Catherine was inconsolable.
Abbot Harweden’s painful ankle gave him good reason to keep his distance from the pilgrims but they continued to puzzle him and Brother Geoffrey, the infirmarian, had told him that the woman had become hysterical in her grief at giving birth to a disabled child. He still had a strong feeling that somehow he knew her, but who was she? What was she? The Abbot suspected that the pilgrims were not exactly as they appeared to be and he had the reputation of the monastery to consider. One couldn’t be too careful. Still, he had to shoulder some of the blame for the situation since he’d been burning with curiosity about the woman. He shouldn’t have been so inquisitive. Perhaps he should not have invited the pilgrims to avail themselves of the monastery’s hospitality if the woman was quite so close to her time but had he not done so, he would have been guilty of disobeying the rules of St Benedict. The situation was very difficult. The more Abbot Harweden thought about it, the more he realised that he must talk to the woman’s husband. He ordered that Owen should be summoned to a meeting in the chapter-house the following morning.
‘Forgive me for not rising to greet you,’ he began as Owen was shown into the room, ‘but my wretched foot is still rather painful and I try to keep the weight off it. Now, tell me, how is your goodwife feeling today?’
‘My wife is asleep,’ said Owen. ‘I’m afraid the birth of our son was not without its problems and she has exhausted herself with weeping. She is very upset.’
‘It’s quite understandable,’ said the Abbot. ‘Brother Geoffrey tells me that the child has a disability and is likely to become halt as he grows up. Is that so?’
‘Sadly, yes. At least, that is what the midwife says, though the child doesn’t seem at all distressed at the moment.’
‘No, but he will find things difficult as he begins to grow.’ Abbot Harweden gestured towards his own bandaged foot, resting on a low stool in front of his chair. ‘My current indisposition makes me doubly sympathetic towards those whose feet trouble them.’ Owen gave a wan smile before the Abbot continued. ‘Of course, as Benedictines, we will do our best to help. After all, we have taken a vow not only to shelter pilgrim travellers but also to heal the sick where we can. In fact, I have a particular interest in the disability which affects your child. He has a club foot, has he not?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘he has and I don’t know what’s to be done about it. Though perhaps, Father Abbot, with your experience of healing, you could suggest something to help him? That would be of great comfort to my wife.’
‘As it happens, we had a foundling here some five years ago who had the same disability. Of course, it is not possible to cure the condition but I have a theory that if the baby’s leg can be artificially straightened during the period of initial growth, it can help considerably. In fact, I had some success with that foundling child by restricting his leg in a wooden frame and, indeed, he seemed not nearly so halt as he might have been.’
Owen brightened considerably. ‘Could you, perhaps, do the same for my son?’ he asked.
‘I could certainly try,’ said the Abbot. ‘Of course, he will always have to use crutches to aid his walking and will need sedentary employment when he grows up. And if you were to leave him here in order for me to supervise his treatment there would, of course, be the small matter of a contribution towards his care and his keep.’
‘There will be no difficulty with that,’ said Owen, ‘but the situation is not exactly straightforward.’ He paused for a moment as he came to a decision. ‘Tell me, Father Abbot, are you a man who is able to keep a secret and divulge it to no one? On your honour as a man of God? It is a very important secret.’
There was nothing for it; Owen had to confide in the Abbot and had the situation not been quite so grave, he would have laughed at the expression of amazement on the Abbot’s face when he was told the identity of the woman who had so recently given birth in the monastery’s infirmary.
When he’d got over his initial shock, Richard Harweden was pleased that he hadn’t been mistaken in recognising Her Royal Highness the Queen, knowing that he knew her from somewhere other than a half-remembered painting. He thought her a lot less like the Madonna now and more like Our Lady of the Sorrows but knowing who she was altered his assessment of the situation considerably. He was aware that being embroiled in this amount of subterfuge could have a seriously damaging effect both on himself and on the monastery if the wrong people got to know about it. But when he was told that Cardinal Beaufort was fully aware of the Queen’s rather irregular domestic situation, he realised that kindness towards the pilgrim mother might be of great benefit after all.
At heart a compassionate man, Abbot Harweden pointed out to Catherine and Owen a few days later that the baby would never be able to live a normal life at court or anywhere else and that, in their circumstances, they would have the greatest difficulty in giving him a successful upbringing. He gently suggested that the baby should be taken into the care of the monks, as though he had been a foundling. This would guarantee him both a good education and the best possible treatment for his disability.
So it was arranged that young Thomas Owen Tudor would be brought up as a Benedictine and taught to read and write. Only Abbot Harweden would ever know that the Queen had promised the monastery a generous endowment towards his keep. In due course, even if he chose not to become a monk, the young man could be employed copying manuscripts in the scriptorium at the Abbey, where there would be little need for him to put weight on his deformed foot.
Everyone agreed that this was the best plan for the baby and Owen finally managed to convince Catherine of the good sense of it by reminding her of her own upbringing in the convent at Poissy and the unstinting love of Sister Supplice.
Nevertheless, when the time came, it took all his mother’s strength and courage to walk away from her third child.
Chapter Twenty-one
London, 1430
Things changed after the coronation. Now that the King was exclusively under the tutelage of the Earl of Warwick, Humphrey’s position had altered slightly and Catherine feared that, with more time on his hands, he would find another outlet for his energies, one that could spell trouble.
She felt she had good reason to worry. It was well over a year since Pope Martin V had finally declared Humphrey’s marriage to Jacqueline unlawful and therefore invalid, which meant that Humphrey had been free to marry his mistress Eleanor Cobham and had done so, almost immediately. That in turn meant that the Cobham woman was now entitled to call herself the Duchess of Gloucester and had given herself such airs and graces that Catherine could hardly bear to be in the same room.
Those who had been fond of Jacqueline considered the marriage doomed from the outset. The gossips whispered that Eleanor had regularly used the services of the witch Margery Jourdemayne to supply her with potions and perfumes to attract the Duke. It could only end in sorrow, they said, but Eleanor had achieved her goal. The only thing that would have made the new Duchess of Gloucester even more triumphant would be the birth of a child but Margery Jourdemayne had failed her in that. Nevertheless, Eleanor was as beautiful and intelligent as Humphrey was cultivated and debonair and they were an impressive couple. They both loved music and dancing, poetry and parties and Humphrey had undertaken the conversion of a manor house at Greenwich into a pleasure garden which he and Eleanor called La Pleasaunce. Here they entertained musicians, scholars, poets, physicians, philosophers, and writers from all over the world. It was an adult, sophisticated alternative court, away from the child King’s household at Windsor.
Catherine never craved an invitation to La Pleasaunce and the fact that the Gloucesters spent so much time there meant that she had some respite from her constant worries about keeping her marriage a secret from Humphrey. In any case, she would much rather remain at Windsor, where at least she had a chance to see Henry occasionally despite the fact that the boy was subjected to a relentless regime of education and training for kingship.
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Now that the King’s English coronation had taken place, planning had begun for his French coronation though no date had yet been set for this. Nevertheless, a large and costly royal entourage of over three hundred people left for Calais on St George’s Day in April in preparation for the occasion. Catherine did not travel with them.
There was a good reason for her reluctance to visit France. Owen could hardly believe her when she told him. ‘Not again!’ he protested, though he felt a small thrill of pride that he was so easily able to get her with child.
Catherine couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t worried about expecting yet another baby but, seeing the expression of joy on Owen’s face, she had no wish to dampen his delight. He seemed to thrive on the prospect of fatherhood.
‘There’s nothing for it, Owen, but to stop sleeping in the same bed,’ she said sternly.
‘It’s not the sleeping that’s causing it, my sweet, it’s what we do when we’re awake that’s the problem.’
‘That doesn’t strike me as a good enough reason to stop doing it,’ she said and kissed him.
‘Then you can only expect to go on producing babies for the rest of your life, my Lady.’ Owen wagged his finger at her in mock severity before taking her into his arms. ‘And this time, cariad, I will move heaven and earth for you to keep the child. It doesn’t matter what it takes.’ Then he held her at arm’s length and looked at her with a questioning twinkle in his eye. ‘And where would your naughty Highness like to spend the summer this time, eh?’
She couldn’t help but smile. He would sometimes call her by that silly name when he was teasing her, teasing her until she begged him to bring her to the pinnacle of her pleasure.
‘I don’t really mind,’ she said, ‘as long as I can get the news from France. We’ll need to be somewhere near London, so that I can keep up with what’s going on.’
Most of Catherine’s dower properties were a good distance from London, too far for messengers to travel with ease, so the choice was a difficult one. It was quite by chance that they hit on the best solution.
Owen had been invited to St Paul’s, where Bishop William Gray had agreed to christen Maredydd and Emma’s first baby, a girl named Margaret, after Maredydd’s mother. Maredydd could hardly contain his excitement but Emma, not yet churched, was not present, and neither was Catherine who was nervous about being associated with Owen on an occasion like this. But she joined him afterwards at the small, private reception in Maredydd and Emma’s new home near St Paul’s Cross where, naturally, the talk was all of babies. They laughed about the lack of choice when it came to naming little girls, since both Owen’s mother and Maredydd’s mother had been called Margaret. Then, in the company of trusted friends, Owen let slip the fact that there might soon be yet another Margaret in the family, though he was deeply worried about where Catherine could give birth to her coming child without raising suspicion. That was when Bishop William Gray made a suggestion.
‘The manor house at Great Hadham would suit your purpose very well, Your Highness,’ he said to Catherine. ‘It is the country home of the Bishops of London and is fully staffed throughout the year. Sadly, I have limited time to spend there but I would be delighted if you and Master Tudor would like to make use of it. All I will tell the staff is that you’re my guests: they don’t need to know who you are. But, my Lady, won’t you be missed at court?’
‘No,’ said Catherine shortly. ‘Most of the court has removed to France for the King’s French coronation. And in any case – forgive me for saying so, Your Grace – no one cares where I am as long as I don’t get under anyone’s feet. I will not be missed.’
Great Hadham was less than two days’ journey from London, some thirty miles to the north east, beyond Epping Forest, at a sufficient distance from London to discourage casual visitors but close enough for Owen to attend the Royal Wardrobe if he was required to. The house, on a bend in the River Ash, was modest but comfortable and Catherine and Owen were both delighted with it. Bishop Gray accompanied them on the journey there, anxious to see them settled in comfortably.
It seemed a good place for a child to grow up and, determined not to be forced to abandon yet another baby, Catherine and Owen planned their strategy carefully. From now on, the family would base themselves at Great Hadham and, from time to time, Catherine would put in a token appearance at court. In her absence, the child could be safely left in the care of the Bishop’s staff and two reliable nurses.
News from France filtered through sporadically. Henry’s coronation was repeatedly postponed and the cost of maintaining the royal retinue, as well as an army of over a thousand men-at-arms and nearly six thousand archers, was spiralling almost out of control. Then news came that Joan of Arc had been taken prisoner by the forces of Philip of Burgundy who promptly sold her to the English. Not knowing what to do with her and wary of her reputation, her English jailers chained her up in a cage like an animal. The Dauphin did not lift a finger to help her.
‘I can’t understand that,’ said Owen. ‘Your brother Charles owes that girl everything. Why does he just sit back and let her be punished?’
‘Well, think about it, Owen. If Charles really is being accepted as King of France, he doesn’t want his people to think that he owes his throne to Joan of Arc’s diabolical skills.’
‘And what happens when young Henry is crowned King of France?’
‘God alone knows. I have no idea. And until this baby is born, I have no option but to lie low and wait to see where the future lies, whether my son or my brother is eventually recognised as King of France. And as for La Pucelle, well, it seems she is a witch and a heretic. She can’t be sent to a convent because no convent will ever accept her. There’s only one alternative, and that’s burning.’
‘Oh, Catrin,’ Owen shook his head. ‘She’s probably just a poor, misguided young woman.’ What Catherine had predicted was probably exactly what would happen but clearly she didn’t associate the fate of the Maid of Orléans with what had happened so tragically to her own maid. Owen would never forget the terror on Guillemote’s face as the wooden staircase collapsed. Being burned to death was an obscenity, whether it happened by accident or design.
They made excited plans as they whiled away the chilly spring evenings at Great Hadham, lounging on the hearth in front of the fire discussing whether to name the coming baby after their parents.
‘I’m not sure I like the name Isabeau for a little girl,’ said Owen. ‘I’d much prefer Marged.’
‘But if we named her after your mother, we’d use the English version of the name and call her Margaret, wouldn’t we?’
‘What if she’s a boy?’
‘Well, we’ve already had one of each, so she could be … or he could be. I don’t know. My father was Charles but the most common name in the Valois family has always been Louis.’
‘If we’re going for family names,’ said Owen, ‘we could call him Ednyfed. Or perhaps Caradog. Lovely old Welsh names.’
‘But the poor child is going to live in England so he won’t thank us for giving him a name like Cad … Crad … what did you say?’
‘Caradog. Caractacus in English.’
‘Well, we are certainly not going to call him Caractacus!’ Catherine laughed. ‘Listen, Owen, I’ve been thinking. We have every reason to be grateful to young Edmund Beaufort, haven’t we? After all, we’ve spent years putting Humphrey off the scent by letting him think that Edmund is nursing a grand passion for me.’
‘Well, he certainly was at one time.’ Owen was punctuating his sentences with little kisses on the soft skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Perhaps he still is. And you have to admit that he has excellent taste in women!’
Catherine made as though to push him away. ‘No, seriously, my love, we owe him a favour, don’t you think? So, all right, if the baby is a girl we’ll call her Margaret but if it’s a boy, why don’t we name him Edmund? It’s a perfectly good name and the reason for giving him that name will be our secret
.’
Owen smiled, kissing her nose this time. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You’re right, cariad, it’s an excellent name.’
Edmund Tudor first saw the light of day three months later. He was the bonniest of babies and both his parents doted on him from the moment of his birth. Catherine was never happier than when she had him in her arms and Owen was never happier than when he had his arms around both of them.
At last, thank God, this was the baby they would keep: and they would keep him at all costs.
They spent the remainder of the year at Great Hadham, contentedly learning to live as a family, and it was the most profound pleasure Catherine had ever known. She and Owen delighted more than ever in each other’s company and now there was another dimension to their happiness. They both doted on their baby son. Catherine even began to let herself dare hope that they might send for their daughter, Tacinda, but Owen had to point out to her that, if they did, the little girl would be confused and bewildered. She didn’t know them, she had never known them. For her sake, it was far better she should remain with the Stradling family in St Donat’s.
All too soon, it was time for Catherine to return to Windsor. She couldn’t absent herself for too long, it would only arouse suspicion. She would return for a few weeks, just to make her presence felt and dispel any possible gossip.
With the King and so many courtiers in France, life in Windsor was as dull as ditchwater so when word came that Cardinal Beaufort was in England and intending to visit the castle, the whole place went into a frenzy of preparation. Floors were swept, tapestries cleaned, and mouth-watering smells wafted from the kitchen.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 31
