He had met William de la Pole, the Earl of Suffolk, a few days ago at a policy meeting of the King’s Council. Henry was wary of Suffolk; not for nothing was he nicknamed ‘Jackanapes’. He knew the man for a boaster and he naturally mistrusted anyone who was friendly with Gloucester. Making sociable conversation after the meeting, Henry had casually asked after de la Pole’s sister, Katherine, and de la Pole had boasted that she was in charge of the King’s half-brothers these days. That had struck Henry as very odd but he’d presumed that there was a good reason for it. Now he knew.
He put his finger under Catherine’s chin and lifted her face to look at him. ‘Don’t upset yourself too much, my dear Lady. I do have some good news for you. I know where your children are and they are in good hands.’
Catherine clutched at his sleeve. ‘Oh, please, tell me. Tell me. Where are they? Who is looking after them?’
Beaufort patted her hand reassuringly. ‘They have been taken to the abbey at Barking and are in the care of the Abbess. I know her quite well. She is a good woman. She’ll make sure that the children are well looked after and will come to no harm.’
Catherine was crying with relief and gratitude, unable to speak.
‘But, as for your husband … well, I’ll see what I can find out. I will make enquiries.’
‘Oh God,’ Catherine sobbed, ‘I can’t bear to think that he might … he might be …’
‘My dear Lady, if you feel strong enough, you would do well to write to the King, your son, as soon as possible for your husband’s sake. It is your best hope. I feel sure that His Majesty’s tender love towards you will not permit him to see you suffer like this. It would break his heart …’He took Catherine’s hand, held it gently between both of his and added ‘… as it breaks mine.’
The Cardinal helped her to compose the message to the King and promised that he would have it delivered as soon as he could. Catherine signed it and he pressed his ring into the warm sealing wax, feeling certain that the King would come to Bermondsey in search of his mother at the first opportunity.
It was hopeless. As long as he was here in Newgate, Owen would never know whether Catherine had reached the monastery at Bermondsey in safety and could only pray that, if she had, her health would improve under the care of the Benedictine monks. He must find a way of escaping from this hell hole and find the children, then he would take them all to Wales, first to Myddfai where Catherine would be fully restored to health by the famous physicians, then to Anglesey, among his people, where she and the children could enjoy the wild beauty of the mountains and be enchanted by the music and poetry of the bards. He tried, in his memory, to hear those half-forgotten rhythms and sweet cadences once again but they were drowned out in the darkness by the ugly noises of men snoring, cursing, and shouting abuse.
How ashamed his great kinsman Owain Glyndŵr would have been to think that a member of his own noble family had been jumped on from behind and wrestled to the ground like a common cutpurse. And how distraught Catherine would be if she could see him now, a prisoner, lying shackled on this stinking floor in the dead of night.
The King didn’t notice that the monastery had been scrubbed and waxed in his honour but he pleased Abbot Bromley greatly by agreeing to attend midday mass when he arrived at Bermondsey a few days later. On his knees in the little church of St Saviour, Henry prayed silently but fervently for his mother’s return to health. Then he visited her in her room and was shocked by what he saw.
Catherine lay on her bed, deathly pale and still but she struggled to sit upright when her son entered the room.
‘Maman, please, don’t. Stay where you are comfortable, don’t move. My learned uncle the Cardinal told me that you were ill but I didn’t realise … I thought … perhaps …’
‘I am gravely ill, Henry,’ said Catherine, falling back on to her pillows. ‘I am sorely troubled both in mind and in body. I have been suffering these several months with something … lethargy … a painful cough … no one seems to know … the doctors try to leech me and Owen tries to stop them …’
‘How is he? How is Master Tudor?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how he is or where he is. I can only pray to God that he is alive. All I know is that he was trying to bring me news of our boys, Edmund and Jasper. I know now that they are being cared for in the Abbey at Barking but I’ll never get well again as long as I am parted from them. It was so cruel …’
Henry grimaced. He knew something of his uncle’s persecution of his mother and her husband, she had told him of it herself. But the Duke of Gloucester was still a figure of authority in his young life and, not quite fifteen years old, he was not entirely sure how to deal with the problem.
‘You’re wearing your wedding ring now, Maman, quite openly.’
‘Oh yes, there’s no pretence any more. Everyone knows that Owen and I are married in the eyes of God and His holy church.’
‘And my brothers are acknowledged.’
‘Yes, acknowledged, but stolen from me. And how I wish that I could see my husband and my children together.’ Tears came unbidden. ‘All my children. I know you would love your brothers as I do and I know they would love you. As I do,’ she added, so quietly that he strained to hear her. ‘As I have always done.’
Awkwardly, Henry took her hand in his. ‘I know, Maman,’ he said. ‘I should never have lost sight of that love, even though matters of kingship came between us.’
‘Henry, it wasn’t just matters of kingship. Everything, everyone came between us … forced us apart. I should never have allowed it, I should have been stronger. It’s all my fault. I should have listened to your father and not flown in the face of a prophecy.’
‘Prophecy?’
‘Prophecy, yes. Your father wanted you to be born in Westminster, he tried to insist upon it but, when the time came, he was in France and I … I was in Windsor. I didn’t think it mattered. That’s when everything started to go wrong … it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’
‘Shhh, Maman. What was the prophecy?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember the exact words. Something like “… Henry, born at Monmouth, shall small time reign and much get; but Henry of Windsor shall long reign and … and … lose all. But as God wills, so be it”.’
‘But that wasn’t a Biblical prophecy so it doesn’t count for anything. My father should not have taken any notice of the ramblings of some old soothsayer. It is clearly not God’s will, Maman, we should ignore it.’
‘But I could so easily have ensured that you would be “Henry of Westminster” and not “Henry of Windsor”. Don’t you see? It’s my fault. I was arrogant and selfish. And now I’m paying for my selfishness.’
‘Then let us pray, Maman, that our Blessed Lord will forgive you. For my part, I will try my best not to be the “Henry of Windsor that shall long reign and lose all”.’ Come, Maman, dry your eyes now and close them. You must rest. I will come to see you again soon.’
Catherine was exhausted and longing for sleep but it was denied her. She was tormented again by the words of that old prophecy. Her son had said that he would try his best not to be the Henry who would lose all but, already, her brother Charles had claimed the throne of France; the Treaty of Arras had reconciled all the warring factions of the French royal family but excluded the English. France was lost and everything that her first husband had fought for and died for was slipping away … slipping away into darkness and oblivion.
It was soothing throughout Advent to be aware of the monks in the chapel of St Saviour celebrating mass five times a day. Advent coincided with the period of Catherine’s lying-in and she was close to her time now. Margery Wagstaff seemed quite certain in her prediction of a Christmas baby though she had confided in Joanna Troutbeck that she was very concerned about the Queen’s health. This time, Catherine found it easy to comply with the midwife’s instructions to stay in her bed. She couldn’t have got dressed up as a pilgrim and gone running about the countryside any more tha
n she could have flown out of the window into the cold December air.
She wrote again to the King, anxious to greet him on his birthday. She also wanted to make him aware of the terms of her will, which she was dictating to the nun brought in to provide some relief for Margery Wagstaff. Sister Annunciata wrote in her elegant hand:
The last will of Queen Catherine, made unto our sovereign lord, her son, upon her departing out of this world …
The nun looked up. ‘But, Your Highness, we pray for your complete recovery.’
‘Sister, I thank you for your prayers. Believe me that I, too, pray. No one prays more earnestly than I do for the chance to see my children again, and my dear husband. But, unless I see them soon, I fear I will die. So it is sensible, surely, to leave some indication of my wishes after my death. Now, please … continue …’
Sister Annunciata bent to her work again, the silence broken only by the sound of her quill scratching across the parchment and Catherine’s quiet, rambling voice.
Right high and mighty prince and my entirely beloved son … I commend me to your Highness … that before the silent and fearful conclusion of this long, grievous malady, in the which I have been long and yet am, troubled and vexed … by the visitation of God (to whom be thanks in all his gifts) …
After a long pause, Sister Annunciata looked up to find Catherine fast asleep. Oh well, writing wills was a depressing business. They could always continue it tomorrow if the Queen felt up to it.
By St Thomas’ Day, the last will and testament of “Her Highness Queen Catherine, daughter of King Charles of France and mother of the King of England” had been written, signed, and witnessed. It made no mention of her husband, Owen Tudor, nor of their children. It was almost as though she was so accustomed to hiding this, her second family, that she dared not commit their names to paper, trusting her son the King to remember what she had told him.
Christmas came in a haze of warmth and goodwill and distant liturgical music. Veni Emmanuel, the monks sang in the chapel of St Saviour towards the end of Advent. Then, as Christmas Day dawned, she heard a carol she had never heard before, a gentle description of the Virgin mother singing to her baby. I saw a sweet seemly sight, came the voices of the monks. Lully, lullay, baw, baw, my bairn, sleep softly now.
Her own bairn came into the world on the first day of the New Year, 1437. Racked with pain and fever for two days and nights, Catherine’s body had fought and sweated to deliver the child and she was left exhausted. Sister Annunciata took the baby and cleaned it, listening for a faint heartbeat. She was very afraid that the little girl was too weak to cling on to life so she was anxious to baptise her, then find a priest to grant her absolution before she met her Maker. Dimly aware of a faint mewling cry, Catherine smiled without opening her eyes as the child was put into her arms.
‘Your little daughter, Your Highness. She is beautiful. What is she to be called?’
Catherine opened her parched lips to speak but her voice was barely audible. ‘Owen’s little girl …’
‘Yes, but what is her name, Ma’am? A name. I need to know.’
‘… his mother’s name.’
‘Yes?’
‘Marged.’
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am?’
‘Marged.’
‘I will see to it that she is baptised,’ said the nun. ‘Try to sleep now, my Lady.’
Margery Wagstaff was washing her arms, high up over the elbows. It had been another difficult birth and there was a bluish tinge to the baby’s skin that Margery didn’t like the look of at all. She didn’t hold out much hope that the little one would pull through.
‘What’s the baby to be called?’ she asked.
‘I’m not quite sure what Her Highness said. Her voice was very weak. It sounded like Margaret.’
‘Margaret it is then,’ said Margery Wagstaff. ‘Probably doesn’t make much difference anyway. As long as the poor little mite has a name to give Saint Peter when she reaches the Gates of Heaven.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be long before she makes that journey,’ said the nun, dipping her fingers into the Holy Water.
‘And I don’t think her poor mother will be far behind her,’ said Margery Wagstaff, drying her hands before crossing herself.
Catherine was dimly aware of someone sitting at the end of the bed and tried to speak. Joanna Troutbeck rose from her seat and dipped a cloth into a little wine to moisten Catherine’s lips. She would wait for Catherine to ask her about the baby before telling her that the child had died. Better to distract the Queen rather than upset her.
‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘A gift has arrived for you from your son the King.’ Catherine opened her eyes but said nothing. ‘Yes, Your Highness, a most generous gift. Look, a tablet of gold with a crucifix set with pearls and sapphires. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.’ She took the ornament out of its box. ‘See, my Lady, it was bought of John Pattesby, the goldsmith, and he works with only the very finest gold. It must have cost His Highness the King a very great deal of money.’
Catherine closed her eyes again as Troutbeck prattled on. Money! What was the use of money? No amount of money could buy her the pleasure of seeing the look of wonder on Owen’s face when he held little Marged in his arms. But God only knew where Owen was and the baby was dead. She knew that without being told.
Her eyes remained closed but her mind took flight. How different, she wondered, would her life have been if she had made sure of being in Westminster for the birth of her first child, the heir to the throne? Would her husband the King have lived? And if he had lived, would he still be ruling over England and France with not only one heir but a palace full of healthy children? After all, that was the only thing required of a royal wife. It was no life, really, even though it was seen as the romantic ideal in every fairy tale she had ever been told; the pretty princess marries the handsome prince and they live happily ever after. But if that had happened and Henry had enjoyed a long and successful reign, she would never have known the absolute joy of loving and being loved by Owen Tudor. And there would have been no Tacinda and Thomas, no Edmund and Jasper … and Marged. Poor little Marged; no sooner had the Lord opened her eyes than He’d closed them again. Catherine hadn’t been allowed to keep her, either.
Sister Annunciata took the small body of the dead child and wrapped it tenderly in a winding sheet. She looked down at the little, untroubled face and thought how easy it was to imagine the child asleep. This tiny baby, unsullied and without sin, would be certain of a place in the Kingdom of Heaven. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the Kingdom of God …’ Nevertheless, she dropped a warm kiss onto the baby’s cold forehead before covering its face.
Margery Wagstaff took over from Joanna Troutbeck while Catherine was sleeping and soon found herself dozing in the warm room. The silence was deep and profound as monarch and midwife slept, their job done, their energies spent.
The Queen slept fitfully throughout the night and well into the next day. She would have occasional lucid moments and at other times the three women who attended her would struggle to make sense of what she was saying. Now and then her thin frame would be racked by a spasm of coughing and there was blood on the cloth that Margery Wagstaff used to clean her mouth.
Now, as midnight approached, it was Sister Annunciata’s turn to sit with Catherine. She wasn’t sure how much the Queen was aware of or, indeed, whether she was able to hear her at all, but she read to her from her own Book of Hours. These were Catherine’s favourite prayers, her most personal thoughts. Towards dawn, the candle was guttering unsteadily and the nun’s plump chin had dropped on to her chest. She woke with a start as she heard Catherine’s voice and found the Queen smiling at her with a strange look in her eyes.
‘Sister Supplice,’ she murmured. ‘I knew you’d come for me. Take my hand. I’m ready to go now.’
The nun reached out and covered Catherine’s hand with her own.
Appendix I – Historical footnote
After Catherine died, Gloucester had Owen summoned before the Council which found him innocent of his alleged offences and he was released. He set out for Wales but he wasn’t to escape Gloucester’s vindictive persecution that easily. Again he was arrested and consigned to Newgate a second time but, having wounded his guard, he managed to escape. Recaptured yet again, the prisoner was then transferred to Windsor Castle where, in November 1439, he was eventually granted a complete pardon, thereafter becoming a respected member of the royal household.
Henry VI did not inherit his father’s talents for strong kingship; rather he was over-pious, weak, and indecisive. He was also given to bouts of mental collapse, like his French grandfather. His reign was dominated by the sporadic civil war known as the Wars of the Roses, in which claims to the throne were fought over by the rival houses of Lancaster and York whose emblems were the red rose and the white rose respectively. Henry’s only son, Edward, was the sole Lancastrian heir but he lost his life at the age of seventeen, fighting his father’s cause in the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471. Henry, who had been imprisoned in the Tower of London since 1465, was himself put to death shortly after the death of his son.
Owen and Catherine’s children, Edmund (known as Edmund of Hadham) and Jasper (Jasper of Hatfield), remained in the care of Katherine de la Pole, the Abbess of Barking, until 1442 when they were eventually brought to court. After that, the King developed a great fondness for his half-brothers and, in November 1452, he ennobled them as earls, Edmund becoming Earl of Richmond and Jasper Earl of Pembroke.
Edmund married Margaret Beaufort (the great-niece of Cardinal Henry Beaufort) and she was six months pregnant when her husband died of the plague at Carmarthen in November 1456. The thirteen-year-old Margaret turned to Edmund’s brother for protection and it was in Jasper’s castle at Pembroke that she gave birth on the twenty-eighth of January 1457 to Edmund’s son Henry, who was destined to become King Henry VII.
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