Root of the Tudor Rose

by Mari Griffith

Almost as soon as he arrived, Cardinal Beaufort went in search of Catherine, delighted to learn that she, too, was in Windsor. It always gave him immense pleasure to see her and he was glad to find her looking so happy. He was not a bit surprised to learn that she’d had another baby and chuckled when she told him why he’d been named Edmund after his nephew.

  ‘A brother for little Tacinda,’ he said, smiling broadly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Catherine, ‘and a little half-brother for the King, too, though I don’t know whether they’ll ever meet.’ She said nothing about the child she’d had to leave in the care of Abbot Harweden at Westminster because she didn’t know whether the Cardinal was aware of the nature of the ‘illness’ which had kept her away from her son’s English coronation and she saw no reason to tell him. Besides, the memory was still too raw and painful for discussion. She changed the subject.

  ‘Tell me, what news of my son, the King? And why have you returned to England, my Lord Uncle?’

  ‘His Highness is well, my Lady, and sends you his most respectful greetings. He is still in Rouen but there is no prospect of a French coronation at the moment. As for me, well, I am back in England with my begging bowl, to raise yet more money. I have to persuade the Council to provide sufficient funds for another army. We need some two and a half thousand men to recapture Rheims. It has been in French hands since your brother’s coronation. But first we have to resolve the problem of the heretic girl.’

  ‘La Pucelle?’

  ‘Yes, the Maid. Joan of Arc. She remains in prison and I’m afraid she’s become something of a heroine to the French, a symbol of national pride, and it would be madness to put her to death without a very good reason. Still, until that is done, I see no prospect of crowning your son. I confess I don’t look forward to it but I’m afraid she will burn.’

  Owen kept quiet on the subject of Joan of Arc because he didn’t want to worry Catherine more than he had to. She was deeply concerned about the situation in France. Owen could accept that Joan was a simple peasant with a deep faith and an absolute belief in what her ‘voices’ told her, though Catherine, torn between her love for her son and a lingering loyalty to her family in France, was not so sure. Well, blood was thicker than water, thought Owen, but perhaps the saints really did talk to Joan. Who had the right to say they didn’t? He knew of people not unlike her in Wales, people who lived in harmony with the rhythms of Nature. Was this girl any more than that? And if her convictions were religious, then it was only another way of looking at things.

  Above all, he understood Joan’s patriotism, the strength of her desire to see a French king on the throne of France and the English invaders retreat from her beloved homeland. Every Welshman understood that, particularly a kinsman of Owain Glyndŵr.

  At the head of an army only half the size of the one he’d requested, Henry Beaufort returned to France in time to see Joan of Arc accused of heresy. He presided at her trial in Rouen and found the proceedings deeply interesting from the standpoint of theological argument. The Maid couldn’t be guided by heavenly voices, her accusers reasoned, because it was a well-known fact that the saints spoke only to priests and then only in Latin, certainly not in the rough patois of Domrémy, Joan’s home village. Yet this simple country girl seemed possessed of a powerful intellect. When asked if she presumed herself to be in God’s grace, she answered that if she was not, then she prayed that God would put her there and that if she was, then she prayed that God would so keep her. It was the most elegant of replies and astounded her accusers but it didn’t stop them from lying to her. They promised that she could attend confession if she would agree to wear women’s clothing but, when she did, they refused to let her go to church. Sick and exhausted by months of imprisonment, Joan’s last small gesture of disobedience was to put on men’s clothing once more and, for this, she was accused of immodesty and defiance of the teachings of the church. She was sentenced to die at the stake on the thirtieth of May.

  Beaufort’s mind was in turmoil. He had genuinely admired the way in which the nineteen-year-old Maid had conducted herself at her trial, with her simple grace and quiet conviction that she was being given divine guidance. Now, watching her slight body being lashed to the stake in the market square at Rouen, he felt a different, very powerful emotion. With half-closed eyes he saw the huge bonfire being lit and resisted the urge to stuff his fingers in his ears so as not to hear the crackle of dry wood as the flames took hold. It was difficult to ignore the baying of the huge crowd that had gathered to watch the burning. He tried not to look directly at Joan as she stood with a cross held between her outstretched hands, her lips moving in prayer. He knew he would never forget the sight of her and he would remember the stench of burning human flesh for the rest of his life.

  Six months after Joan’s death, Henry Beaufort held the crown of France above the head of his great-nephew in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. It was the sixteenth of December, just ten days after the King’s tenth birthday. Beaufort should have felt elation, pride, supreme happiness; this was the ultimate achievement, this was the crown of France which he was placing on Henry’s head, the height of his late father’s ambition. And yet all Beaufort felt was a hollow emptiness. He was getting very old now, nearer sixty than fifty, and he realised that England had been at war with France throughout his lifetime and that this, this very crown which he now held in his hands, was what all the fighting had been about. All he could think of was the appalling waste, the lives lost, the bodies maimed, the families ruined, the children left fatherless and a brave young woman burned at the stake. Henry looked up as the crown was placed on his head and was surprised to see tears in the Cardinal’s eyes. The boy assumed that they were tears of joy.

  Huge crowds of people thronged the streets of Paris, singing and dancing; wine ran in the fountains and there were pageants and tableaux vivants everywhere. The Duke of Bedford with the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury were at the head of the large delegation of English aristocrats who had come to France with Henry in preparation for this great day and all the lords of the royal house of France were represented, with the exception of the Duke of Burgundy. He nowhere to be seen and neither was Catherine’s brother, Charles.

  The obese, ageing Queen Isabeau sat in the royal palace of St Pol, stroking a lapdog and waving as the coronation procession passed her window, trying to catch the eye of her grandson who was the embodiment of the union with England which she had worked so hard to bring about. She wondered why his mother was not with him.

  Entirely unaware of what was happening in Paris, Catherine had no desire to be anywhere other than Great Hadham. She was happy here, comfortable, relaxed and, above all, secure. Here she could be with her husband and her baby son and had almost convinced herself that this would be where her little family would spend the rest of their lives. They had few visitors but, occasionally, trusted friends would come to see them, friends like Bishop William Gray who was travelling from London to Lincoln and broke his journey to call on them. He strode into the hall to be greeted by Owen, who had seen him arrive.

  ‘Your Grace. I find it very strange to be welcoming you into your own house!’

  ‘My own house no longer, Master Tudor. That is why I’m here. I have something to tell you. Is Her Highness at home? And is she well?’

  ‘Well enough, if a little tired. She has gone to fetch baby Edmund so that she can show him off to you.’

  ‘I shall be delighted to see him. Is he walking yet?’

  ‘No, not quite, but he gets around very quickly on all fours!’

  ‘Just you wait, you won’t be able to keep up with him before long,’ said the Bishop. ‘Your Royal Highness, what a pleasure to see you!’

  Catherine, baby Edmund on her hip, had come into the room, delighted to see Bishop William Gray and eager for his news. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, your Grace?’ she asked as he bowed low to greet her.

  He straightened up, looking suddenly doubtful. ‘I … I’m not su
re that you will see it as a pleasure, your Highness, but for me it is a very exciting prospect. I am being moved to Lincoln. A great honour …so many opportunities.’

  ‘Congratulations are in order then, Your Grace,’ said Owen.

  ‘Indeed, thank you, Master Tudor. I must confess I’m very thrilled. But it does, of course, mean that I will no longer have any right to this house. It is not my personal property, it belongs to the church, so I will have to relinquish it. That is why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Does that mean …?’ Catherine didn’t finish her sentence.

  ‘I’m afraid, Ma’am, it does mean that, personally, I will no longer be in a position to offer you hospitality and security here in Great Hadham. Robert Fitzhugh, my successor will, I’m sure, be honoured if you should want to stay here, but that all rather depends on whether you want him to know of your circumstances. It is entirely up to you.’

  Baby Edmund chose that moment to exercise his lungs, wanting to be the centre of attention. He let out a long, piercing wail, causing his father and the Bishop to smile indulgently and disguising the fact that his mother wanted to wail just as loudly herself. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Great Hadham, she had never been so happy in all her life as she had been here. Now her happiness was being threatened yet again. She couldn’t face the upheaval of another move, hounded from place to place, never settled, never at peace. She couldn’t go back to Windsor and run the risk of Humphrey or Eleanor finding out about baby Edmund, and she was certainly not going to give him up. Owen caught sight of her face just as she began to bite her quivering lip.

  ‘You mustn’t worry, Catrin,’ he said quietly, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘We’ll find somewhere just as good.’

  William Gray was appalled. Thrilled at the prospect of moving to Lincoln, he had not realised the impact his news would have on the little Tudor family. He knew they had been happy at Great Hadham but he hadn’t realised quite how much of a blow this would be for them. Catherine, white-faced, was avoiding his gaze.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Your Highness. Please don’t upset yourself! I hadn’t thought … that is, I’m very glad you’ve been so happy here … but I didn’t realise …’

  He was profoundly embarrassed. But he did, at least, have a suggestion to make: it was an idea which had occurred to him on his journey from London.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Bishop Philip Morgan, my Lady?’ he asked.

  Catherine took a deep breath, shifting the baby’s weight onto her other arm. Now that Owen’s hand was under her elbow, steadying her, she managed a smile. ‘Yes, I do know him slightly. He serves on the Council. Cardinal Beaufort speaks highly of him.’

  ‘Yes, he’s the Bishop of Worcester and of Ely. He’s a good man, wise and very experienced. When he was younger, he also served as army chaplain to your late husband the King. He was with him in Normandy.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Owen. ‘I heard my cousin Maredydd speak of him. He, too, served in Normandy with the King. He said he’d more than once heard Bishop Morgan grant absolution in Welsh on the battlefield. So he’s now the Bishop of Ely, is he?’

  ‘Indeed he is, Master Tudor. He was Phillip ap Morgan when we knew him at Oxford but he dropped the “ap” part of his name, just as you did. He was studying Civil Law at Queen’s College when I was there. And that’s where I first met Cardinal Beaufort, of course. De Kyrkeby, too. We all knew each other as young men. I think he might be just the man I need to talk to.’

  Catherine, still feeling stunned, wondered where all this was leading but William Gray explained that he knew the opportunity to use another house, much like this one, was within the gift of the Bishop of Ely.

  ‘Hatfield,’ he said. ‘Bishop’s Hatfield. I’ll write to Bishop Morgan …’

  Since time was not pressing and since he wanted to be absolutely certain that he was doing the right thing, William Gray decided instead to pay a visit to Bishop Morgan. He was sure that, face-to-face, he’d find it easier to explain the reasons for his request and the need for great secrecy. Bishop Morgan, a man of kindness and sensibility, was fascinated to hear of the widowed Queen’s romance with a kinsman of the Welsh freedom fighter Owain Glyndŵr. He had once met Catherine but couldn’t really claim to know her, though he had known her first husband quite well and had received several royal commissions from him. He also remembered that Henry Beaufort had told him of his avuncular affection for her.

  So Bishop Morgan was honoured and delighted to be able to help, which meant that, after Catherine had eventually become resigned to the situation, the move from Great Hadham to Bishop’s Hatfield went ahead remarkably smoothly.

  ‘Plain sailing, then,’ said Owen, looking around him after they had moved in. ‘Guillemote would have been proud of us! Everything is unpacked and in a sensible place.’ He put an arm around Catherine’s waist and tapped the end of her nose playfully. ‘And the place for you, your naughty Highness, is in bed. On your own this time. Go on, cariad. You must be tired.’

  Catherine managed a smile. ‘I don’t want to be on my own, Owen. I don’t feel well but I really want to know that you’re lying beside me.’

  ‘I’ll always be beside you, cariad, wherever we are. You know that.’ He was true to his word. They were preparing to sleep in an unfamiliar bed but, for each of them, the sweet familiarity of the other’s body worked its usual magic.

  This time Owen was extremely worried about her, she looked gaunt and tired and he noticed some streaks of grey at her temples.

  ‘It’s too soon, cariad. Little Edmund is not yet a year old. You’re wearing yourself out with child-bearing. We must be more careful.’ Catherine reached out for him and nuzzled his neck.

  ‘Too late for that! Edmund’s little brother is already on his way.’

  ‘His little sister Marged, you mean?’ He smiled, teasing her.

  ‘Oh, Owen. If she’s a girl, she’ll be Marged. Margaret, anyway. I promise you.’

  Catherine hadn’t really recovered after the move to Bishop’s Hatfield and felt profoundly tired. So when the time came, she spent longer lying-in than she had with any of her other children. Les Trois Jo-jo fussed over her and the midwife, Margery Wagstaff, was pleased to point out that this was the proper way for pregnant women to behave, not rushing around the country in fancy dress. She put up with their good-natured scolding, knowing she was in good hands.

  The Feast of St John the Baptist came and went and, according to the midwife’s reckoning, the baby was overdue. Then, in the second week of July, Catherine went into labour. She, who thought she had inherited her mother’s gift for bearing children with ease, now met the excruciatingly painful experience of a breech birth. She remembered Jacqueline’s torment and prayed that it wouldn’t be like that for her. Thus far, she had avoided the worst consequences of the curse of Eve but now the pain was almost unbearable and she thought it would never end. Oh, for the Virgin’s girdle, Our Lord’s foreskin, anything, anything to ease the agony. Margery Wagstaff paused before massaging her hands with oil of wild thyme for another attempt to turn the baby. She reached into her apron pocket and pressed a smoothly polished brown-coloured stone into Catherine’s hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Catherine asked weakly.

  ‘Jasper, my Lady. It will help you. I’m doing everything I can at this end, so just push down when I tell you to and pray to the blessed Saint Margaret. And hold this piece of jasper in your hand. Hold it tight. Jasper is well known to ease the pains of childbirth. I have used it many times. With great success,’ she added.

  Catherine started screaming then and Owen, who was pacing anxiously up and down in the room below, fell to his knees and prayed as he had never prayed before, for her safety and the safe delivery of her baby. He would be kind to everyone, he would give to the poor, he would listen attentively to the sermon every Sunday, he would be polite to the clergy and forego the pleasures of the ale house. If only she would be safe, he would do anything, give her anything, agree
to anything, if only she would be safe. Please, God. Dear God. Please, God.

  Then everything went quiet. That was worse. Women often died in childbirth. Please, God. Dear God. Please, God.

  Then he heard the most wonderful sound in the world, the indignant squalling of a newborn baby. His baby. His daughter? Marged? Who cared, as long as mother and child were both alive and well.

  It seemed an age before Margery Wagstaff appeared at the top of the stairs. She was beaming.

  ‘That was a tough one,’ she said, ‘but your wife is all right. And so is your son!’ Owen took the stairs two at a time and hugged her, catching her off balance and giggling. He didn’t care. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  Quietly, he opened the door of the bedchamber and looked in to see Catherine lying with her eyes closed, her skin almost as white as the pillow she lay on. The baby, red-faced and wizened, lay sleeping in the crook of her arm. He approached them as quietly as he could, knelt at the side of the bed, and watched them for a long moment. He was overwhelmed. He would never, ever, let Catherine go through that again. She opened one eye.

  ‘That,’ she said ‘hurt a lot.’

  Owen smiled at her. ‘It’s a boy. We didn’t think of a name for a boy.’

  ‘He’s called Jasper.’ Catherine’s voice was weak but determined. ‘His name is Jasper Tudor.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  France and London, Autumn 1435

  Henry Beaufort understood why Pontius Pilate had washed his hands. There comes a point, he thought, at which the wise man must withdraw from a situation over which he no longer has control. True, no one was about to die on the cross, but enough fine young men had died anyway. There had been too much war, too much death. He was tired of it. All he wanted was to live out his old age in the knowledge that France and England were at peace. He wanted to wash his hands of the whole disastrous pantomime which was the Congress of Arras and go home to England.

  It had all started so well. Cardinal Beaufort had welcomed the invitation to attend a big diplomatic congress in northern France, the first since the Treaty of Troyes fifteen years earlier and long overdue. It was with high hopes that he had set out for Arras at the head of a distinguished delegation of Englishmen and he was particularly proud that the group included his nephew Edmund. They were all anxious to see a peaceful outcome to the Congress.