Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

  Catherine’s eyes were widening as Owen smiled wryly and shook his head. ‘Yes, it’s true, Catrin. The English have made some sickening laws for dealing with the Welsh, particularly in the marcher towns. But I will have as many rights as an Englishman now and, yes of course, I’m pleased about that. It’s just that they’re so damned high-handed about these things, so condescending. I wonder what Ednyfed Fychan would have said about their so-called generosity … or my grandfather, Tudur ap Goronwy. I am a descendant of princes, after all.’

  ‘Ah, but Welsh princes,’ said Catherine. ‘That doesn’t impress the English.’

  ‘Well, it should,’ said Owen, ‘they were all great men. But let’s forget that now. The most important thing is that you are here with me and we’re together again. So tell me, what else did Cardinal Beaufort have to say for himself?’

  He listened to her tirade about La Pucelle with his head on one side and a quizzical look on his face. He didn’t appear to feel any particular indignation about the girl. That, too, surprised her.

  ‘But she is a charlatan, Owen, she must be!’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘She says she hears voices, she communes with the saints, she … she wears a man’s clothes!’

  ‘You can’t lead soldiers into battle wearing a gown,’ said Owen mildly.

  ‘Yes, but Owen, she says that she will save Orléans and that she will see Charles crowned in the cathedral at Rheims. She claims to be able to foretell the future.’

  ‘There are those who can. Don’t question it. They are able to interpret things which are beyond our understanding. Perhaps there’s no more than that to this little French girl.’

  ‘Little French girl? Owen, she’s a monster!’

  ‘Cariad, let’s wait and see what happens. Until you’ve had this baby there is absolutely nothing we can do about it anyway. So let’s wait and see.’

  ‘The baby isn’t due until November,’ said Catherine. ‘Anything can happen between now and then.’

  They lived quietly in Hertford throughout that summer like country gentlefolk, their days following a pleasing, undemanding pattern. They took every opportunity to be together, being looked after by Les Trois Jo-jo and a small domestic staff who were more like family members than servants. Catherine sat in the shade and grew plump as a partridge while Owen tried his best to keep the bad news from France away from her. From time to time, a horseman would arrive with a message for Her Majesty and Owen always felt a little apprehensive as he broke the seal. He didn’t often worry Catherine with the contents of the message but this time it was different.

  It was particularly hot, even for August, and Catherine was lying on their bed clad only in her shift when Owen brought her a letter from Cardinal Beaufort. He couldn’t keep this one from her, the news was much too important. She lay there, trying to cool her face with a fan while Owen read aloud to her, his anxiety increasing with every word.

  Your Royal Highness, my dear niece,

  I write in haste on the eve of my departure for France, a visit made necessary by the continuing success of ‘La Pucelle’ in battle. By now she has raised the English siege on the town of Orléans and her campaign upon the Loire has culminated in a series of successes, most notably a great victory at Patay where her forces defeated our English army under Sir John Fastolf.

  I have to inform you that she then saw your brother Charles crowned in the cathedral at Rheims in July …

  ‘What? What?’ Catherine sat bolt upright. ‘Owen, read that again … He can’t be saying that Charles has been crowned King of France!’

  ‘He is saying exactly that,’ Owen said grimly and started reading again. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes …’

  … she then saw your brother Charles crowned in the cathedral at Rheims in July and the people of France rejoice in this as the fulfilment of the ancient prophecy which I spoke of when we last met. Of course, under the terms of the Treaty of Troyes, your brother the Dauphin has no claim to the throne of France so it is now imperative that your son, by the grace of God His Highness King Henry of England, should take his rightful place upon the French throne at the earliest opportunity. This must be preceded by his English coronation and preparations are already in hand for this, though no date has yet been set. However, I entreat you to hold yourself in readiness for it. I earnestly look forward to your company in the abbey church at Westminster on what will be, I’m sure, a very great occasion in the sight of God.

  Catherine listened, aghast, as Owen finished reading the letter. Her mind was racing. Her brother Charles had been crowned King of France, effectively usurping her own son.

  ‘This puts you in a very difficult position, Catrin,’ Owen said, frowning.

  ‘Difficult? Impossible! Should I go back to France as the King’s sister? Or stay here as the King’s mother? Owen? Owen, for God’s sake, what am I to do?’

  ‘You can do nothing for the moment, cariad. You are six months pregnant and you’re not going anywhere. Certainly not until after the baby is born. Do you want to endanger your health? Do you want the world to know about us?’

  Catherine slumped back onto the bed. She had thought herself quite safe here in Hertford Castle, relaxed in the knowledge that her baby would be born before November and that everything would be back to normal by Christmas. But now she would be expected to return to court in time for the coronation so her world was torn apart by doubt and uncertainty. Now she demanded to see every message that arrived, frantic to know when the coronation would take place.

  Towards the end of September, the expected message was delivered. She was summoned to attend the coronation of her son, King Henry VI of England. It was to take place in the abbey church at Westminster on St Leonard’s Day, Sunday the sixth of November.

  Owen was desperately worried. The services of a midwife had been engaged and Catherine should have commenced her period of lying-in before the birth but, tense as a bow string, she would not take to her bed. She spent her time writing letters, including one to the King, pleading ill-health but telling him that he could rely on his mother to attend his coronation unless her illness worsened. She was deliberately vague about the nature of that illness. Then there were letters to Cardinal Beaufort, the Duke of Gloucester, and the Earl of Warwick to assure them that she would do her best to be present in Westminster on the sixth of November, if her physician would allow it.

  She was on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, she needed a reason for her possible absence from the coronation if, indeed, she was unable to attend it. On the other hand, she didn’t want it to look as though she was making excuses for her inability to attend, in case that was seen as loyalty to her brother and the throne of France.

  However much she wanted to be in London, Catherine knew that there was nowhere safe to stay. Windsor Castle and the Palace of Westminster were denied her in her advanced stage of pregnancy. Owen suggested that they should travel as far as St Albans, just a day’s journey from London, where they could stay until the child was born and Catherine was well enough to travel. The Benedictine monks at the monastery were skilled in the use of herbs if there were any problems and there were plenty of inns in the town, a popular destination for pilgrims. If they, too, were to dress as pilgrims, they could travel incognito.

  Catherine leaped at the idea of wearing a disguise but she wanted to avoid St Albans at all costs, knowing that the powerful Abbot Whethamstede was a close friend of Humphrey’s. They couldn’t take that risk. She wanted to get as near Westminster as possible so that if the baby still hadn’t arrived by St Leonard’s Day then, in their pilgrim disguises, they would be able to lose themselves among the crowds and catch a glimpse of Henry as he passed on his way to the abbey for his coronation. She would at least be able to see her son, even if he was unaware of her presence.

  It all began as something of an adventure. Dressed as inconspicuously as possible, Catherine and Owen left Hertford Castle with just four guards, the midwife, Margery
Wagstaff, and Les Trois Jo-jo. Their plan was that the little cavalcade would split into three groups as they neared London, one going to Windsor where Joanna Courcy was to say that the Queen had journeyed to Westminster and the other going directly to Westminster where Joanna Belknap was to say that the Queen was too ill to attend the coronation and had travelled to Windsor. Only Joanna Troutbeck and the midwife, Margery Wagstaff would remain with Catherine and Owen. They were taking a tremendous risk.

  Their few belongings were loaded onto a cart and the Queen travelled in a curtained, horse-drawn litter while those attending her were on horseback. Everything went according to plan. With the town walls of London in sight, the procession slowed to a halt and Catherine and Owen, with Margery Wagstaff and Joanna Troutbeck, disappeared into a roadside inn, emerging a short time later dressed in pilgrims’ clothing. From now on, they would move innocently along the road with Catherine riding side-saddle on a placid, elderly mare being led by Owen.

  To Margery Wagstaff’s way of thinking, Her Highness should be in her bed like any sensible woman and not dressed up in disguise and running about the countryside. She looked askance at the rest of the little pilgrim group with their broad-brimmed hats and commodious russet-coloured gowns. All except Catherine wore them pulled in and secured around the waist either with a girdle or a rosary. She wore hers loose and carried her rosary separately. She had slipped her wedding ring onto her finger. Those who were on foot carried stout walking sticks and they all had pilgrims’ scrips across their shoulders.

  ‘I can’t imagine what I must look like in these clothes,’ said Catherine in a quiet voice, trying to find a comfortable position in the saddle.

  ‘You are beauty’s self when you’re wearing nothing at all,’ said Owen, smiling back at her, ‘but that’s for me to know and no one else! Come, Catrin, the most charming thing you ever wear is a smile. So, cheer up! It’s not far to go now.’

  The small party claimed the right of pilgrims to stay at the monastery of the Carmelite Whitefriars for the remainder of that week and the morning of the coronation dawned bright and warm for the time of year. With still no sign of the baby, Catherine and Owen felt confident enough to undertake the short journey to Westminster and join the huge crowds which were gathering outside the abbey church. Joanna Troutbeck and Margery Wagstaff trudged along behind them and Catherine was again riding side-saddle with Owen walking alongside, leading her horse by the bridle.

  Abbot Richard Harweden caught sight of them as they passed below the window where he was sitting in the Benedictine monastery. He was resting the badly wrenched ankle which was keeping him away from the coronation ceremony. To him, the pilgrim group looked like the Holy Family approaching the inn at Bethlehem: the little mare carrying the pregnant woman was scarcely bigger than a donkey, the man leading it was as dark-haired as any Nazarene, and the woman had the face of a Madonna. He was intrigued.

  In front of the high altar inside the abbey church, Archbishop Henry Chichele solemnly anointed the King with consecrated oil from a stone ampulla contained within a receptacle shaped like a golden eagle, making the sign of the cross several times, over Henry’s head and shoulders, his back, his elbows and the palms of his hands. Henry did his best to sit up straight as the heavy crown of St Edward was placed on his head but he was grateful for the comforting hand of his great-uncle Cardinal Beaufort on the nape of his neck, just in case.

  Outside, his mother was frantic with anxiety for him. He wouldn’t be eight years old for another month and she had seen the crown and felt its weight. She was sure it would be too much for her little boy.

  At last, the coronation ceremony came to an end and the great west door of the abbey church was thrown open. Two buglers stepped forward to sound a fanfare heralding the newly crowned King’s approach and Catherine’s startled horse suddenly threw up its head in alarm, taking a few nervous steps sideways until Owen got it back under control. Feeling a sudden, stabbing pain, Catherine gritted her teeth and said nothing. If it was the baby, then it might be several hours before she needed to worry too much and she was desperate to see her first-born as he emerged from the abbey church.

  Then, to the noisy delight of the waiting crowd, Henry appeared at the top of the abbey steps with his uncle the Duke of Gloucester, his great-uncle Cardinal Beaufort, his guardian and tutor the Earl of Warwick, and Archbishop Henry Chichele. They stood together under a baldaquin of blue silk held aloft by four gentlemen-at-arms in ceremonial livery, acknowledging the roaring welcome they were being given.

  Henry looked bewildered and so very small and vulnerable with the great crown of St Edward wobbling uncomfortably on his head that Catherine thought her heart would break. She should be there with him. With tears streaming down her face, she waved and called to him as loudly as anyone but he would never have recognised any member of the pilgrim group, even if he had been able to pick them out in the huge crowd. The Duke of Gloucester waved once more, then began to usher the King and his entourage towards Westminster Hall and the coronation banquet.

  Owen felt a tug at his sleeve and turned quickly, wary of cutpurses. There, dressed in the black habit of the Order of St Benedict, stood a monk from the monastery of Westminster. He reached up to Owen’s ear, to make himself heard. Owen listened and nodded, smiling. ‘Come,’ he said to Catherine as he tried to manoeuvre her horse through the crowd, ‘there isn’t much more to be seen and we are being offered the traditional hospitality of the Benedictines.’

  The familiar scents of beeswax and incense worked a soothing magic on Catherine as she and Owen, with Joanna Troutbeck and Margery Wagstaff, were ushered into the monastery. Suddenly, all was cool and quiet where there had been heat and noise. The boisterous shouting of the crowd had given way to the distant sounds of monks at their devotions. Leaning heavily on a stick as he waited to welcome them, Abbot Richard Harweden was even more intrigued by the pilgrims now that they were at close quarters. He almost felt as though he knew the woman; perhaps she looked like some painting or icon he’d seen somewhere in the past.

  Wary of using their proper names, Owen made the introductions. They were, he said, just members of a group of simple pilgrim worshippers who, now that they had witnessed some of the excitement of the coronation, were planning to travel to Canterbury.

  ‘Then you must rest first,’ said the Abbot, ‘and take some refreshment. Brother Wilfred will show you to the refectory.’ He was looking thoughtful as they thanked him and followed Brother Wilfred out of the room.

  Babies always arrive in their own sweet time, whether or not this is convenient for their mothers, and this was certainly true of Thomas Owen Tudor. He chose to make his presence felt as Catherine sat with the others at a long table in the refectory, causing her to bend double in pain. Margery Wagstaff immediately took charge of the situation by having her moved to a small room near the monastery’s infirmary. The infirmarian was keen to help in any way he could and prescribed mugwort to be bound to the pilgrim mother’s left thigh. Margery humoured him but respectfully shooed him out of the room when Catherine’s contractions became more frequent. As soon as the monk had left, Margery removed the mugwort. She always suspected it of causing a patient to haemorrhage.

  ‘What do men know about it!’ she said contemptuously, throwing the mugwort onto the fire.

  ‘Of course,’ Catherine panted between contractions, ‘they have something here which would help me very much and something which I could have demanded from them at one time.’

  ‘And what might that be, my Lady?’

  ‘The girdle of the Virgin Mary. It is kept here in the monastery but only allowed out for royal births. That’s no good to me now, of course. I daren’t let them find out who I am.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to do our best without it, my Lady,’ said Margery.

  ‘It won’t be the first time,’ said the Queen, managing a wry smile.

  Catherine’s baby was born later that evening, leaving her feeling drained. It hadn’t been a
particularly difficult birth but she was exhausted by the tension of the last few weeks, by the journey from Hertford, and by the emotional strain of having to watch Henry from a distance. She was fast asleep when Margery Wagstaff went to find Owen.

  ‘You have a son, Master Tudor,’ she said. ‘And your wife is sleeping. I would be obliged if you didn’t wake her.’

  Owen wanted to hug the woman, despite her rather forbidding demeanour. He would have wanted to hug anyone who was anywhere near him, he was so overjoyed. Then he saw the expression on the midwife’s face and she spoke before he could frame the question he knew he must ask.

  ‘He’s a handsome babe,’ she said ‘and contented enough. But he has a club foot. He won’t be able to lead a normal life. It doesn’t worry him now but it will trouble him later on when he starts walking and he will never be able to run and play like other boys.’

  The most difficult thing Owen Tudor had ever had to do in his life was break the news to his wife of their beautiful baby boy’s disability and explain to her that it would worsen as he grew, affecting his ability to walk. At first, she refused to believe him but Margery Wagstaff gently explained to her that though the twisted foot didn’t look too bad at the moment, once the little boy started growing, he would only ever be able to move about on crutches.

  Once she realised the implications of what she was being told, Catherine gave vent to her distress. It was bad enough, she wept, that she and Owen had to behave like fugitives but at least they stood a chance of staying one step ahead of their persecutors. The little one could never do that, not if he couldn’t even walk unaided.

  What was wrong with her? Had she offended God in some way? Why could she not have a husband and children like any other woman? She had looked forward so much to this baby and been so glad to be able to give Owen a son. But what good was a son to him if the child had to be looked after constantly and carried everywhere? A man needed a son he could rely on, not an invalid he had to care for.