Blood Royal

by Vanora Bennett

  It was strange to be back in England – not as Queen, with at least the possibility of winning the respect of her new subjects (though she’d never felt that was a very likely prospect), but as Queen Mother – an old woman’s position, she thought bewilderedly, whose importance would dwindle with every passing year; an acknowledgement that, at twenty-one, the best days of her life were over. True, it didn’t feel very different from being Queen yet – she’d been ignored or bossed around before Henry died, too. The only difference now was that there was a little more edge to both being ignored and bossed around, though it was all still very polite; and she knew she’d have no one to complain to if it did stop being polite.

  Yet, strangely enough, being reunited with Harry after the strange emptiness of those months of separation seemed reward enough. They’d have nearly seven years together, she and her son, just as they were, living together, each with their little household. Each day would be a blessing. Her thoughts wouldn’t move beyond that time, not yet. It was long enough. There was too much to get used to as things were. If she were really honest, she couldn’t make herself imagine any time period beyond the next few weeks or months; beyond the small hope in a corner of her heart that somehow she’d find a way to get rid of the obnoxious Mistress Ryman. (Mistress Ryman was full of unpleasant ideas and harsh notions: she liked to swaddle Harry so tight in the evenings that he could scarcely move, to keep him docile; and she insisted that it was undignified and unqueenly for Catherine to sit on the floor and play with her son.)

  Still, Catherine knew she’d have to be strong and watchful of events outside the nursery. The tussles of the dukes that she’d suspected would come had started already. The Council of England had taken one look at Henry’s will and decided that it would be asking for trouble to let Duke Humphrey, the harsher, more capricious, younger royal brother, have the complete control over little Harry’s person and over England that the dead King had stipulated. So they’d overridden Henry’s will. This was largely because Duke John, writing from France, had made plain that he didn’t want his little brother to be given too much power back in England, and no one else wanted to annoy the older royal Duke. It was Bishop Beaufort who’d masterminded the change and got the Council to limit Duke Humphrey’s power. Under the new rules set out by the Bishop and Council, no single person – by which they meant Duke Humphrey – could substitute for the King until Harry was old enough to exercise royal power for himself. Instead of Duke Humphrey being considered the Protector, the Council and Parliament were to reign collectively. Duke Humphrey would open and close the Parliament next month that would formalise little Harry’s inheritance of the crown, but only because the older Duke John was away and the Council had given Humphrey permission to act on his infant nephew’s behalf.

  That wasn’t what Duke Humphrey wanted. Catherine had observed him hurting at being deprived of absolute power. She could see it in the twitch of his bulging eyelids; in the extra effort he made to bow and hand her into her seat, and ask after her health, consciously and a little pompously, projecting power and affability though such courtesies came unnaturally to him. He was a stocky, bluff man with weather-beaten cheeks, a booming voice and a habit of breaking into conversations with an opinion that would always be forcefully expressed, but might not always be wise. He was uncomfortably aware that his appearance struck some people as funny: his great lion’s head and deep voice; his short stumpy legs. There was nothing he hated more than being ridiculed.

  Still, he was the man she had to obey, and she needed to look gracious about it. Not that there was anything very hard to stomach in the orders she was hearing now. She’d already settled in at Windsor with Harry and begun the job of displacing Mistress Ryman. All he was telling her now was that she’d have to pay for that privilege out of her widow’s dower.

  It was only when he got to how much she’d have to pay that she began to feel shocked. ‘My brother’s will leaves you well provided for,’ Duke Humphrey was saying. ‘You will keep your own suite of retainers, separate from His Majesty’s household but attendant on His Majesty at all times until his seventh birthday. Since you will be sharing living quarters you will be expected to contribute seven pounds a day to the shared household expenses.’

  Catherine was glad of the seat’s hard back propping her up. Seven pounds a day. That would come to more than £2,500 a year – or more than a third of the total income from the various estates in England and Wales and France that had been settled on her. It would be enough to pay for both households. She’d probably be paying, out of her own purse, for the entire running expenses of the King’s household, saving the treasury the cost of an expense that England should rightfully have paid.

  She had no idea whether this was genuinely Henry’s wish, or just Duke Humphrey driving a hard and rather dishonest bargain of his own. She hadn’t been shown Henry’s will, so there was no way of judging. She had no choice. Submissively, she nodded.

  Mopping his brow, and grinning for the first time – he couldn’t control himself enough to hide his relief that she’d knuckled under, she thought, with quiet resentment – Duke Humphrey went on, ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, your principal duty will be to bring up His Majesty to understand his French kingdom as fully as his English one … speak French with him … tell him …’ he paused, flummoxed, ‘well, French stories. Sing him French songs. That sort of thing.’

  She lowered her head. Her lips were twitching. She wondered whether Humphrey had any idea how many French songs and stories and histories were about the English, or how unflattering they were. But she didn’t think it would be politic to explain that. So she just nodded again. She was aware of his relief at the ease with which she took orders.

  Perhaps as a reward for her obedience, he went on, ‘I’ve – we’ve – drawn up lists of household members for both of you. If there are names you want included or left out, please make your preferences known.’

  He held out a sheaf of papers. Glancing at the top sheet, she saw columns of names and wages for Harry’s personal women servants – ungenerous wages, too, for tending the King. After Mistress Ryman, she read: ‘Joan Astley, nurse, £20 a year. Matilda Fosbroke, £10 …’ ‘Mistress Ryman,’ she began hesitantly, testing his offer. Perhaps, after all, she could begin to exercise a little control over her life. ‘She was very useful while I was away. But, with all these others coming now, is there any need for Mistress Ryman any more? I’m back, after all?’

  But Duke Humphrey only tut-tutted and looked vaguely irritated. ‘Done an excellent job for the past six months. Good housekeeper. You’ll need her,’ he said briskly, remembering to smile mid-sentence.

  There was no room for manoeuvre then. Catherine suppressed the sigh she’d have given if on her own, and approved the rest of the appointments, clearly designed to fill the household with Duke Humphrey’s men, doing no more than to run her eye down each of the sheets and nod, even though she knew Sir Robert Babthorpe, named here as steward, would have a hard time doing the job, since he was actually in France as the English army’s paymaster, and Lord Fitzhugh, the former treasurer of England, named on the list as Harry’s chamberlain, was far too old for the work. It was true what people said about Duke Humphrey, then: he liked to control things, but he wasn’t very good at working out how.

  It was only when she got to the less political list, of staff who would work in her own household, that she noticed one name that startled her. There, below the familiar Walter Beauchamp, her chief steward from before, and George Arthurton, the clerk of her closet, and various others she knew or at least half-remembered, was an insertion. It had been made late, by a different hand from the one that had written most of the list.

  ‘Ahh … someone new?’ she said carefully, holding out the document but making sure not to startle Duke Humphrey, or let him think his authority was being questioned in any way.

  Duke Humphrey took the parchment and paused while he deciphered the name. ‘Oh! Yes … Tudor,’ he
vouchsafed, and the too-wide smile seemed to be held on artificially. ‘My uncle of Beaufort’s man. Bishop Beaufort, that is. My uncles were keen to help staff your household; put a few of their own men in. Keep everyone happy. Balance of power. Tudor volunteered.’ Humphrey harrumphed out something that was half-sigh, half-laugh. ‘Not really a soldier, Owain Tudor. We thought he would be early on; he bagged a big fish at Azincourt.’ Humphrey stopped, perhaps remembering that the prisoner he was talking of with such disrespect would be Catherine’s blood, some close cousin, someone she might conceivably love. Collecting himself, he went on: ‘But after that – nothing. Now he’s thinking about the Church, but can’t bring himself to take the plunge. A lightweight.’ Duke Humphrey’s next thought amused him hugely. He spluttered: ‘A poet, too!’ and caught Catherine’s eye as he rocked with laughter over his final joke: ‘And a Welshman to boot!’ He sobered himself, though he couldn’t resist adding mockingly: ‘Well, what can you say? A Welshman, but he’s taken my uncle’s fancy.’

  She smiled back. ‘I know him,’ she said gently; ‘a little.’

  ‘Good with paperwork, though; might be a decent administrator,’ Duke Humphrey finished benignly. ‘Got him down as keeper of your household. Only if you want him, of course.’

  Catherine’s head was full of the words ‘he volunteered’. They rang like bells. She couldn’t understand how she could be still standing there, talking courteously with this threatening buffoon as if the sun and moon hadn’t shifted on their course; as if, in her lonely, shadowed universe, a little more light hadn’t suddenly started to glimmer. He volunteered.

  At her noncommittal nod, Duke Humphrey came round from behind his side of the enormous table, which was scattered with papers. He was still beaming, but more naturally now.

  ‘Well, that’s it then,’ he observed with satisfaction. ‘All sorted out.’ He moved closer, offering her an arm to help her rise from her seat. ‘For now, anyway.’ She was on her feet now, but he didn’t move away. She was uncomfortably aware of the big pores on his face; the slight odour of onions and beef fat. He lowered his face closer, still grinning. She was glad of the two clerks writing away at the end of the table. ‘Though all too soon we’ll have to start thinking about the Queen Mother’s marriage, eh?’ he said, chuckling again until the whiskers on his chin were almost touching her cheek.

  Catherine stopped herself from stepping back until she’d flattered him by saying neutrally, ‘I will be advised by Your Grace. Naturally. When the time comes. When I am no longer in grief for my lord.’

  It was the best she could do. As she sank her head, gathered her skirts and prepared to leave the room, he tightened his arm on her waist, patted her hand awkwardly, and said, with the roughness of a man not used to flirting, ‘… a shame for such a pretty face to be hidden away behind veils for too long.’

  She hardly took the words in. She was floating. My old friend, she was thinking, almost singing with relief and something else she found it easier not to name or think about. He volunteered.

  They walked in the rose garden, between the gnarled skeletons of bushes, ignoring the snow. Owain was in black. The pointed hood of his scapular stretched down his back. His head was shaved. She could see the roughness of the linen on his sleeve. He’d been wearing those robes ever since she’d come across him again in England, she knew. But she was more aware of them now. Something in him had changed, become more unyielding, and the monk’s habit seemed to symbolise the distance he was putting between them.

  Timidly, she glanced sideways and upwards at his face, tight-boned now, stripped of its youthful softness and optimism. She could hardly believe how light-headed with relief even the sight of him made her.

  ‘I’ve thought about you a great deal,’ he said, and although those were gentle words there was nothing especially gentle about his delivery of them. ‘You’re a widow in an unfamiliar place, in unstable times. We both know why that is frightening. You told me how vulnerable you feel; you asked for my help. If you still want that help, I’ve made it available. If you so wish, my Bishop is quite happy for my secondment to your household to last the full seven years you share living quarters with Harry – that is, six years from now.’

  She bowed her head, so nervous of saying the wrong thing that she found her voice dropping almost to a whisper. She replied: ‘Yes … Duke Humphrey said … I’ve accepted, with pleasure …’

  She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. He looked away.

  ‘The post suits me,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘I owed everything to …’ Owain’s voice tailed off. Bleakly, he crossed himself. ‘… King Henry,’ he finished. ‘He helped me through my time of troubles; he showed me the way to a new life. It seems fitting to me that I should serve his son and his widow now.’

  She was chilled and a little surprised by his tough, businesslike demeanour. He was making plain that he’d made a man’s decision. He was telling her he was here not because he loved her, but because he’d loved Henry.

  She still felt lucky he was here. Protected. He would advise her; they would talk; for years and years to come she would have him to confide in. Perhaps they might become friends.

  She nodded gratefully, not daring to speak.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to serve you and your son in that time,’ he went on. ‘The Bishop’s delayed my going to the Augustinians until after I leave you, even though I’m still to prepare myself … spend time at my devotions … wear the habit. God will wait seven years for me.’

  He smiled his hard new smile. Breathlessly, eager to find her way to obeying the new rules he was setting out, she began to try to laugh with him.

  ‘Then,’ Owain’s voice ground on, ‘you’ll marry. They’ll find you someone of your own rank.’

  There was no chivalry in his voice, no yearning. All that was gone. If anything he sounded irritated. Perhaps he’d thought her breathy giggle flirtatious and out of place. He added baldly: ‘So there are no misunderstandings …’ he looked away before he finished, ‘… we won’t be lovers.’

  The word ‘lovers’ felt like a slap in the face. But she hid her shock; lowered her eyes. For a moment the beginnings of indignation pulsed through her. She’d surely done nothing to deserve … suggest … she hadn’t meant … how dare he … Then she sighed. She did deserve it. There was the past, what could she call it, indiscretion … She felt her mind avoid calling it up. And, if she were really honest with herself, she might even have wondered whether in the future, too … It would always be hard to talk to this man without a thought, a memory at least, of bodily attraction. But, if she were to keep him and his goodwill – and she needed to, for there’d be no one who didn’t want to use her now she was so weak– she would have to try to put all that aside. She needed all the friends she could get.

  She muttered: ‘Of course.’ She shivered. She sensed he wasn’t even planning to become a friend; just a dutiful servant, waiting quietly for the day he could leave. But even that would be better than nothing. It was a time for making do with what there was.

  PART SIX

  The Book of the Body Politic

  ONE

  Both Catherine and Owain knew the household of the new Queen Mother of England would be no place for lovers.

  For the first few months that the infant King and his mother and their new entourages lived at Windsor, and Wallingford, and the other castles of the Thames Valley, in their tightly swaddled child-world of milk and napkins and isolation from whatever passed for entertainment for adults of the court elsewhere in England, it seemed it might scarcely even be a place for friends.

  Catherine still barely knew most of her servants, and was kept at a distance by her slowness to master their customs and language. The only person she did know, Owain, kept at his own formal distance. Catherine busied herself with her son, spending most of her waking hours with Harry in the nursery, evading Mistress Ryman when she could. Outside his working hours, Owain kept himself occupied with his studie
s or his prayers. At least, Catherine had to assume that, since Owain shut himself up in his rooms or somewhere else out of her sight, and never came out.

  Yet Catherine didn’t let her courage altogether fail her. She told herself that this more austere Owain was helping shape Harry’s life, just as she’d asked. She should be grateful for what she’d been given. If he’d found something else to make the centre of his life – the wish to serve God, not her – she had to respect his wishes. Catherine knew now, had known all along really, that Owain had been right from the start about the shaming proposition she’d once made to him. Her royal blood would always have stood between them; she could no more have loved him than a dog could love a cat. She’d been a child. She’d hated him for shutting her out, and taken a cruel revenge, but he’d been right to know his place, and remind her of it.

  She tried to remember that, and be contented with her lot.

  Her intuition – that having Owain Tudor near was better than not having him at all, and that there was at least the possibility that they would draw comfort from each other’s presence eventually, if their shared embarrassment about some of the moments they must both remember from the past could be overcome – seemed, as the first year wore on, to be being borne out by reality. Catherine was impressed to see that, as Duke Humphrey had so condescendingly remarked, Owain was a good administrator. For someone so modest and without pretensions, he kept order extraordinarily well. He never raised his voice or looked out of sorts, but Catherine’s household ran smoothly. The accounts were done, the cupboards full of food and linen, the furniture repaired, the servants paid, the gardens planted, the pottagers harvested, and Catherine’s every material need or wish anticipated and satisfied, as if by magic, down to the gorgeously scented rose petals and lavender scattered in her bath, under translucent muslin.