, the Duchess reflected, if the girl in question also found him physically attractive.

  She watched him now as he led Queen Catherine into the dance to the opening strains of the Farandole, the pair of them a picture of elegance. She had always been fond of Catherine and nothing would have pleased her more than to welcome her as a daughter-in-law. Despite the difference in their ages, she mused, Catherine and Edmund would make an excellent match. Five years was nothing between husband and wife, even when the wife was the older of the two. She could still bear children and a marriage between the two of them would make Edmund stepfather to the King and any child of their union would be the King’s half-brother or sister. The idea had a lot to recommend it.

  Other eyes were on them, too. Humphrey of Gloucester led the chain of dancers weaving in and out of the line in which Catherine stood, opposite Edmund. Instead of linking arms as he should have done when he passed her, he slid his arm around her waist and Catherine grimaced involuntarily. Eleanor Cobham saw the clumsy grope and gritted her teeth. While Humphrey remained married to Jacqueline of Holland, Eleanor was very conscious of her vulnerable position in his life. It wouldn’t take much to make him look elsewhere and the Queen was a very beautiful woman. Moreover, she was a widow now and, if Humphrey managed to divorce his wife, well, it was not unknown for a man to marry his brother’s widow. It would certainly strengthen his claim to the throne. The chief weapon in Eleanor’s armoury would be to nail him down by conceiving his child but, try as she might, she still had no luck at all in this endeavour, despite her fervent prayers to the Virgin Mary on the one hand, and her consultations with the witch, Margery Jourdemayne, on the other.

  Duke Humphrey was in predatory mood tonight, full of festive high spirits, surrounded by attractive women and exactly where he wanted to be, at the centre of attention. At times like these he found that Eleanor could be very tiresome. Still, he reflected, she didn’t own him and she could hardly raise any kind of objection to his behaviour while he still had a wife. He didn’t often think about Jacqueline these days though he had received several letters from her, desperate pleas in which she swore she loved him more than life itself and begged him to return to Holland, to raise another army and rally to her cause.

  He couldn’t, of course, and wouldn’t. Even he was forced to admit that his manoeuvres in Holland had been far from successful. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to return to Jacqueline just at the moment. Eleanor warmed his bed perfectly acceptably, and there were other fish in the sea if he should tire of her. Of course, there were one or two who, for various reasons, were unattainable, but Humphrey loved a challenge, particularly when it came to the conquest of a haughty beauty.

  Catherine irritated him though, particularly since she was, by any yardstick, the most attractive woman at court but she had made it quite clear that she would not welcome his advances, always making a point of asking after his wife whenever they spoke. He watched her now, elegantly performing the Saltarello, seeming to enjoy dancing with Edmund Beaufort and any oaf with half a brain could see that Beaufort was entirely besotted with her. Perhaps what Humphrey had foreseen a few years ago on the occasion of the King’s first birthday party had finally happened. Perhaps, now that Beaufort had grown considerably in stature and sophistication, Catherine had begun to find him attractive. Perhaps she had already succumbed to his charms.

  If that was the case, then he must do everything in his power to prevent a marriage between the pair of them. The last thing he wanted was a series of unwanted brats at court who could claim to be half-brothers and -sisters of the King. That would weaken his own position considerably and he had to prevent it happening at all costs. The ideal situation, of course, would be to marry Catherine himself but, as long as he was married to her cousin, that was out of the question. A great pity! In the meantime, he must do something to come between the Queen and young Beaufort and nip any relationship in the bud.

  The King was sitting in his nursery, solemnly practising nodding his head and then shaking his head. And again, nodding his head and shaking his head. His uncle of Bedford had told him that he would have to do both these things when he went with his mother to the Great Hall at Leicester Castle, where he would have to sit up straight on the throne in front of a lot of very important gentlemen in Parliament and nod his head or shake his head, depending on whether his uncle of Bedford said ‘Do you agree, Your Royal Highness?’ or ‘Do you not agree, Your Royal Highness?’ He would try very hard to get it right but there wasn’t a lot of difference between ‘Do you agree?’ and ‘Do you not agree?’. Just one little word, really. He would try to remember that even though ‘not’ sounded like ‘nod’, he should really shake his head when he heard that word. And his uncle of Bedford said he
would give a little nod himself when he wanted Henry to nod, so he would have to keep watching him. It was very difficult. Sometimes his head would hurt with trying to remember very difficult things like that.

  Anxiously, Catherine watched her four-year-old son now as, with his back ramrod-straight, he perched on the edge of the great throne with an over-large crown on his head and a serious expression on his face. In front of him stood his uncle, Humphrey of Gloucester, and his great-uncle, Bishop Henry Beaufort. Between the two of them, as though to keep them apart, stood Archbishop Henry Chichele, a scroll of parchment in his hands, droning his way through an interminably long statement. Standing to one side of the group, John of Bedford made sure that he was in the King’s line of sight, in case the child should be uncertain whether to nod or shake his head.

  Bedford couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not this time. It had taken him nearly three months to arrange a venue at which he could get his brother and his uncle together so that this nonsensical situation could be resolved. If one man was available, the other was not, and he was genuinely concerned that they would do each other physical harm, so much so that he had banned the wearing of swords at this session of parliament, though he knew that some members had concealed sticks and clubs under their cloaks. Already the wags were calling it ‘The Parliament of Bats’.

  He was furious with his brother Gloucester for fabricating and spreading malicious stories which effectively accused Bishop Beaufort of treason against the crown. These accusations were being categorically denied now, in the lengthy statement being read out by Archbishop Chichele on behalf of Bishop Beaufort. The Bishop had sworn on oath that he had never plotted to assassinate King Henry V. From where he stood, John of Bedford could see Beaufort’s face, seething with fury at the injustice of the accusations and, though the whole concept was entirely ridiculous, Bedford knew that it had to be established without question as a falsehood in front of the full Parliament and, crucially, ratified by the King.

  At last, Henry Chichele reached the end of the statement and looked up. Taking his cue from the Archbishop, John of Bedford turned and moved into position in front of his nephew. He spoke very clearly.

  ‘Thus His Grace the Bishop of Winchester denies absolutely and in every regard that he did ever, at any time, plot the downfall of your royal father King Henry V or of your royal grandfather King Henry IV. He is, has always been and always will be a loyal subject and a faithful servant of the crown and of the Royal House of Lancaster. He swears this upon oath and implores Your Highness to believe what he has said. So I must ask you …’ and here John of Bedford paused and looked hard at his nephew, ‘… do you agree, Your Royal Highness?’

  Henry was nervous. He’d heard so many long words but had he heard the little word ‘not’? No, he didn’t think he had but he wasn’t really sure. He looked uncertainly at his uncle of Bedford and saw that he had raised his eyebrows and was nodding, almost imperceptibly. Yes, he was supposed to nod.

  He nodded so vigorously that the crown was almost dislodged and a low murmur of relief ran around the Great Hall from the assembled Members of the full Parliament. Now, perhaps, the foolish behaviour of these two princes of the royal blood could be brought to an end. It had been disrupting the governance of the country for far too long. But Bedford had not finished.

  ‘Then Your Highness, might I suggest that the Bishop of Winchester and the Duke of Gloucester should indicate their mutual willingness to work together for the greater glory of England under your just and benign rule by shaking hands?’ He paused. ‘Do you agree, your Royal Highness?’

  Oh, there were those long words again! The little boy was uncertain. He’d nodded last time, perhaps he was supposed to shake his head this time. He was about to do so when remembered that he must look at his uncle for guidance. Bedford’s heart skipped a beat as he raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly.

  The King nodded as vigorously as his crown would allow.

  ‘Then, my Lords,’ said Bedford, feeling as though his spine had turned to water, ‘perhaps you will do His Highness’s bidding?’

  With a condescending smirk on his face, Gloucester held out his hand and the Bishop steeled himself to shake it. The assembled Members of Parliament breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  An uneasy truce had been achieved during those long weeks in Leicester but John, though mightily relieved, had the sense to realise that there were still loose ends to be tied up.

  ‘Of course,’ he pointed out over a modest supper with Anne and Catherine that evening, ‘that’s probably the end of Uncle Henry’s political life.’ Both women looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to ask him to relinquish his Chancellorship,’ said John. ‘He didn’t like that one bit.’

  ‘Then why did you ask him to?’

  ‘Because Humphrey insisted upon it before he’d agree to the reconciliation. Everyone knew how angry he was when he found out that Uncle Henry had been made Chancellor in his absence but, of course, no one expected him back from Holland quite so quickly.’

  ‘Uncle Henry must have been very hurt.’

  ‘He was. But don’t worry,’ John smiled, ‘he went with good grace and I have a plan for him that will soften the blow considerably.’ His wife looked at him, beaming with pride. ‘I have persuaded him that having less responsibility will give him more time to undertake a pilgrimage. I know he has long wanted to follow the Camino de Santiago. I have suggested that he should travel with us when we return to France so that he can start his pilgrimage from Calais.’

  Anne of Burgundy clapped her hands, her face lighting up with pleasure. ‘Ah! Une idée excellente!’ she exclaimed. John reached out and, still smiling, grabbed hold of his wife’s wrist to curb any further excesses of enthusiasm before kissing her fingers.

  Catherine smiled, too, as she watched them, pleased by their evident affection for each other and by her own part in bringing them together. Theirs was a good marriage and the ties between their native countries were stronger because of it.

  If only she’d been able to help in some way to patch up the bitter squabbling between Beaufort and Gloucester. She worried particularly about how that quarrel affected her son, ever since she’d heard that Henry had been snatched from his nursery by his Uncle Humphrey, though she suspected that he’d simply been handed over by Elizabeth Ryman. But, she reflected, it was pointless feeling guilty about it because there was little she could have done at the time to help her son since she had been going through the agony of parting from her daughter. Poor little Tacinda. When Catherine was alone, she often crossed herself and prayed that the baby was being lovingly absorbed into the family of Jane and Edward Stradling. The whole abduction episode had convinced her that she must spend as much time as she could with Henry, the child whom she was allowed to acknowledge. It dulled the pain of being parted from the child with forget-me-not eyes.

  Seeing John of Bedford and his wife together made her realise how much she missed Owen. He had been detained in London by Sir John Norris, the newly appointed Master of the Royal Wardrobe who was insisting on reorganising the way things were done. New brooms always swept clean, Owen had said wryly when he told her that he was wanted in London while she would be in Leicester. Of course, she could have insisted that her Clerk of the Wardrobe should accompany her but there was wisdom in being apart from time to time; it did deflect suspicious interest in their relationship and, really, Guillemote could manage quite well on her own. Catherine had not seen Owen for several weeks.

  Their secret was still safe with the handful of loyal servants who’d had to be entrusted with it but she ached for Owen’s company and the opportunity to talk to him about the uncertainties that were crowding her mind. She had been dreaming, too, her old recurring worry-dreams of shouting men and galloping horses, though it was easy enough to put those down to sleeping in a lonely bed.

  Despite her delight a
t being near the King, life in Leicester was fairly dull for Catherine, though she did take great pleasure in spending time with her cousin Anne, gossiping happily in French and catching up on what had been happening since Catherine was last in France.

  She pressed for news of her brother, Charles. The Dauphin, said Anne, remained in the southern town of Bourges. She’d heard that he desperately wanted to be crowned in accordance with French royal tradition in the cathedral at Rheims but, since Philip of Burgundy and John of Bedford controlled the whole of northern France including Rheims itself, the frustrated Charles was forced to remain where he was.

  Then Anne told her that Queen Isabeau, now excessively fat, was spending more and more time at St Pol with a positive menagerie of malodorous pet animals.

  ‘Ah,’ said Catherine with a peal of laughter, ‘I’ll wager she hasn’t got a dragon! There was a very fierce one in a mummers’ play at Windsor not so long ago. I wonder if she’d like to have that. It was made of green wool and was wearing green shoes. Little Henry was very frightened. Mind you, Anne, I think that red dragons are very much more attractive than green ones.’

  She didn’t explain why she thought so.

  Humphrey, who clearly felt himself the victor in the conflict with his uncle Henry Beaufort, had resumed his chairmanship of the ruling Council which controlled the day-to-day business of the Commons. He saw this as his opportunity to safeguard his interests by introducing a bill which called for the creation of a parliamentary statute making it an offence for a dowager queen of England to re-marry without the knowledge and specific permission of the reigning sovereign. Humphrey was damned if he was going to allow the possibility that a pack of the Queen’s half-blooded brats by Edmund Beaufort would be able to threaten his own claim to the throne though, of course, he wouldn’t state that publicly as a legitimate reason for wanting to introduce the bill.