‘My Lady?’ he prompted the Countess again. ‘Why do you think the King wishes to have his brothers brought to court?’
Alice de la Pole drew herself up to her full height and looked down her long, thin nose. ‘I really do not know. I am simply carrying out the instructions of the King,’ she said. ‘I would not be so impertinent as to question them.’
‘The Countess doesn’t have to give you a reason,’ snarled Tuddenham. ‘We have undertaken to get the King’s brothers back to London as soon as possible. On His Highness’s own orders. You can’t argue with that. You’ve got an hour to get them ready for the journey.’
‘No!’ Catherine’s scream was spine-chilling, primeval, a vixen baring her teeth, defending the last of her cubs against a predator. Even Tuddenham was momentarily taken aback.
‘No,’ she screamed again, ‘you can’t have them. You will not have them!’
The captain of the guard moved menacingly towards Catherine and reached out to pull Jasper away from her. Owen sidestepped, placing himself in a defensive position in front of his wife and child. Catching him unawares, another guard came from behind him, grabbed his arm, and swung him round, flooring him with a huge punch to the side of the head. Reeling from the blow, Owen went down heavily and lost consciousness.
Now Catherine’s screaming became louder and more incoherent as, wailing pitifully, Jasper was roughly torn from her grasp and handed to Alice de la Pole, who held his small arm in an iron grip. ‘Where’s the other one?’ she demanded.
‘You shall never have him!’ shouted Catherine. ‘Never, never!’ At that precise moment the door opened and another guard dragged a bewildered Edmund into the room.
‘Found this one in the stables,’ he muttered as Catherine flew at her child, trying to take him protectively into her arms. She was roughly pulled away by another guard. She beat her fists on her captor’s chest, screaming at him and weeping. He gripped her wrists, easily overpowering her. Unconscious, Owen lay prone under the heavy boot of a great thug dressed in royal livery.
Alice de la Pole still had hold of little Jasper’s arm and he, bewildered at being dragged away from his mother, was crying loudly. With her free hand, she reached into a small bag at her waist and took something out of it.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, child, stop that caterwauling,’ she said impatiently. ‘Here, why don’t you have some nice marchpane.’
Catherine froze with horror. Marchpane! Her body went limp and when the guard relaxed his grip on her, she crumpled to the floor.
The countryside was still bathed in the late sunshine of St Michael’s little summer, and the birds still sang, but en route for London, Jasper was crying, frightened and upset because his mother had been screaming so horribly. Edmund was crying too, because he didn’t understand what was going on and he didn’t want to leave Peggy.
‘Be quiet both of you, and stop snivelling,’ said Alice de la Pole, raising her voice against the shouted commands of the escort party. The horses strained against the traces as the driver whipped them into a gallop.
Katherine de la Pole, the Abbess of Barking, didn’t much care for her sister-in-law. After all, her brother William had married Alice chiefly for her money, which he’d badly needed at the time. By now, though he was still saddled with Alice, his fortunes had changed, thanks to royal patronage. Katherine de la Pole, too, had reason to be grateful to her brother’s patron, since the post of Abbess at Barking was in the King’s gift. Having no great interest in life at court, she took great pride in her work at the abbey and was pleased to have so little contact with her sister-in-law. There was no love lost between them.
So she was surprised when Alice arrived unannounced one day in late September with two small boys, aged around five and six, demanding that they should be accommodated in the abbey for a few weeks while their parents resolved their problems. On asking who the children were, the Abbess was told that their father was a senior household servant at Windsor and the boys were the result of his unfortunate affaire de coeur with one of the ladies of the court.
The Abbess thought it sounded an unlikely story but it was her duty in the eyes of God to give shelter and succour to the children. Moreover, Alice had provided a substantial sum of money for their keep. Fifty-two pounds and twelve shillings would cater very adequately for their needs for some considerable time to come. She took the boys by the hand and led them away to be cared for by her nuns, according to the Rules of Saint Benedict.
Chapter Twenty-four
Winter 1436
Catherine’s health went rapidly downhill in the weeks that followed. The brutal seizure of her children had been impossible to bear: she felt her heart had been ripped from her body. Under Owen’s gentle questioning, old suppressed memories of her own childhood abduction grew as vivid as her nightmares and she was wild with grief and worry. The prospect of the new baby did nothing to cheer her and her face had taken on a hollow, haunted look. All her physician could suggest was to leech her but Owen thought she was thin enough and pale enough already, without the greedy attention of those little black blood-suckers.
Her unpredictable moods swung between moments of absolute fury and long periods of utter misery. At her angriest, Owen would find her pacing the floor, swearing that she would go to London to find the boys but when he managed to convince her that she really wasn’t well enough to travel, she would dissolve into hopeless tears. She would spend her afternoons lying on their bed, exhausted and staring blankly at nothing. He often found her there and, if she wasn’t sleeping, she was weeping silently.
Owen tried to hide his impotent fury. This was an abduction, plain and simple, and it was Gloucester’s doing. Why else would the de la Poles and their brutish associates have had anything to do with it? If he was to find his sons, he knew he must go to London himself, to get some answers. Maredydd, though he was too old for active service, still had his ear to the ground and Emma was a celebrated gossip. If anyone knew anything about Edmund and Jasper, they would.
Catherine wouldn’t hear of him leaving her. She wept and clung to him, convinced that if he went, he would never return but she was far too ill to travel with him.
Owen took Joanna Troutbeck into his confidence. There was nothing for it but to go to London alone, to see what he could find out. The only way to do it, he said, was to steal away at dead of night while Catherine was sleeping. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her and knew that he wouldn’t be able to if, yet again, she begged him to stay. So he had to entrust Troutbeck with the responsibility of telling her that he had left. There was no other way.
First, he swore her to secrecy then told her that he wanted her to arrange to take Catherine to London in a comfortable horse-drawn litter, with an armed escort group in royal livery.
‘Royal livery, Master Tudor? Surely that …?’
‘Yes, Troutbeck, royal livery. They are guarding Her Royal Highness the Queen and it no longer matters who knows that. There is no need for subterfuge any more, not now that the Duke of Gloucester has learned our secret.’
Owen had a hollow feeling of nervousness in the pit of his stomach but he knew that there were no other options. He was making the best, the only possible plans for Catherine. ‘Once you reach London, Troutbeck, you are to make for the monastery of the Benedictines at Bermondsey, south of the river. They are accustomed to caring for royal patients at Bermondsey from what I understand. It’s something of a tradition. Catherine will be well cared for there and, please God, nursed back to health.’
Seeing the worried expression on Troutbeck’s face, Owen patted her hand reassuringly before he continued. ‘As soon as I reach London, I will go to see the Abbot and make the necessary arrangements. Then, when you bring Catherine to Bermondsey, Troutbeck, let her believe that you’re bringing her to me. Lie to her, if you have to. And, God willing, we can be together again when she’s better. With our boys. Just as we were.’
‘There’ll be another child by then, Master Tudor.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yes, there will. A girl, perhaps. Oh, and Troutbeck, please secure the services of the midwife, Margery Wagstaff. She pulled Her Highness through when Jasper was born so she’ll be in good hands there, too.’
Sick with apprehension, he turned away, not trusting himself to say more. ‘Just … just look after Catrin for me,’ he blurted out, ‘… when I’m gone. Please.’
Owen allowed himself one more night with his dear wife, who slept quietly in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder, entirely unaware of his plans for her. Overwhelmed by hiraeth for all that they had meant to each other, Owen hardly slept at all.
In the small hours of the following night, he got up and dressed himself quietly without disturbing Catherine who was exhausted after a painful bout of coughing. He knelt beside her and watched her in the dim light. She was breathing quietly now with her eyelids, pale as parchment, closed over her lovely eyes. His Catrin. He had never loved her more than he did in this moment of parting. Catrin, his wife, his dearest love, more precious to him than anything. He wanted to touch her cheek but didn’t dare run the risk of waking her. So he bent his head, closed his eyes, and prayed that he would find the children. He knew that if he didn’t, he would lose her.
He let himself out of the house as quietly as he could, grateful for a dry, moonlit night as he prepared for his journey. It was almost dawn and he would make good time as soon as it was light in the east. Swinging himself up into the saddle, he turned his horse’s head towards the south. He had to trust the animal to stay on the road because he could see nothing through a veil of tears.
At first, Abbot John Bromley of Bermondsey took some persuading that Master Owen Tudor was a representative of Her Royal Highness the Dowager Queen Catherine. He claimed to be her Clerk of the Wardrobe, no less. Travel-stained and weary, Owen was not at all the kind of person whom the Abbot would have expected to be the bearer of a message about the Queen’s illness and her need for treatment. The man couldn’t even rightly describe what was wrong with Her Highness, except that she was excessively melancholy and her worries were having a devastating effect on her health.
Owen delved around in his scrip for evidence of his credentials and was relieved to find a receipt from the royal cordwainer for a pair of Her Highness’s shoes. Astounded, the Abbot realised that this dirty-looking messenger really was who he claimed to be and that he genuinely was making arrangements on behalf of the Queen. And he’d assured him that Cardinal Beaufort would be certain to visit the patient, as might her son the King. How exciting to think that the monastery would soon have another royal patient! It had been a long time since the last one. He must make plans.
After leaving Bermondsey, Owen headed back across London Bridge, straight for St Paul’s Cross and Maredydd and Emma’s house. They were delighted to see him though Maredydd had heard nothing about the children and knew nothing of their whereabouts. Even the sociable, gossipy Emma had heard nothing and they were both appalled by Owen’s account of Edmund and Jasper’s abduction and how Catherine’s health had deteriorated so rapidly because of it.
‘Melancholy,’ said Maredydd. ‘Bile. That’s what causes it. Black bile. She should drink a spoonful of the juice of the mallow each morning, boiled in water. Saffron is beneficial, too, they say.’
‘Who says?’
‘Meddygon Myddfai,’ said Maredydd. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten them? The Physicians of Myddfai are much talked about here in London nowadays. People say there’s nothing they can’t cure.’
Owen brightened visibly. Of course he remembered. And that was the answer. The celebrated Welsh physicians would cure Catherine of the black bile that tormented her, he was sure of that. He would take her to see them, just as soon as he had found Edmund and Jasper.
He took his leave of Maredydd and Emma, thanking them for their many kindnesses, waving aside their apologies for not being able to offer him a bed for lack of room in their small house.
In Bermondsey two weeks later, Abbot John Bromley ordered a great peal of bells to be rung for Her Highness the Queen and monks were summoned from all parts of the monastery to greet her.
Expected to process into the monastery church of St Saviour and kneel before the crucifix to pray, Catherine somehow managed to get through a service and endured some interminable singing by a group of choristers. One of the older boys looked so like little Edmund that her heart raced and for a moment she almost believed it could be Thomas. Then reason prevailed. Thomas was growing up as a foundling in the monastery at Westminster, not here in Bermondsey. She prayed then that Troutbeck had been right when she’d promised that Owen would come to Bermondsey soon, with news of the boys. As the service came to an end, Abbot Bromley gave Catherine his blessing and sprinkled holy water over her. He didn’t seem to notice that she could barely stand.
At the Abbot’s table after the service, the royal guest picked politely at a small amount of the food on her trencher before pleading extreme tiredness. Joanna Troutbeck helped her to bed in the best room the monastery could offer where, lulled by the scent of beeswax and incense, she fell immediately and soundly asleep.
Wanting to reflect on the events of the days gone by, Owen was taking a late-night walk by the waters of the Thames. He had found himself board and lodging at a nearby inn and had left his horse with the ostler there. It was good to be back in London, even though it was necessary to be circumspect in moving about the town, trying to pick up scraps of gossip. It had been good to see Maredydd, too, and it was rather touching that he had become a family man in middle age and had filled his small house with children, six daughters, his days of sowing wild oats long gone. He seemed very happy but had confided in Owen his only regret which was that, having had more experience with the sword than with the pen, he would find it difficult to make a record for posterity of the brave exploits of his father, Owain Glyndŵr. And because Emma couldn’t see the point of educating girls, his daughters were hardly likely to do so either.
Suddenly, Owen was on the ground, pinned down and winded by the weight of an attacker.
‘What the hell …?’
It was pitch dark and he couldn’t see his assailant. Neither could he tell how many men had attacked him.
‘Orders, mate. You’re to come with us. We’ve got a nice little college in mind for you and we’re going to bang you up in there for a couple of weeks, just to give you a bit of education.’
‘What? Are you arresting me? What for? What have I done?’
‘You’re Welsh and you’re out of doors after dark. That’s enough.’
‘But I’ve got my letters of denizenship! I’ve had them for four years. I have as many rights as an Englishman.’
‘You’ll never be fit to lick the arse of an Englishman! Once a Welsh bastard, always a Welsh bastard. Besides, you’ve been messing about where you shouldn’t ‘ave been, ‘aven’t you? Thinking yourself good enough to screw ‘Er ‘Ighness the Queen! Ha! There’s a law against that, you know, you ignorant Welsh bastard.’
The thick-set thug who had been kneeling on him got up suddenly and yanked Owen up with him, bending his left arm painfully behind his back. Another seized his right arm and he was unceremoniously frog-marched up Newgate Street and thrown into the notorious building at the end of it.
Whittington’s College, of course! That was the name the wags of the London underworld had given to Newgate Jail since it had been rebuilt with money bequeathed by Richard Whittington. Lying in the dark on a slimy stone floor, Owen realised what his attackers had meant by ‘a nice little college’. He wondered as he lay shackled in filth and darkness, grimacing at the stench of the place, what Emma, so well connected to the late Lord Mayor, would have made of it.
In Bermondsey, Catherine awoke to the sound of the monastery bell. Joanna Troutbeck smiled at her.
‘Good morning, Your Highness. You’ve slept well. It’s nine of the clock.’
‘Good morning! Was that the bell ringing for Terce, Troutbeck? Why, surely, it’s alm
ost time to wish me “Good Afternoon”!
‘No matter, my Lady. You have rested. That is all that matters.’
‘Indeed I have and I feel refreshed. Troutbeck, please, fetch my robe. I would like to dictate a letter. Perhaps you will …’
‘No, Ma’am, I don’t feel confident enough in my writing. I will ask if one of the monks can take your dictation.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sure Abbot Bromley will recommend someone. In the meantime, I think I could manage to eat a little frumenty.’
The letter which Catherine later dictated to Brother Osbert was addressed to Cardinal Beaufort. His London residence was also in the parish of Southwark and she suddenly wanted to see him very much. Once the message had been dispatched she knew that if he was in London, she wouldn’t have long to wait.
The Cardinal was shocked at the sight of her though he tried not to show it. Pregnancy was distorting her slender frame and she looked as though she harboured a monster which was consuming her from within. She was emaciated and gaunt and though Troutbeck had done her best, she lacked poor Guillemote’s talents as a hairdresser and Catherine’s once-glorious hair was coarse, lacklustre, and streaked with grey.
‘Your Highness! Catherine, my dear. I came as soon as I received your message. I had no idea that you were in Bermondsey. I would have been here to welcome you …’
‘My Lord Uncle! I’m so pleased to see you.’
‘How are you, my Lady?’
‘I am very unwell. My babies … they’ve … they’ve taken them away from me and I don’t know where they are. And Owen … I fear the worst.’ Catherine had hoped to control her tears but found she couldn’t.
Henry Beaufort laid his hand very gently on her head as she wept and his heart ached for her in her grief. So, everything he had had heard was true. It was widely rumoured that Humphrey of Gloucester had somehow found out about Catherine’s marriage and, in his fury, had ordered that her children should be seized. Beaufort, who could scarcely believe that anyone would do such a monstrous thing, also knew that Owen was a marked man, wanted for the crime of marrying the Queen without royal consent. But he did have some information which he knew would please Catherine and he was certain of it because, though he had come by it in a roundabout way, at least he had it at first hand.
Root of the Tudor Rose Page 35
