If only Owain were here, she thought, panicking inside, but smiling back at the Bishop to hide her turmoil of conflicting thoughts with what she hoped was an appearance of interest that was warm enough to be courteous but not so warm that it signalled instant acceptance.
With a flash of relief, she realised that she knew where Owain had been planning to be this afternoon: supervising the harvest of the last roses of summer from the walled garden, to be made into pot-pourri and oil, and the cutting back of the remaining foliage for winter.
Rising from her knees, and raising a startled-looking Harry from his prayer, thinking to herself that there was no point their being in chapel if they were only going to talk among themselves, and that they might as well take the last of the summer sunshine while it was there, she said, a little louder: ‘An interesting idea … I’d like to know more … shall we go and walk in the gardens?’
Catherine felt relieved once she’d managed to bump into Owain and the servants in the gardens, and the Bishop had rumbled, in his urbane way, ‘What a pleasure … join us for a stroll, if you can spare five minutes.’ In the sunlight, Owain had eased himself into the position he’d grown comfortable in during his time of service to the cleric, walking just behind the older man’s shoulder, looking thoughtful. But when Owain heard the subject under discussion he had no guidance to offer. His face closed up. After one brief turn around the paths, he excused himself and returned to his work.
Catherine was quietly panicked again to see him go. The Bishop took no notice. He continued to talk, gently, insistently: describing Edmund Beaufort’s charm as a child – ‘my favourite nephew,’ he said with a reminiscent smile – his physical beauty, and, of course, the extraordinary bravery Edmund Beaufort had shown as little more than a boy, at the battle of Baugé.
‘His courage deserves reward. I’ve raised the question at Council, and I think I can safely say the Councillors may decide to give him – oh, an earldom at least –’
Catherine widened her eyes, hoping she looked appreciative enough. Even without Owain’s guidance, she could smell a rat now. So, she thought, Edmund Beaufort has no title.
‘And appropriate estates for an earl … or a duke,’ the Bishop added beguilingly. ‘Revenues.’
Catherine smiled and nodded. But she was thinking: so Edmund Beaufort has no money either.
She knew of one more problem with Edmund Beaufort, which the Bishop hadn’t mentioned. Like all his powerful Beaufort relatives – even the Bishop – Edmund wasn’t quite royal. He was the product of Prince John of Gaunt’s relationship, a generation or two back, with his mistress Katherine Swynford. This union had become marriage after twenty years. The children of the union were now considered legitimate, as far as that went, but they were barred in perpetuity from holding the throne of England. A royal marriage to Catherine, a genuine princess, would be a clever alliance for Edmund Beaufort. It would raise his status, possibly enough to allow the Beauforts, at some future stage, to bypass that irksome barrier to their highest ambitions.
‘It’s got cold,’ Catherine said, looking up as if the sky had filled with clouds, feeling less sure than usual that she liked the Bishop, who was looking at her with such determinedly agreeable eyes, and who wanted her to advance him and his kin with this marriage. ‘Let’s go inside.’ Yet by the time, much later, that the persuasive Bishop had left, Catherine had let herself be half-convinced that Edmund Beaufort was tomorrow’s man, one of the great warriors of the English aristocracy, and therefore a potentially worthy match.
She’d asked for a picture. She’d agreed to consider receiving a letter. She’d even dared ask, ‘How do you think Humphrey would feel about a Beaufort marriage?’
And she’d heard the Bishop’s wry reply, pronounced over a shrug, ‘Ahh, Humphrey – a spent force now, wouldn’t you say … I doubt we’ll see him again for many a long year.’
‘Well … what about Duke John?’ she’d persisted.
But the Bishop had only shrugged again. ‘As for John, I’d say he has his hands full with running the war effort in France. It’s not going as well as it was. He should have cleaned up every last soldier from Bourges long ago, but he doesn’t seem to be able to get near the south.’ Then he grinned, with friendly malice. ‘What’s more, he has Humphrey to deal with now too, charging around the Low Countries making a fool of himself. Can you imagine – they say Humphrey’s challenged the Duke of Burgundy to a duel to settle the question of Jacqueline’s marriage! So … poor John … a lot to contend with. He won’t worry overmuch if you marry young Edmund.’
He tittered. Reassured, Catherine tittered too. She was letting the picture into her mind of a future of amusing, gossipy fireside evenings with a younger, handsomer version of the Bishop: talking French with an Englishman who’d spent half his life at her brother’s rebel court; a man who, once he was made a duke by Harry, would achieve greatness. A man Harry would love.
Owain excused himself from service for the next two days. A fever, he said. A lesser servant set out Catherine’s food at table in his absence.
But she found him on the third day, in the chapel, on his knees. He was very pale. There were shadows under his eyes. He looked angry and set-faced.
She knelt beside him, trying to catch his eye. She saw his nostrils flare and white dents appear. He kept his head averted.
She didn’t care. For once she wouldn’t respect the privacy of his prayers. She needed his advice.
He closed his eyes. Then he opened them and turned to her with visible self-control. ‘If you would like to talk to me,’ he said, ‘shall we leave the chapel?’
She could scarcely keep up with him outside in the long echoing corridor, as the arches flashed past. His legs were doing seven-league strides.
Breathlessly, she said, ‘What do you think?’
Owain carried on walking; his expression frightened her.
‘About what?’ he said, though it was clear he knew what she was talking about.
‘The Bishop’s choice of husband for me,’ she said patiently, or as patiently as she could, considering the speed at which she was having to trot to keep up with Owain. Then, ‘They say he’s a brave soldier?’
Owain stopped, so suddenly she almost cannoned into him. His face was black with fury.
‘Edmund Beaufort. A reckless fool of a boy whose only act of valour was to get himself taken prisoner. What do you want me to say in his favour?’
She gaped at him.
Eyes blazing, Owain held up one finger after another, and rattled off, with insistent logic: ‘No title. No hope of one. A fourth son. Blood not quite royal enough. And no money. He’d live off you. Of course Beaufort wants you to marry his family. But Edmund?’ Owain’s lip curled. ‘You’d be a fool. You’d be no better off with him than you would with me.’
They stared at each other. She’d never seen such hostility in his eyes. She was aware of their breath rising and falling in their chests.
She thought childishly: This isn’t fair. I don’t deserve this. I wasn’t the one who thought of this …
Taking a deep breath, trying to keep her voice peaceable, trying to stick to the narrow question of Edmund Beaufort’s prospects, she persisted: ‘But he’ll earn rewards at the war. The Bishop’s already working on a title for him … for his service so far … an earldom or a dukedom …’
For reasons Catherine didn’t understand, that only made Owain seem angrier. He raised his hands in a gesture that was supposed to look resigned, but didn’t. ‘Well … you’ve made your decision, then,’ he said coldly. He turned as if to stalk off.
Catherine shook her head. ‘No; no, I haven’t,’ she answered, and there was anger creeping into her voice too now. She was surprised at how loud it was. ‘I only want advice. I need your help.’ She stared back at Owain, right in the eyes. He had no right, she thought, no right to rage like this; she’d done nothing to offend.
‘He’s playing you, can’t you see?’ Owain said tightly. ‘Thi
nking you’re so bored with your life in the nursery that you’ll jump at the chance of a husband. That you’ll want this one enough that you’ll raise him to your own level so you can marry him. That you’ll be the making of all the Beauforts. Don’t be a bloody fool.’
His voice was still quiet, but ringing with anger. He turned away, but she wasn’t going to let him go. Quickly she put her hand out and held on to his arm.
If she’d thought that touch would keep him, or even calm him, she was wrong. He jolted back round at the touch of her flesh as fast and painfully as if he’d been burned. He flung his arm up in the air to shake off her hand, and spun his body out of her reach. There was a look of horror or near panic on his face.
‘Get off me!’ he cried loudly. Too loudly.
Then there was a long silence. They could both still hear the memory of his voice echoing through their heads.
Finally, Owain shook his head and let out a big pent-up breath. He was still standing too straight and drawing breath up through flared nostrils. He didn’t apologise for yelling that she shouldn’t touch him. But he made his voice sound calm again.
‘This is my advice,’ he said. ‘Since you ask. I don’t see the need for you to think of marrying again so soon. Let Harry turn seven. Why hurry? You have four more years with him. Enjoy the time.’
Their eyes met again. Catherine didn’t know what she’d expected him to say but, after that anguished howl, she’d thought it must be worse. So that was all Owain wanted – for things to stay just as they were, for as long as possible, for the full four years that were left. She could understand that.
She thought she understood something else, too. If it was only Harry he wanted to see grow up a little more in that time, Owain wouldn’t care one way or the other whether the household had a new master. Owain would only care if he were mostly there because of her. She took a deep breath, then sighed out the sweet air. For all his calm and control, perhaps Owain was jealous.
Before she’d even begun the smile that was coming next, he’d bowed and was gone.
THREE
The Bishop, scenting a major victory through this marriage, became more confident, smoother than ever, and impossible to avoid.
Catherine didn’t try very hard to avoid him. He was always so charming; and the prospect of becoming part of a powerful family cast in his mould was not unattractive. She found herself thinking of the objections to the marriage as Owain’s objections, not her own; and dithering over whether to reject or press ahead with a marriage with Bishop Beaufort’s nephew.
In any case, it would have been hard to stop the Bishop. Even as she fretted about how most delicately to handle the question of his candidate, Bishop Beaufort came back with a page of a letter from Bourges, bearing a miniature likeness of Edmund Beaufort.
He must have had it before the question of asking Edmund Beaufort to get a likeness made had even arisen. That had been less than a week ago. He couldn’t possibly have sent to France for it in that time. Catherine realised uneasily that he really was playing her like a fish on a line.
He pulled the picture out for her to see during another visit to chapel, when Owain was absent. Resisting the temptation to glance furtively around – what did she have to feel guilty about, after all, even if Owain were to see? – Catherine looked. The man in the picture was tall, dark and slim. As far as you could tell from a picture of that sort, he was handsome. He was in battle dress, wielding a sword. Behind him was a bright castle. Bourges? She’d never been to Bourges. Beside him was a pink-eyed young man in a turban.
‘Why,’ Catherine said surprised, looking closely at the miniature but with her eye turning straight to the pink-eyed man, ‘that’s my brother … Charles …’
She fell silent. She didn’t usually like to think of Charles, but she hadn’t expected him to be there. Before she stopped herself, she’d been going to say: ‘… and how sad he looks.’
Had Charles always seemed so unhappy? Or was it just the troubles of his adult years that had given him that miserable air?
She glanced up at the Bishop. He was smiling patiently; and he’d lifted a finger to the page, to guide her eye to the right figure. ‘Yes, your brother,’ he said, ‘and this is my nephew.’
Obediently, Catherine looked. But the unknown figure meant nothing to her and stayed flat on the page. It could have been Owain, or any other tall, dark-haired man. It was her brother’s image which stayed in her mind, with its pink eyes.
Nothing, it seemed, could dent Bishop Beaufort’s overweening confidence – not even Duke Humphrey’s angry return to London.
Duke John had sent his brother home after stopping him fighting his duel with the Duke of Burgundy. They said Duke Humphrey’s wife had given birth to a stillborn child. They said Duke Humphrey had deserted her and, now he was back, was taking up again with his old mistress Eleanor Cobden. At any rate, Countess Jacqueline was nowhere to be seen, and Duke Humphrey was in a mean mood – out for a fight.
The news that Humphrey was back was, in one sense, a relief for Catherine. It meant the Bishop stopped riding down quite so often to Eltham, where her royal household was, whenever he felt like reminding her of a few more of Edmund Beaufort’s impressive characteristics. It was fun, in a way, to have a suitor dangled temptingly in front of her eyes. These had been more light-hearted weeks than she remembered in a long time. But she was beginning to feel a little hunted. She was aware, too, of Owain’s suspicious eyes on her every time the Bishop arrived. She wanted time to make up her mind for herself.
None of them realised early enough that Humphrey’s return meant trouble. Bishop Beaufort, perhaps feeling he’d already got the upper hand over his nephew, abandoned all his usual subtlety and went out of his way to humiliate Humphrey. When Humphrey and the three hundred armed men he was travelling with first marched into London, Bishop Beaufort refused to let them lodge in the state apartments at the Tower. The Bishop said he was acting in the name of the Council of England, and Humphrey represented a security risk.
The next messenger who galloped through the gates at Eltham, where Catherine’s household were waiting helplessly for news, brought worse tidings. Duke Humphrey’s men, coming from the City, and Bishop Beaufort’s army, advancing from his luxurious inn at Southwark, were fighting a pitched battle at London Bridge. The merchants of London were supporting the Duke with their pikes and longbows and halberds. Houses were burning on the bridge. There was wildfire in the air.
Catherine went quietly to Harry’s chamber and stood, with her taper in hand, watching him sleep – pink in his cheeks, a smile chasing across his face as he dreamed, a fat little hand sticking out over the quilt. This was the trouble she’d dreaded for so long; how had she failed to see it when it came? Please, she begged – and she didn’t know herself whether it was a prayer to God or to the Duke and the Bishop – don’t let him be dragged into this. Let it stop.
It did stop. The Archbishop of Canterbury walked out, through the arrows and smoke, the charred, battered bridgetop homes and the groaning bodies, and negotiated a ceasefire.
‘It’s not over,’ Owain said bleakly when Catherine told him.
She could see he was right. She set her jaw and waited fearfully for more news.
The next messenger was Duke Humphrey himself, muddy and truculent, bursting into the great hall at Eltham at the dinner hour at the head of a troop of knights, demanding that the King go to London to ride through the City – a sign of peace.
Catherine had hurriedly risen to her feet at the clangour in the corridor. Trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart, she bowed a welcome and said: ‘We will come together.’
But Duke Humphrey gave her a look in which she saw only dislike and boredom. The old flirtatiousness had gone for good. ‘No need for that,’ he said roughly. ‘He’s a big boy.’ He turned away and barked out, at no one in particular, ‘bring His Majesty down.’
Catherine bit her lip. Owain, standing tall and still before her with a d
ish of rabbit in his hands, nodded almost imperceptibly. There was no point in trying to argue.
They could hear Harry protesting long before he became visible in the doorway. ‘Don’t want to go if I can’t take my ship!’ he was wailing, dragging his heels and catching at chests and stools and tapestries with flailing hands as Dame Butler, white-faced and worried, pulled him forward. ‘Want to play with my boatie!’
Duke Humphrey marched up to him. Towered above him. ‘Be quiet,’ he said ominously.
Harry gave his uncle a look of horror, then burst into tears. No one had ever spoken so roughly to him before.
Duke Humphrey leaned down, grabbed both the child’s shoulders, and gave him a hard shake. Beside herself, Catherine began to rush forward to stop him. But Owain and the dish of rabbit were in her way.
Harry gulped away his tears. He fastened big, terrified eyes fearfully on Duke Humphrey.
‘Now, behave,’ Duke Humphrey admonished, still severely. ‘Crying like a girl. Disgraceful. You’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll get your ship back then.’
Still saucer-eyed and silent, Harry nodded again.
Duke Humphrey barked at the assembled servantry: ‘Sword. Breastplate. Horse.’
There was a scattering, a rush of obedient feet. Catherine said, steeling herself, ‘He has no breastplate.’
Humphrey gave her an unpleasant look. ‘Mollycoddled. No wonder he’s so namby-pamby. You’ve been neglecting your duties, Madam.’ Viciously, he added: ‘Spending too much time planning your marriage, no doubt.’
Catherine gasped. What could Humphrey know about any marriage plans? There were no real marriage plans. The whole idea had been nothing more than a twinkle in the Bishop’s eye. She didn’t like the harsh look in Humphrey’s eye. She wished he hadn’t said that.
Owain had put down the dish. He stepped forward. ‘I will fetch his sword, my lady,’ he said loudly to Catherine. And, calmly, to Duke Humphrey, ‘He’s outgrown the breastplate, Your Grace.’
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