‘Please, my Lady,’ he said. ‘Try not to distress yourself. I know this has come as a great shock to you.’ He turned to Joanna Troutbeck who was labouring along the path, panting with the effort. ‘Do try to persuade Her Highness to come with me,’ he said.
‘Yes, my Lady. That is a very good suggestion. Let’s all go there. Come with us.’ Catherine turned to see two bargemen helping her other ladies through the mud.
‘Oh, Troutbeck, what will I do? What if … what if Owen …? I can’t bear it.’ Meekly, with Troutbeck and the Abbot on either side of her, she allowed herself to be led back towards Chertsey House which, with its door wide open, was throwing a welcoming beam of candle light across a tiled floor and onto the path. A great babble of raised voices came from within.
Fearful of what she might find, she tried to remember what the Abbot had said. He thought most of her staff were safe? Most of her staff? Why not all her staff? What of Owen? What if he was … it didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Cariad.’
Relief flowed through her and she thought her legs might give way. She turned and there he was, close behind her, calling her by the special name that only the two of them knew, in a voice so low that no one else could hear it.
‘Owen! I thought … I thought … oh, God, I thought you were dead.’
He took a step back and made a formal little bow. ‘Thank you, your Highness, but no, I am quite safe.’ Dear God! Of course, he was still being cautious. Who knew who was watching them? Even in this life and death situation, they were still sovereign and servant. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck but she had to pretend that she was merely concerned for his safety as a member of her staff, nothing else.
‘Master Tudor, I’m … I’m so pleased that you’re safe. So pleased. And what of the other members of my staff, are they, too …?
She saw the look on his face and knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Who is dead?’ She could see that he didn’t trust himself to speak.
‘Tell me, Owen, Tell me! Who is dead?’
‘Guillemote, my Lady. I’m so sorry.’
‘Guillemote? No, don’t be absurd. She simply had a sore throat this morning and I said she should stay in bed. You are mistaken. She’s not dead. She can’t be dead.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I’m afraid she is. She is the only one … everyone else appears to be safe.’
‘No, no, you’re wrong. You must be wrong. Why do you lie to me about Guillemote?’
Owen risked being seen with his face disrespectfully close to the Queen’s. ‘Catrin, believe me, I wouldn’t lie to you about something … someone so important to you. I tell you, Guillemote died in the fire. I did my best but … but it wasn’t possible to save her. Guillemote is dead, Catrin. Guillemote is dead. You must believe me.’
‘Dead,’ she repeated, dazed but still unbelieving. ‘Dead? But why is Guillemote dead?’
‘Because she tried to retrieve something,’ he said. ‘Something … I’m sorry, my Lady … she appears to have gone back to get … to get something from your room.’
‘Oh God,’ Catherine had begun wailing. ‘Oh God, not Guillemote. Not my Guillemote! Not my darling, darling Guillemote! What will I do without her? Non! Sans elle je ne vis pas!’
She and Guillemote had known each other all their adult lives. Their relationship transcended that of a queen and her servant. They were friends, the dearest of friends. She lifted agonised eyes to Owen.
‘What did she go back for?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘In God’s name, what made her go back?’
‘This,’ he said and held out his hand. In his palm lay the little tortoiseshell box in which Catherine always kept her wedding ring.
Chapter Twenty
Summer 1429
The requiem mass was attended by all the friends who had loved the little French woman, had benefited from her advice over the years, and had occasionally felt the sharp edge of her tongue. Anton was inconsolable and wept copiously and noisily throughout the funeral. Catherine’s grief was almost unbearable. She knew she had been inclined to take Guillemote for granted and hadn’t realised what a close, devoted friend she had always been, through all the years they had known each other. After the funeral, she wrote a long letter to Queen Isabeau, asking her to break the news to Guillemote’s parents and urging her to tell them of their daughter’s bravery and unswerving loyalty to her mistress.
The fire which had killed Guillemote had completely gutted Baynard’s Castle, forcing Catherine and her small household to move back to Windsor. True, she now lived in the same building as Henry, but she was no nearer her son for that. He spent his days in the schoolroom and in the chapel, or honing his skills at archery, swordsmanship, and horsemanship. When she wished to see him she had to make a special request to the Earl of Warwick. Money for her keep was deducted from her allowance and she felt as shunned as a leper.
Apart from her cherished wedding ring, almost all Catherine’s clothes and jewellery had gone in the fire, but at least that gave her an excuse for seeing Owen under the pretence of having to discuss the replacement of items from her wardrobe. So, in private, he comforted her and told her the whole story of Guillemote’s last hours. Remembering that she hadn’t accompanied Catherine to Windsor, he had looked for her among the large group of Baynard’s Castle servants who had congregated in the churchyard in front of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, well away from the fire. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, he reasoned, if she’d been feeling ill when the fire broke out, she was trapped somewhere near where she slept. He slipped away from the group and risked going back into the Castle to look for her. He knew that she shared a dormitory with Madge and Molly not far from Catherine’s bedchamber, so he worked out the best route back into the building towards the place where he was most likely to find her, if she was still alive. Then he saw her, at the top of the service stairs. Her thin nightgown was ablaze and she was stumbling, retching and coughing in the choking atmosphere. He tore at the fabric of his sleeve and held it over his mouth, reaching out as far as he could with his other hand in an attempt to pull her towards him. Guillemote reached out, too, but their hands never met and she threw the little tortoiseshell box towards him just as the wooden staircase collapsed beneath her and she had fallen, screaming, into the flames below. There were tears in his eyes as he recalled the tragedy. He put his arms around Catherine and held her very close while she wept for her dead friend.
She could no longer bring herself to leave her ring in the tortoiseshell box when it was not on her finger. She now wore it on a long chain around her neck, tucking it between her breasts and under her gown where no one could see it. She knew it was there and that was all that mattered. Owen knew it was there, too, and took great delight in retrieving it from its hiding place when they had a chance to be alone. They had fallen back into the habit of largely ignoring each other during the day and spending as much time together as they could in the evening and at night, entrusting one or other of Les Trois Jo-jo with the responsibility of making sure they were not disturbed. The three Joannas had offered to share Guillemote’s duties between them, rather than run the risk of a new maid being unable to resist the urge to gossip about the Queen.
As time went by, more and more people had to be let into the secret of the marriage and there was the constant worry about what would happen if Humphrey should ever find out about it but, after his outburst in Windsor on the day of the King’s seventh birthday, Humphrey had tended to avoid Catherine as far as he could. For the moment, the smoke-screen story of Edmund Beaufort was still working well enough since, nowadays, Edmund spent a great deal of his time in France where he was not called upon to confirm or deny his relationship with the Dowager Queen.
A kind of numbness had settled over Catherine since losing Guillemote and she seemed disinclined to make plans of any kind. She lived for the evenings when she could be with Owen, to tell him about her day, to dream with him
about the future, and to make love in the big four-poster bed.
As creamy white blossom began to hang heavy on the hawthorn in late spring, she knew with certainty that she was pregnant again. The knowledge came as no great surprise to her though, she reflected, she had only herself to blame. If she had been capable of resisting Owen it would never have happened but her body responded to him in a way which seemed entirely outside her control. He had only to look at her in a certain way and she was beyond salvation.
But another baby posed a problem. She wasn’t entirely sure when it would arrive – Guillemote had always been so good at making these calculations – but she was fairly sure that it would be during early November. That meant going into hiding again but at least she would have a reasonable chance of regaining her figure before having to appear in court for the Christmas festivities. Perhaps she was wrong to be too worried.
‘So which of your dower properties would you like to visit this year, my Lady?’ asked Owen with a broad grin when she told him. It didn’t seem so much of a crisis this time, not for either of them. They had managed to maintain a cloak of absolute secrecy over Tacinda’s birth and, if they were very careful, there was no reason to suppose that this birth would be any different.
‘Owen, I really don’t mind. As long as it’s a healthy baby which will be born safely and as long as I don’t suffer pain like poor Jacqueline did. But I must keep this child, Owen, somehow. I must. I’ve had two babies, Henry and our little Tacinda, and I haven’t been able to keep either of them.’
‘But we had no option but to keep Tacinda’s birth a secret, Catrin. We had to.’
‘Yes, of course we did, and God knows when I’ll ever see her again. But I never see Henry either. He might as well have been stolen from me and given to the gypsies. They’ve used me, Owen. They’ve used me to provide an heir for the English throne, like some sort of brood mare. That’s all I’m good for. But I’m not giving up another baby. This time, I must have the pleasure of watching my child grow up to look like his father.’
‘And so you shall, cariad,’ Owen smiled, hugging her close to him. ‘We’ll find a way. And if we have another little girl, I hope she grows up to look exactly like her mother!’
They decided on Hertford Castle. Catherine’s preference would have been Wallingford but the King and his entourage would be spending the summer there and Catherine didn’t want to be anywhere near the court as her pregnancy progressed. The gimlet-eyed Eleanor Cobham wouldn’t miss a thing.
So most of the crates and coffers for the royal family’s summer progress were sent to Wallingford with the King but several were held back to await Catherine’s departure to Hertford. Humphrey was still keeping his distance from her so no one questioned her decision to spend the summer away from court. No one seemed to care where she went, so she didn’t expect to be disturbed or called to account. She looked forward to long summer days with Owen and their small, loyal group of servants.
Before she left Windsor, Catherine received a disquieting letter from her mother in answer to her own letter informing Queen Isabeau of Guillemote’s death. The letter began with a few platitudes rather than genuine sympathy, since the Queen had never really understood her daughter’s fondness for the girl who was, after all, no more than a servant.
Suddenly Catherine sat bolt upright and called to Owen. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘to what my royal mother writes from France.’ She smoothed out the parchment on the table and tried to translate from the French as she went along.
‘Maman writes that my brother Charles is at Chinon with his entourage and is being pestered by a mad peasant girl who says that she has a divine mission to save France from the English invader and to put the Dauphin on his rightful throne! A girl! And a peasant girl at that!’
‘Really? And what makes her think she can do it?’
‘She says she is being commanded by God, through the saints. According to Maman, she claims that St Michael speaks to her regularly and he is often accompanied by St Margaret and St Catherine.’
‘Quite a crowd,’ observed Owen mildly. ‘And what do all these saints want her to do?’
‘Apparently, they want her to lead Charles and his army into battle against the English.’
‘A girl, eh? At the head of an army. And what does your brother make of it?’
‘Maman says that he has arranged for her to be examined by a committee of bishops and doctors, to determine whether she’s a genuine heretic or just a crazy girl.’
‘Or a visionary,’ said Owen. ‘You never know.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, my sweet,’ said Catherine. ‘She’s probably mad. Then again, if Charles is crowned King of France, it puts a completely different complexion on things, doesn’t it? What happens to Henry? And where should my loyalties lie? With my son or with my brother?’
She didn’t want to think about it. Well, not until after the baby was born.
Owen left for Hertford a day or two in advance of Catherine, to ensure that the household was running smoothly by the time she arrived. Had Catherine left at the same time, she would have missed Cardinal Beaufort altogether.
‘My Lord Uncle,’ she greeted him warmly when he was shown in to see her. ‘This is indeed a pleasure. I had thought you were in Scotland.’
‘I was. But my homeward journey didn’t take as long as expected,’ said Henry Beaufort, holding both her hands in his and smiling broadly at her. ‘Which pleases me greatly, my Lady, since it affords me the opportunity of seeing you. How are you? And how is that husband of yours?’
‘My dear husband,’ she said, savouring the word which she wasn’t often able to use, ‘is well. And I have you to thank that I have a husband at all!’
‘I was glad to help. You know, we really should think of offering him rights of denizenship. For services to the Royal Family.’
‘Would you do that? He would be very pleased.’
‘Indeed, I shall personally endorse it. Life would be a great deal easier for Master Tudor if he wasn’t a Welshman. He has absolutely no rights at all under English law and it has to be said that he has rendered excellent service to the Royal Family. He has even helped to increase their number!’ The Cardinal gave her a mischievous look, his eyes twinkling. ‘And who knows,’ he added, ‘he could increase that number yet again, so it is as well you are married!’
She smiled, feeling both embarrassed and reluctant to burden him with the disclosure of another pregnancy. After all, he was a man with issues of national importance to concern him.
‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that my old friend Marmaduke de Kyrkeby was more than pleased to help you both in the matter of your marriage.’
‘He was, and Owen and I were very glad of it, though keeping it a secret is a constant challenge.’
‘Gloucester doesn’t know, does he?’
Catherine frowned. ‘No, Humphrey knows nothing about us and those who share our secret are very discreet though, of course, we all have to try to stay one step ahead of him. But, largely thanks to you my Lord Uncle, Owen and I are very happy. Tell me, have you any other good ideas up your sleeve?’
‘No, sadly. No good ideas but several concerns, I’m afraid.’
‘Concerns?’
‘Catherine, it would be less than honest of me not to tell you that things are really bad in France at the moment. And there is something I need to discuss with you. Come, let us sit down.’
They sat together at a table near the window. Henry Beaufort leaned forward on his elbows and made a steeple of his fingers. ‘My dear, my concerns are about the King,’ he said. Catherine waited for him to go on, watching his face. ‘It’s high time he was crowned King of France.’
‘But he hasn’t yet been crowned King of England. Shouldn’t that come first?’
‘Yes, of course it should. But there are very worrying things happening in France and we need to stamp our English authority on the people as soon as we can. Your brother Charles is being influenced by a youn
g woman they call La Pucelle, the Maid.’
‘Ah! So, Maman was right! She wrote to me and told me that this girl wants to lead Charles’ armies against the English. But, surely, that can’t be true! She’s probably a clever little strumpet, a camp follower who craves the company of soldiers.’
‘Whatever she is, she has found a way of influencing your brother. She’s given him a sign that she knows the secrets of his innermost soul and he believes her. She claims to hear voices that tell her what to do. They say the Dauphin offered her a sword but her voices told her not to accept it, that instead she should look behind the altar in the chapel of St Catherine de Fierbois where she would find the sword she was to use.’
‘And …?’
‘And there was a sword there. No one had ever seen it before. It was exactly where her voices told her it would be. Now the people are starting to believe that she will yet see your brother crowned King of France. And, what is worse, they are quoting a popular prophecy saying that France has been lost by an old woman but will be recovered by a young girl. It is a prophecy which is, apparently, widely believed.’
‘And when they say ‘an old woman’ … do they mean …?’
‘Your mother, the Queen. After all, it was Isabeau who worked so hard to bring about the Treaty of Troyes. So, yes, I’m afraid they do mean Queen Isabeau. And the young girl they talk of is Joan.’
‘Joan?’
‘La Pucelle. Joan of Arc.’
When Catherine arrived at Hertford a few days later, she could hardly wait to tell Owen that he was to be granted rights of denizenship. He received the news in silence.
‘But, aren’t you pleased, Owen?’ she asked, puzzled.
Owen sighed. ‘Yes, of course I’m pleased,’ he said as he took her arm and led her towards a cushioned seat in the window embrasure. ‘Just think, now that I have the same rights as an Englishman, I could marry an English woman if I wanted to.’
‘But you are married to me!’ Catherine was indignant.
Owen put his arms around her and held her close. ‘Yes, cariad, and you are the only wife I will ever want,’ he assured her. ‘But just think, your devoted husband will now be allowed to enter an English town on the Welsh border on any day of the week, not just on market day. And if that border town is Chester, I won’t have my head cut off if I’m still there after sunset!’
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 29
