Blood Royal

by Vanora Bennett

  There was more. Even if he was no more than correct in his rare conversations with Catherine, Owain was so affectionate with little Harry – playing jumping and singing games with him, carving and weaving him tiny toys – that it wrung his mother’s heart. Gradually, as Harry turned one, then two, a new atmosphere came into existence between his mother and the master of her household. Not a loving one, exactly; not a friendship, quite. Nothing that would have offered true emotional satisfaction, if Catherine hadn’t been so absorbed already with raising a child. But at least a businesslike warmth.

  As Harry learned to talk, Catherine and Owain learned the ways of comradeship too: smiling stops on stairs and in corridors, careful, not unfriendly conversations, exchanges of commonplaces, asking after each other’s health, sleep, or observations about the child’s behaviour. Living in the same household, they could talk together many times a day, even if each conversation was brief.

  Every week he brought her the household accounts. Increasingly, he encouraged her to speak English, until at last she stopped being scared to open her mouth for fear her tongue would betray her. Occasionally, when Owain’s duties permitted it, they might read together. Once Owain read her the teaching of his order’s master, St Augustine of Hippo, that it was always right to pursue, intelligently, what you loved: ‘“… nothing conquers except truth, and the victory of truth is love”,’ he quoted, ‘that’s why the Augustinians pursue knowledge through their books.’ And then, so coolly that she could do nothing but swallow and look away with a brittle smile, he added, ‘That’s what I have come to see that love most genuinely is.’

  They sometimes prayed together, if she managed to find herself in the chapel when he was there. They walked together to the great hall for meals, when there were no guests to escort her. Owain personally served her food there, twice a day. Owain’s robes, as well as the chilly formality of his manner, protected them from evil tongues.

  Quietly, scarcely knowing she was doing it, Catherine treasured these moments. They were the closest she had to friendship. She knew, if she thought about it, that she’d started to wake up every morning calculating how long it would be till they met that day, and to go to sleep every night treasuring each of the day’s small memories, not just of the hours spent with her son, but also of the time with her master of the household. But she would try not to think about it; try not to admit such things to herself.

  When they put the little boy up on a horse for the first time, and he waved his fat little arms in a comical mixture of delight and terror, Catherine looked at the answering delight and amusement on Owain’s face and, taking her courage in her hands, risked more: a confidence.

  ‘You don’t think’, she ventured, ‘that riding will over-excite him?’

  Owain looked round, composing his face as he let his eyes rest lightly on her so that every trace of softness and joy disappeared, to be replaced with politeness.

  ‘Over-excite him?’ Owain repeated.

  ‘I worry …’ she hesitated. ‘They said my father went mad because he was always being over-excited when he was too small … and I don’t want Harry to …’

  Owain looked back at Harry, who sat high enough for their eyes to be at the same height. The little boy was tentatively stroking his mount’s mane and rich bay shoulders with one hand while gripping for dear life with the other. He was concentrating completely on the animal, with his lips drawn over his baby teeth and his outstretched arm moving very slowly. His legs flopped uselessly on the dark barrel of the horse’s back.

  Owain laughed and put a fond arm around the child. He lifted one of the King’s fat little legs up – it came too easily – and said, ‘You need to hold on a bit tighter than that, or you’ll come off!’

  Then, turning back to Catherine, he added in a calm adult voice: ‘Surely learning to ride can only be good for him.’

  She knew that was true really. How strange it would be not to know how. But Harry was only two …

  Still, she tried to calm her fears. At least, she did until a couple of minutes later, when Owain picked up a whip and put it into the little boy’s hand.

  ‘Here,’ he added, patting Harry as the child took the whip. ‘This can be your sword.’

  ‘Oh no!’ she cried, and snatched the whip away. Harry looked balefully at her and began to howl. She kissed him, put her arms around him; but she went on shaking her head. ‘Oh sweetheart,’ she said regretfully. ‘You’re much too small to be thinking of swords.’

  Over the wailing back, feeling Harry’s hot tears of rage wetting her gown, she looked reproachfully at Owain. ‘I want to keep him as quiet as possible,’ she said, in almost a whisper, still patting at Harry. ‘I thought you understood. I don’t want swords. I’m not even sure about horses yet. He’s so small.’

  She could see Owain turning the question over in his mind. ‘The dukes are going to turn your son into a warrior king as soon as ever they can,’ he said after a moment. ‘Don’t shut your eyes to reality.’

  ‘Well,’ she said mutinously, feeling foolish; but at the same time utterly determined not to let Harry’s mind be fuddled into the madness that had afflicted her father, if all he needed to do to avoid that was avoid doing too much, too young, ‘they haven’t got him yet. He’s mine till he’s seven. And he’s going to have peace and quiet till then.’

  Owain nodded. ‘Peace and quiet it is,’ he said, without protest. ‘No swords till he’s older.’ He put a hand on Harry’s hair. He let the ghost of his Harry smile come back onto his face. ‘But,’ he added, challenging Catherine to be braver. ‘He does like horses.’

  She laughed out loud, and Harry looked up from his wailing to see what there might be to laugh about. ‘Yes,’ she said, with relief like sunlight in her veins. ‘It’s time for him to learn to ride.’

  She sensed, in that conversation, the beginning of the small daily negotiations of friendship; the dawn of trust. While she was still shakily mastering English and learning her way around her household and country, a few moments like this – of shallows and sunlight – would be enough.

  Even with the quiet help Owain was offering in interpreting this new world; even as Catherine’s knowledge of English improved, and with it her ability to distinguish between the pale faces and strapping limbs of the English courtiers, and her understanding of their customs, dances, foods, and feuds, she still couldn’t operate politically on her own. However proficient she became at mimicking Englishness, she continued to feel as visible and vulnerable as an exotic beast – a lion, say, or a tiger, hiding in grey-green English bracken. That feeling of eyes on her made her circumspect. She couldn’t summon up the courage even to try and exert any influence on public life, except through a protector.

  But there were protectors available now. And within a few months of her return to England, the most powerful agent for change in Catherine’s life became Owain’s master, Bishop Beaufort.

  There was nothing especially saintly about Bishop Beaufort, the dead King’s uncle. He was a courtier through and through, in the worldly French mould. Tall and bowed and very thin, he had sunken cheeks below the characteristic bulging eyes of the Lancasters, and a big, ugly mouth, always twisted up at the corner, ready to smile. Yet the impression he gave was not of ugliness. For all the sardonic good humour of his expression, the knowing quips that fell from his tongue and the flashes of cunning she could see, every now and then, in his eyes there was a nobility about him that she appreciated. He was learned, subtle and polished. The Bishop always showed respectful courtesy to Owain, despite his own incomparably higher rank; Catherine even thought he might be privately grateful to Owain for bringing him into the orbit of the Queen Mother. In her turn, she was equally grateful to Owain for bringing her into close contact with the cleric whose smooth poise would help her through Harry’s childhood. No wonder the Pope had wanted to steal Bishop Beaufort to Rome to wear a Cardinal’s hat, Catherine thought. Like Owain, she felt safe in his presence.

  The Bi
shop made a point of coming to stay wherever Queen Mother and King had established themselves, and celebrating Mass in her chapel. He’d eat – he might be a churchman but he didn’t stint himself – and laugh, though only a little, about Duke Humphrey’s frank greed for wine and women. Catherine laughed, too, because his mocking stories made her remember Duke Humphrey’s body, far too close, and how uncomfortable it had made her feel. Bishop Beaufort would watch little Harry totter around floors and swing screaming with joy from his embroidered sleeves. He patted the child’s head. He turned him upside down and swung him by his heels until Harry, exhausted by his own giggles, squealed, ‘Stop, Unca Bobo!’ and Catherine sighed with laughter. He played Harry the rough little flute that Owain had carved him: lilting tunes that made the child’s eyes go bright with wonder and brought silence to the room. He brought Harry jumbles and a silver ship that ran on wheels across the floor.

  When Catherine plucked up courage to complain that Duke Humphrey had chosen the royal household badly, and was paying her few loyal servants inadequately, Bishop Beaufort listened carefully. Then he nodded. ‘Who would you actually like around you?’ he asked. Catherine stopped. She hadn’t thought that out. But she shouldn’t be so helpless. There had been good people around her before … she searched for names.

  After a moment she said, ‘I would like Sir Walter Hungerford, who used to be the King’s steward, and Alice Butler, from my household before Henry’s death, and Sir Lewis Robessart…. And Lord Bourgchier, who used to be Henry’s standard-bearer, who’s a Hainaulter, who’ll speak French.’

  Bishop Beaufort was nodding. Taking courage, she added, speaking faster now as more names came back: ‘And I’d like George Arthurton, who used to be the clerk of my closet, to be Harry’s confessor; he’s a good, honest man. And I’d like Sir Walter Beauchamp, my chief steward …’

  The Bishop was laughing and putting up his hand. ‘Enough!’ he said gently. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day. Let’s see what we can do.’

  Catherine didn’t know how he did it. But within a month or so the servants she’d wanted were in place, and Henry’s women had all had their pay doubled. Best of all, Mistress Ryman was gone for good. Had the Bishop guessed? Could Owain have told him? She hadn’t even asked.

  As she watched Owain’s hands, putting down the paper at which the details of the newcomers’ pay and terms were set out, she thought how tentatively he was holding the document – at a distance; as if he felt cautious about accepting the reality his Bishop had created for her.

  Owain wasn’t as contented as she was. ‘Be careful,’ he was saying sombrely, waving the paylist. ‘The Bishop is being mischievous – he’s using you to goad Duke Humphrey. They don’t like each other, you know. Never have. But they’re trying hard to keep the peace. So don’t let Duke Humphrey think you’ve taken sides against him. Don’t let yourself be drawn into their quarrel.’

  She looked at him in quick surprise, then laughed. A carefree laugh. She’d had all these needless worries herself earlier on. But now that she could see how things were really working out, she was beginning to think she’d been wrong. England wouldn’t, after all, collapse into bloodshed as soon as there was no one strong man to keep men from each other’s throats. Things were different here: saner, more disciplined, safer. There was something to be said for England. And she was fond of Bishop Beaufort. She said: ‘Oh, let’s not worry too much. Bishop Beaufort’s a man of the world. He’s got us what we want. He likes to tease, that’s all.’

  Yet Owain was subtler than she realised. For all his caution about trusting Bishop Beaufort, it was Owain who kept the Bishop close when Catherine unwisely came close to alienating him.

  At Christmas, Catherine returned the tiny jewelled sword the Bishop tried to give the little King. She said: ‘There’ll be enough time for fighting. Let him have a bit of peace now.’

  The Bishop raised an eyebrow. Catherine felt tears come to her eyes. ‘Dear girl,’ he said, a little reprovingly. ‘Your son will one day be the supreme authority on earth for his subjects.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll have to be seen by them. Talk to them. He’s the one who will decide their disputes – be their personal champion in war as well as in peace. His personality, more than any councils and parliaments, will be what determines the whole nation’s quality of life.’

  ‘I know,’ she repeated, and she was aware of the stubborn cast of her lips.

  ‘If he’s to do all that, the English will have to respect him. And the English are used to being ruled by heroes. Prayers are only going to be so much use. Shrewdness and a quick mind will help, but they will not be enough. He’ll need muscle and sinew … a presence majestic enough to inspire loyalty … the respect born of his mastery of the arts of war. He’ll need to learn to carry a sword.’

  The Bishop was nodding his head persuasively. She was shaking hers. Obstinately, with a tremble in her voice, she said again, ‘Still. I want him to be brought up to peace.’

  It was Owain who interjected.

  ‘The sword would really come into its own,’ he said, ranging himself beside and slightly behind the Bishop – his usual stance – ‘if His Majesty had other children of his rank to play with – children whose respect for him would shape his own royal behaviour. Don’t you think, my lord, that an excellent first step in training his Majesty for kingship would be to make that possible?’

  Catherine bit her lip. Briefly, she felt betrayed that Owain was arguing for the sword. But then she remembered the wish she’d expressed to Owain, a day or so earlier, that Harry could have some playmates. She was being petulant; he was just using that thought to solve this problem.

  The Bishop was listening to his man. Catherine could see from his gleaming eyes that the idea of a school of the nobility, invited by the Bishop himself, had caught his fancy. ‘Who?’ he said.

  Owain had thought out his answer. ‘The wards,’ he replied. ‘Every orphan of noble blood who is the King’s ward. I can think of a good half-dozen. James Butler, heir of the Earl of Ormond – he’s five. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford – fifteen. Thomas, Lord Roos – sixteen. The little Duke of York, Richard – he’s about thirteen.’ He turned to Catherine. ‘The royal household should offer to pay for them to live here; each with his own master paid for by the King.’

  The Bishop was nodding, a great smile spreading across his face.

  Owain picked up the child’s sword and tested it in his hand. ‘A beautiful thing,’ he said appreciatively, before putting it gently aside on a chest. ‘In due course – once the school is in residence – I know my lady will agree that His Majesty will be very grateful for it.’

  The Bishop nodded absentmindedly; the small sword almost forgotten in the new idea. Catherine nodded, grateful too. Those great youths, all so much older than Harry, wouldn’t want to cross swords with an infant. It would be years, after all, just as she wanted. Harry could have his peaceful childhood and no one would be offended. Owain’s quick wits had kept the peace.

  TWO

  There wasn’t much feasting in England. But Duke Humphrey held a banquet on the anniversary of King Henry’s death, in August, after the royal party had returned by barge from a Mass for Londoners at St Paul’s Cathedral, and a further Mass at Westminster Abbey.

  Catherine, out of her black and russet weeds for the first time in a year, was wearing rich red silk robes and a tall double-horned hennin headdress, with a gossamer silk veil glowing and dancing in the river breeze. She’d arrived at Westminster with Harry and their households two or three days before, riding up from Waltham Abbey in Essex, where they’d been staying, to make ready. In the normal run of things, occupied as she was in the nursery, and with only mourning clothes to worry about, Catherine didn’t have much need for ladies any more. Once she’d got rid of the unlovable Mistress Ryman, she’d got by, for much of the year, with the quiet help of Dame Alice Butler, who made it part of her house duties to help the Queen Mother dress and
undress. But Catherine was eager to make a special effort for this dinner – the obit in Henry’s memory, after which her time of deep mourning would be formally set aside, and something new might begin. So she had requested that Duke Henry find suitable ladies to attend her while at Westminster, and she’d had Owain have the Bishop send down vestment-makers to fit her out beforehand for a new gown. It was an enormous, gathered French-style houppelande, trimmed with dark fur, which didn’t count as a French style any more as some English ladies had also taken to wearing it, rather than the old-fashioned cotes-hardies or fur-trimmed jackets that reminded Catherine of Christine’s clothing. That was enough of a concession to English taste, she decided, surprised to realise how much she was enjoying planning this. She wasn’t going to spend money on cloth in some shade of English winter sky – grey or sludge. She’d keep to her own taste in colours: a glorious jewel shade. And she’d wear the ruby jewel that had been Henry’s first gift to her long ago: a fitting tribute. It would set the robe off perfectly.

  It was only when she’d reached the royal rooms at Westminster, settled Harry and the servants in and ordered the trunks unpacked (and found the suite, even in August, even with sweet clean rushes on the floor and a new tapestry on the wall, as dank and gloomy as ever), that she was introduced to her ladies for the stay. Immediately she saw that Duke Humphrey, who, as the host and the leading bachelor of the court was to be the Queen Mother’s partner for the evening, had arranged an extremely odd pair of companions to prepare her for the soiree.

  Both ladies were wearing brightly coloured clothing for England, and the lustrous fabrics were embroidered in gold, just as her robe was – one a cote-hardie in luscious golden silk trimmed with fur, and the other a still lovelier figured silk in the softest green, patterned with Eastern flowers. Yet one lady was old and wrinkled, with bright but confused blue eyes in greyish skin, food marks on her clothing and masculine-looking iron-grey hairs sticking out wildly, like straws, under her gauzy headdress and on her chin. The other was younger than Catherine – only just a woman. She was unnaturally tall – at least as tall as most men – and though she was slender, fair-haired and beautiful, her looks were of that frightening, haughty, unsmiling, iron-grey-eyed variety that reminded Catherine of stories of witches and ice queens.