Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  To his fury, the Commons threw it out.

  This pleased John of Bedford, who really couldn’t see the necessity for such legislation. After all, the idea of the King withholding his royal permission for such a marriage was preposterous. The King was not yet five years old.

  So why, John wondered, had Humphrey deemed it necessary to introduce the bill? Did he know something about Catherine that John was unaware of? John aired his concerns to Henry Beaufort and was surprised when his uncle laughed.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that means that Humphrey is suspicious. He thinks that the Queen has her eye on a second husband and I wouldn’t be at all surprised that he’s noticed the way my nephew Edmund Beaufort looks at her! And of course, far be it from me to say so, but it could be that his feelings are reciprocated.’ Bishop Beaufort had a twinkle in his eye and couldn’t see any harm in misdirecting John’s curiosity.

  On considered reflection, John decided not to tell Catherine about what had happened in Parliament, it would only upset her and make her feel even more alienated from the English court than she already was. What she didn’t know, she wouldn’t grieve over. After all, the Commons had rejected Humphrey’s bill, so it wouldn’t make any difference to her, and if she was becoming fond of Edmund Beaufort, well, good luck to her, she deserved to find a little happiness.

  Privately, Catherine thought that Henry was far too young to be knighted but John of Bedford was of the opinion that conferring a knighthood upon him would bring the Leicester Parliament to an appropriate conclusion. Catherine wasn’t going to argue so, before they left for the closing parliamentary session in the Great Hall of the castle, she made young Henry twirl around two or three times before she was satisfied that he was perfectly presented.

  ‘But, Maman, I am the King. It doesn’t matter how I look!’

  ‘It’s precisely because you are the King that it does matter,’ she contradicted him. ‘Dame Alice Boteler wouldn’t let you go to Parliament looking like a hobbledehoy, now would she? But since Dame Alice is unwell and confined to her bed, I will make the decisions! And I think you’ll do nicely.’ Then she smiled and bent to hug her little son. He stiffened in her arms, uncertain how to react to a gesture of affection.

  That Whit Sunday morning John of Bedford duly knighted his nephew the King who, in turn and using a lightweight sword with a blunted edge, dubbed thirty other new knights. His mother watched him with pride and even his Uncle Humphrey beamed his approval.

  There was one last item on John’s agenda. As part of his solution to the current problems, he had already made an approach to Pope Martin in Rome. Once safely back in Calais with his wife and his uncle, John intended to procure for Bishop Beaufort the coveted cardinalate which had been denied him for so long. He knew that the one thing which would restore Beaufort’s good spirits and leave him with some tangible gain from this whole sorry mess would be to further his ecclesiastical ambitions. He liked to imagine his uncle’s face, beaming with pleasure beneath the broad red brim of a cardinal’s hat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  London, 1428

  His cousin was the most nervous of bridegrooms and, as he hurried up Crane Street towards the church of St Michael Paternoster Royal, Owen couldn’t for the life of him understand why Maredydd, a royal gentleman-at-arms and a soldier of many years’ distinguished service in battle, should be reduced to a quivering jelly at the thought of getting married. If only Owen had the opportunity to marry where his heart lay, he would be jubilant.

  Maredydd’s bride, Emma Maunsell, was pleased to boast of her family’s relationship to Richard Whittington, who still held pride of place in the hearts of Londoners though he had been dead these five years and was buried in this very church. Emma was from Whittington’s mother’s side of the family and had been brought up in rural Gloucestershire, an area which offered few opportunities for a woman with lofty marital ambitions, particularly a woman who was not in the first flush of youth. So, taking advantage of her excellent family connections, Emma had moved to London and lodged with the remaining members of the Whittington family in their elegant home. Here she hoped to meet the right people and make a good marriage to an aristocratic English husband. She had not yet achieved her objective when she was introduced to Maredydd by a mutual friend. As soon as she set her shrewd blue eyes on him, she came to the conclusion that she had spent far too long worrying about the wealth and position of a prospective husband rather than taking advantage of what might be her last opportunity of being made to feel like a beautiful, desirable woman. She had accepted his proposal of marriage with grateful enthusiasm.

  All heads turned in her direction as she arrived at the door of the church and gave her future husband a dazzling smile. There was tenderness in his eyes as he led her towards the altar where they took their vows, Maredydd in a strong baritone with a perceptible Welsh accent, Emma a little more quietly with her gentle West Country burr.

  By the time they came to the giving of rings Owen was grinding his teeth in frustration at the unfairness of it all. Why couldn’t he be standing there with Catherine? They had been lovers for more than three years now, they had a baby daughter, and yet they still had to keep their relationship secret. They dared not compromise Catherine’s position at court but Owen knew that having to leave Tacinda had come close to breaking her heart.

  He’d had to let Maredydd into the secret eventually and he would never forget the look of incredulity on his cousin’s face. They had been sitting together in The Swan as they had done so often in the past, though not so much these days, now that Maredydd was betrothed to Emma.

  ‘Well, I’d better get back to her,’ Maredydd had said loftily as he rose to leave. ‘You should get yourself betrothed, you know, Owen. There’s nothing like a good woman to bring out the best in a man.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Owen and then, despite himself, added: ‘I already have one.’

  ‘What?’ Maredydd paused before fastening his cloak, suddenly interested. ‘You dark horse! You’ve never told me about this! What’s her name?’

  ‘Catherine.’

  ‘Catherine? Catherine who? Do I know her?’

  Owen blushed in confusion now and reverted instinctively to his mother tongue. ‘Y Frenhines,’ he said.

  ‘Y Frenhines? The Queen? What? You … and the Queen! Oh, yes, very funny. Come on, Owen, don’t take me for a fool. How can you expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘What, you and the Queen? Don’t talk such utter rubbish …’

  ‘Mae’n wir, Maredydd. It’s true, I promise you.’

  ‘You’re … you’re, what, having an affair? That’s absurd. Edmund Beaufort is giving it to her. Everyone knows that. It’s common knowledge.’

  ‘Taw, Maredydd, paid a siarad Saesneg,’ Owen attempted to silence his cousin. ‘Don’t speak English for God’s sake, and lower your voice or everyone will hear you and nobody must know. Nobody!’’

  Maredydd saw the expression on his cousin’s face. ‘Dear God,’ he said, wonderstruck. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? I’ll say nobody must know! How long has this been going on?’

  Owen steered Maredydd roughly towards a quiet corner of the big room and pushed him down onto a bench. Maredydd was shaking his head back and forth like a man stunned by a heavy blow.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ On his way to the bar, his friend Will Simpkin stopped in his tracks at the sight of him.

  ‘Yes, thank you Will, he’s perfectly all right,’ said Owen. ‘Just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. Just a bit of … er … news. He’ll be as right as rain in a moment.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Will shrugged then moved away.

  ‘News? It’s the most amazing piece of news I’ve ever heard in my life! You and the Queen!’

  ‘Fi a’r Frenhines,’ Owen insisted. ‘Please, Mared, don’t speak English. Someone is bound to hear you and then the cat will be well and truly out of the bag.’

  ‘Some cat!’ s
aid Maredydd, as the blood slowly started returning to his face. ‘How long has this been going on? All right …’ he held up his hand to silence his cousin, ‘Ers pryd mae hyn wedi bod yn mynd ‘mlaen?’

  Relieved at having persuaded Maredydd that the subject was more discreetly discussed in Welsh, Owen answered his question by starting the story from the very beginning. He left nothing out, from the initial attraction between himself and the Queen which they had both tried so hard to suppress, right through to the flight to Wales and the birth of little Tacinda.

  ‘Tacinda? What sort of name is that?’

  ‘It’s what Catrin wanted.’

  ‘Catrin!’ Maredydd was shaking his head again. ‘I can’t believe that you even call the Queen by her first name, let alone in Welsh. And as for sharing her bed …! You do share her bed, do you? I mean, you don’t just have her up against a wall when you get the chance?’

  Owen’s nostrils flared and he suddenly wanted to smash his fist into Maredydd’s face but he controlled himself. ‘No, Mared. She’s not like that, and, yes, I do share her bed whenever I have the chance. Sadly, that’s not as often as we’d both like.’

  ‘Well, dear God, I’ve heard everything now. You know what this means, don’t you? You could lose your head if the wrong people get to know about it.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Owen. ‘I’m very aware of that. So you must promise me faithfully that you won’t tell a living soul. Not even Emma.’

  ‘No, not even Emma,’ Maredydd nodded his agreement. He changed his mind about leaving and sat quietly for the rest of that evening, subdued. Every now and then he’d look at Owen and shake his head in disbelief. He was going to take a long, long time to get used to the idea of his cousin’s royal lover.

  ‘Your Highness,’ said Guillemote, opening the door into Catherine’s room, ‘the priest with the curious name is here. He would like to see you if it is convenient.’ Catherine smiled; there were some things about which Guillemote was peculiarly stubborn, she knew the man’s name perfectly well.

  ‘Is he on his own, Guillemote?’

  ‘Yes, my Lady.’

  ‘Then show him in, please. Oh, and I suppose you had better bring him a goblet of wine. He never refuses one.’

  She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about Marmaduke de Kyrkeby that made her like him instinctively and trust him implicitly. Perhaps it was the twinkle in his eye, his readiness to listen to her opinions, or just the fact that Henry Beaufort thought so highly of him. He and Catherine, together with Bishop William Gray, had formed a close friendship over the last two years since Catherine had come to live in Baynard’s Castle. She was always pleased to see them both.

  ‘Do sit down, Rector,’ she invited him. ‘Now, tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘Your Highness, I have a letter from Bishop Beaufort, no, I’m sorry, Cardinal Beaufort. I must get used to calling him that. Thank you,’ he said as Guillemote set down a goblet on a table at his elbow. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘his cardinalate hasn’t changed him, he still writes as he always did. Very entertainingly. And on this occasion he has particularly asked me to give you his compliments. I couldn’t ignore the opportunity to come and deliver them in person!’

  ‘That was kind of you.’

  ‘It was a good excuse for me to visit you, my Lady,’ de Kyrkeby smiled, opening a leather scrip he’d been carrying and taking out a small roll of parchment. ‘By the way, as well as asking after you, he has also asked me to enquire after someone called Tacinda. A small child of your acquaintance, I believe? He seems keen to know that she is well.’

  Catherine’s heart somersaulted and she caught her breath. ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’

  ‘Of course, look, see for yourself.’ He held out Beaufort’s letter. She took it from him and looked at the Cardinal’s neat, well-formed handwriting. The name leapt out at her from the page. Tacinda. Why had he mentioned her in a letter to Marmaduke de Kyrkeby? Unless … unless … perhaps Henry Beaufort was giving her the opportunity to confide in his old friend the Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, should she wish to.

  Her eyes scanned the letter without seeing it while her mind raced. It was another of those moments when, if she spoke the truth, she would never again be able to deny it. And yet there was something about the Rector which made her want to confide in him.

  Catherine looked up. ‘She’s my daughter,’ she said.

  The Rector paused in the act of raising his goblet to his lips. ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, my daughter. Bishop Beaufort … I’m sorry, Cardinal Beaufort … seems to want me to tell you about her.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would be wise to do so, my Lady.’

  She never regretted it. She talked and talked, her words tumbling out in a jumble at first, a mixture of French and English, difficult to understand. Then she calmed down and de Kyrkeby was able to get a better picture of a lonely young woman away from home in a foreign environment where no one seemed at all interested in her welfare, falling in love with a young man who had befriended her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to him, except that she was no ordinary young woman. She was the Dowager Queen of England and she was in love with a servant. Thinking back, he realised that this must have been the cause of her distress on the occasion when he first met her. He remembered how Henry Beaufort had taken charge of the situation. He seemed to be doing so again, from a distance.

  ‘And the child is the result of your … er … friendship with Master Tudor, Ma’am?’

  ‘She is. And it has broken my heart to leave her. I think of her every minute of the day and pray for her often.’

  ‘Then with your permission, my Lady, I, too, will include the little one in my daily prayers.’

  ‘I would be so grateful if you would. You see, I’m forced to trust her welfare to others, though I take great comfort in the fact that she is in the care of Cardinal Beaufort’s daughter.’

  ‘He did well to suggest it. D’you know, I remember his daughter being born. It was something of a cross for him to bear at the time and he was mightily torn between the child’s need for a father and his own need for the holy mother church. These are not decisions lightly made, any more than your decisions have been easy. Of course, had you been able to marry the child’s father, things would have been very different for you.’

  ‘I can’t marry Owen, Rector,’ said Catherine. ‘It would cause uproar. Besides, we have only a very small oratory here at the Castle and the chaplain knows nothing about our relationship, so even if it were possible …’

  ‘Quite so. Quite so,’ the Rector nodded. ‘But would you be happier about your situation if you and Master Tudor could marry?’

  ‘Of course. It’s the one thing I want above all others. But it’s impossible.’

  ‘No, not impossible. Your late husband the King is dead and you are therefore free to marry again. You can marry whomsoever you choose and, indeed, wherever you choose. You could undertake a clandestine marriage in a barn if you wish, it’s just as binding as any. It is your commitment to each other that’s important.’

  ‘But the church is important to me, too. I wouldn’t want to be married anywhere else but it would be difficult to do that in secret.’

  ‘A clandestine marriage is for anyone who has a good enough reason not to make it public and you, my Lady, have every reason not to make it public. But that doesn’t stop you being married in church. The Church only requires that a couple should be married by a parish priest in the presence of three witnesses. And I, my Lady, am a parish priest.’

  Catherine’s eyes were shining. ‘So, are you saying, Rector, that if you were to perform the ceremony, Owen and I would be married in the eyes of the Church?’

  ‘That is exactly what I’m saying, my dear Lady, and it would give me great pleasure to arrange it. Perhaps that’s the outcome Cardinal Beaufort hoped for. No one else needs to be involved, other than your witnesses. Tell me, do you ha
ve three trustworthy friends who would be prepared to witness the ceremony?’

  ‘We have. Oh, yes, we have several very loyal friends. And nothing would make me happier than to be married to Owen in the eyes of God.’

  ‘Then you shall be, my Lady, as soon as you wish.’

  The boot was on the other foot. This time, it was Maredydd who stood to one side with the ring in his safekeeping while his cousin Owen made his marriage vows. They had assembled behind the locked doors of the little church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, a small group headed by Catherine and Owen with the Rector, Marmaduke de Kyrkeby. To one side, beaming with pleasure, stood the Bishop of London, William Gray. Behind him Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were in attendance. Having made Catherine’s new gown for the occasion, Molly Betts and Madge Wilkin were there, too, as was Maredydd’s new wife, Emma. Owen had relented at last, allowing Maredydd to let her into the secret and she had been elated at the news. It was just like marrying into the Royal Family, she said excitedly, having the Dowager Queen of England as her husband’s cousin-in-law! Emma was still keen on maintaining her excellent connections, however convoluted.

  The service was a simple one. The Rector took Catherine’s right hand and placed it in Owen’s left hand then her left hand in his right, hand-fasting them together by binding them symbolically with a narrow length of rich gold brocade. Then came the vows, and when Catherine, in her pretty Parisian accent, swore to honour him as her husband for the rest of her days, Owen looked at her in wonder, hardly able to believe his ears. Marmaduke de Kyrkeby unwound the length of gold brocade and turned to Maredydd for the ring.

  The Rector guided Owen’s hand as he first placed the ring lightly on the tip of Catherine’s thumb, saying ‘with this ring I thee wed.’

  Then over the tip of her index finger, ‘… in the name of the Father …’