When the great doors opened, letting in the troubled grey light of morning, dancing uneasily with snowflakes and a blast of wind that made the candles shiver, she leaned gratefully forward, welcoming the cold. It was another moment before she made out the little silhouette in the distant doorway, huddled next to Warwick’s great bony frame, blinking at the size of the crowd packed into the church. Harry. Mesmerised. Big-eyed and baby-faced, clutching at his scarlet cloak.
Her heart moved, and her lips too, in a prayer for him to perform his task with the dignity expected of him. The bells changed their tune; rang out a glorious peal of triumph. But Catherine’s ears were ringing with the remembered sound of the formless groans and howls of anguish she most dreaded; like evil spirits, she thought, shaking her head as if to get the memory of them out. Her great fear was that Harry would panic and start that howling, and prove himself mad, here, in front of his people. She folded her hands tighter, muttering.
It seemed an eternity before Harry began to move forward. When he did, putting each foot down with great care so he didn’t get tripped up by the great rich folds of fur-lined velvet; when, finally, he sat at his seat in the middle of the scaffold, looking solemnly round at his subjects as the unearthly beauty of the singing began, she felt her heart racing as if she’d been running for her life, and dampness at her temples.
But Harry was doing magnificently. He listened to the Archbishop’s proclamation. He walked with great dignity to the altar, and lay down flat on his face on the inlaid marble floor, as he’d practised, and didn’t move while the bishops read their exorcisms and chanted their anthems, and stripped him of the cloak and down to his plain white shirt, until they raised him up and dressed him again in the glittering garments of a King of England, until every inch of him winked and shone in the candlelight. He didn’t flinch when the crown of St Edward was set on his head, with bishops crowding him from every side, propping the great heavy thing up between their palms, sweating with the strain of making that act of levitation look easy as they walked him back to his seat.
It was only when Henry was sitting down again, still with the bishops hovering around and behind him like bees round a honeypot, and the bass drone of the solemn Mass had begun, that Catherine dared breathe easy and look around. Of all the other heads craning forward, of all the other eyes fixed hungrily on the little boy in gold and rubies and ermine, who was moving forward now to kneel at the altar, she only saw one.
Owain was standing beside the Cardinal; no longer in his black hood and habit but with a prickle of black hair growing back on his head, visible under a big square-brimmed hat of blue velvet. She thought she could just make out green shoulders. He was wearing real clothes again. He’d gone back to looking like a nobleman rather than a man of God. She was too dazed with the oils and the smells and the heat and her fears for Harry, and the glory of seeing her son anointed monarch with such great pomp, to be able to make sense of Owain’s utterly unexpected change of identity. She just stared.
Perhaps he noticed her head facing the wrong way; felt her eyes on him. At any rate, he let his eyes shift towards her; held them for a brief, expressionless second. Then he nodded acknowledgement, and, suddenly, impishly, and even more inexplicably, grinned.
The bells broke out in a new peal of triumph. The doors groaned open, letting in more dancing flakes and more grey light, and more cheers from the crowds outside. Harry began to move carefully back towards the daylight, with the bishops of Durham and Bath and Wells, one on each side, still dancing absurdly along beside him, taking the weight of the crown in their plump arms, and Warwick, walking behind, holding the child’s golden train.
Catherine caught her son’s eye as he passed. He gave her just the hint of a smile. He looked amazed that he’d pulled it off. He looked exhausted, too. At least, she thought with relief for him, he’d be allowed to eat in his rooms, alone. Even Duke Humphrey had realised it would be too much for him to attend the banquet. He was, after all, still only seven.
As the rest of the nobles on the scaffold also began to stir and move, preparing to take their own places in the procession behind Harry to the banquet at Westminster Hall, Catherine looked round again for Owain in his strange new finery. But Owain was nowhere to be seen.
She hadn’t been among members of the Council for so long. They moved along, important in their furred cloaks, murmuring among themselves. Catherine kept quiet and kept her ears open as she too shuffled into line, keeping Queen Jeanne gently in line beside her. The banquet to come would be her first and perhaps her only chance to win support for the idea that she should go to France with Harry. She had to keep alert. It could only be helpful to know what these men, so close to power, were talking about among themselves.
‘Cardinal Beaufort should watch his back,’ she heard from behind her, as she stepped blinking out into the daylight. A knowing voice. A cautious snort of answering laughter. She trained her ears on that conversation.
‘He can’t just walk in like this and not expect consequences.’ Another snuffle. ‘It’s obvious Duke Humphrey won’t stand it for long.’
Catherine carried on shuffling forward, inclining her head left and right to the crowd, smiling … eavesdropping. The quarrel between Humphrey and Beaufort was just as bitter as ever, then.
Humphrey was smarting, she heard: now the King was crowned, and, in principle, about to rule for himself, Humphrey’s salary from the Council had been cut in half. So he wanted to share the pain. He wanted to strip his uncle, the Cardinal, of the lucrative English bishopric that Beaufort had managed to hang on to, even while abroad: half his income. Humphrey had been telling the Council that the Cardinal couldn’t be a Cardinal and Bishop of Winchester at the same time. He’d planned to take away Beaufort’s English post quietly at the next Council meeting, but now the Cardinal was back to fight his corner; and neither of the whisperers knew how it would turn out.
‘This is for your ears only, of course,’ she heard; and a quick murmur of assent. ‘But Duke Humphrey asked me this morning, in strictest confidence, whether I’d agree to vote to exclude the Cardinal from Council altogether.’
There was a rumble of recognition. The second voice murmured in knowing tones, ‘Ah … you too …’
The first voice went on, against the rising sound of the crowd, ‘Of course, my view was … hasty … disrespectful to the Pope. The man’s a Cardinal.’ Rumble. ‘But he’s Humphrey … when has he ever heeded … caution? All we can know for certain … the next Council session … explosive.’
The voices were too quiet to hear any more. The crowd was cheering as she moved inside the line of soldiers at the doors of Westminster Hall. Here, Queen Jeanne smiled, kissed her and a baffled-looking soldier, and said, with radiant gaiety, ‘Very tired; no appetite. I’ll go up now, I think, and sleep,’ and danced away up the stairs alone, towards her chamber, still in her cloak, waving back down at Catherine. Relieved, Catherine decided there was no point in stopping the old lady. As she removed her own cloak, handed it to a servant and moved towards the great table, Catherine pondered what she’d heard. It was dispiriting news. If Duke Humphrey and Cardinal Beaufort were going to focus only on feuding with each other, how would she ever be able to get anyone to pay attention to her own hopes of getting to France?
They’d put her at a new place, farther from the top of the table, reflecting her declining status. She was between two bishops she didn’t know. They bowed very formally, clearly uncertain as to whether it would be to their advantage to be seen talking to her, then busied themselves chatting with the neighbours on their other sides.
Duke Humphrey and the Cardinal shared the place of honour at the top of the table. She got a glimpse of Owain as the first toast was poured. He was serving the Cardinal’s wine. But then he retreated into the shadows and vanished. Much later, as the third course was set out – wobbling jellies and stiff custard tarts and giant pastries in the shape of peacocks and pyramids of late fruits – she caught sight of hi
m rising from a place much further down the table, on the other side from her. His platter was scarcely touched. He couldn’t have been eating. His neighbours didn’t notice him go. He couldn’t have been talking either. He didn’t nod to her. He was watching the Cardinal.
She watched him go to the top of the table and murmur into the Cardinal’s ear. The Cardinal narrowed his long, clever eyes, as if amused by something while half-asleep, and nodded. But she never knew what they might have been saying because, at that moment, after a sideways look of deep irritation towards his uncle, Duke Humphrey clanged his goblet against the table to get the diners’ attention, rose to his feet, and roared out, ‘A toast to His Majesty the King of France’s forthcoming coronation in France! May it be as successful as the one we’ve just celebrated in England!’
There were answering roars of approval on all sides as the goblets went up to all the thirsty mouths again. The nobles had been eating and drinking for two solid hours by now. There were dark drips of grease on surcoats and trailing sleeves; smears on bristly cheeks; tongues were loosening. Catherine hadn’t been drinking; just watching and listening. Waiting for this moment; not knowing if it would come. She leaned forward now, with all her nerves twitching.
Humphrey sat down again. There was a dull red flush on his cheeks. He turned to his uncle. Loudly, his tone somewhere between belligerence and gaiety, he said: ‘Uncle. You – with all your experience of overseas – with all your poise and knowledge of the world – surely you should be the one to have the honour of taking His Majesty to Paris.’
Humphrey looked round at the lords on either side of him, as if seeking approval. His voice wasn’t loud enough – quite – to carry all the way down the hall. But a dozen or more people, including Catherine, could hear this not-quite-private conversation. Still, if Humphrey was expecting a murmur of assent, he was disappointed. There was only a downward shift of eyes in response; an embarrassed hush.
Beaufort didn’t seem in the least discomfited. He just smiled easily, lazily, with his eyelids coming so low over his bright, sly eyes that he looked like a snake basking in the candlelight, and replied, ‘Dear nephew … I’ve only just got home.’
Duke Humphrey wasn’t going to let go so easily. He gestured for the Cardinal’s cup to be filled again. Silently, Owain stepped forward and poured wine. Then the Duke returned to the attack.
‘Still, dear uncle,’ he rumbled, ‘you are a man of duty, are you not?’
‘Oh yes,’ the Cardinal said casually, picking up the goblet and sniffing the wine appreciatively.
‘You’d always be willing to do your duty to your King, would you not?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ the Cardinal went on, and now he seemed to be examining the large ruby glittering on his left hand. ‘By all means.’
‘And,’ Duke Humphrey finished triumphantly, ‘you do agree you are the best man for the job?’
Slowly, the Cardinal put down the goblet. Even more slowly, he wrinkled his face into an expression of regret. Opened his arms. Spread his hands, palm upwards; shook his head.
He said: ‘I’ve been so looking forward to taking up the reins at Winchester again … putting my house in order.’
The mention of Winchester clearly angered Duke Humphrey. ‘That, of course, will be a matter for discussion at Council,’ he said roughly.
‘… and supporting my candidate for the bishopric of Carlisle … and a Council seat …’ the Cardinal went imperturbably on, and his eyelids swept lower still, and he put both elbows on the table, steepled his long, thin fingers in front of him, and smiled. ‘Marmaduke Lumley.’
‘That’s for the Council to decide, too,’ snapped Duke Humphrey, even more roughly.
‘… and, of course, joining the discussion on Anglo–Papal relations …’ the Cardinal said, with even more exquisite politeness. His ruby was winking.
‘Out of the question. You can’t. Those are English deliberations. And you’re in the Pope’s pay,’ Humphrey snapped, his patience with his tricky relative visibly at an end.
The Cardinal bowed his head. It wasn’t submission, Catherine could see. She could hardly breathe. The Cardinal was deliberately goading his nephew. There was a mocking smile playing on his lips as he fell again to watching the glow of his ruby.
After an agonisingly long pause, in which conversation all down the table died away until the only sound in the room was that of a dog worrying energetically at a bone somewhere in a corner, the Cardinal went on, still in the same tones of gentle reason, ‘To be honest, dear nephew, I’m not sure that we need even be thinking in terms of the best man for the job of taking the King to France …’
His voice trailed away. He raised an eyebrow, as if inviting Duke Humphrey to follow his thought and agree. Baffled as an angry, lumbering bear outsmarted by the dogs, Duke Humphrey stopped and stared at him from red-streaked, bulging eyes. He growled, ‘Meaning?’
‘… The best candidate in this case being, of course, not a man, but a woman …’ the Cardinal pursued, and, to Catherine’s astonishment, he turned his eyes towards her for the first time, and bowed, as if introducing her to strangers. ‘The Queen Mother.’
The blood rushed to Catherine’s head. Through the pounding in her temples she heard the murmur up and down the table.
‘What, her?’ Duke Humphrey almost howled. Catherine heard a titter from somewhere nearby. She turned her eyes down. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Why, everything, dear boy; everything,’ the Cardinal purred. ‘She’s crucial to the whole enterprise, don’t you agree? She’s the living symbol of the Treaty of Troyes – the vital link connecting the past royalty of France – her father – and its future – her son. Nothing could be more important than for her to be seen by the people of France at her son’s Paris coronation. In fact, her presence there is just about the only thing that might convince them to embrace the new order we’ve fought so hard to establish.’
Catherine didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare display the gratitude in her eyes; the sudden hope. But she could hear the wave of noises; flurries of ‘hear, hear’ from one side, and an approving drumming on the table from the other.
‘That’s as may be,’ Duke Humphrey’s voice echoed through her heartbeats; truculent; uncertain of his ground. ‘But she’s a woman. You’re not going to suggest a woman takes charge of the army going to France, are you?’ His voice was getting stronger again. He growled with alcoholic laughter, looking round for allies who would see the absurdity of the thought: ‘Like Jehanne of Arc?’
Into the nervous titter that followed this sally, the Cardinal replied with a little shudder, ‘But, dear nephew, you’re surely not suggesting either that I should take charge of the army … and knock generals’ heads together when they quarrel … and …’ he paused, and a look of distaste came across his face, ‘get the supplies in?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m a man of the cloth, not a soldier. I can’t think of anything I’d be less suited for.’
Stalemate.
Catherine flexed her fingers under the table. Far away, someone caught the noisy dog and dragged it out of the hall, howling for its lost bone, its claws skittering forlornly on the flagstones.
She couldn’t resist. She peeped. Duke Humphrey was staring furiously down at his fists, clenched in two great meaty lumps, breathing heavily. Cardinal Beaufort was looking along the table over his steepled fingertips, still with that inscrutable smile.
She didn’t expect either of them to notice her cautious glance, but suddenly the Cardinal looked straight at her, and, for a second, raised his eyebrows and those hooded eyelids in a quick, startling private signal. His eyes were glittering with fierce amusement. He’s doing it for me, she thought. And then: He knows he’s going to win.
‘However,’ the Cardinal said into the silence, and the relief everyone felt at the sound of a voice became audible in a quiet sigh echoing around the chamber, ‘if needs must, needs must.’ He lowered his fingertips, folding his hands together. ‘I
f I were to accompany the King – and the Queen Mother – to France,’ he went on, very deliberately – so no one could doubt he was setting his terms as publicly as possible – ‘I would need assurances.’
Duke Humphrey was leaning forward now, his fists turned into meat-hooks dug into the tabletop; taking in the offer. He knew the rules of negotiation as well as his uncle did. He nodded.
Catherine let the pent-up breath begin to sigh out of her body. The nod must mean Duke Humphrey had agreed she should go. She knew for certain that was what it meant when the bishops at either side of her suddenly and simultaneously remembered her existence; when both started tapping at her shoulders so she didn’t know which way to turn first. They were each bobbing silent congratulations, wiggling sycophantic eyebrows and grinning, as if they’d been campaigning for her trip themselves; as if her winning it had been all thanks to them.
Biting back her smile, she nodded politely and turned again to the top of the table.
‘First, no fighting among the generals,’ the Cardinal was saying. ‘No unpleasantness for me to sort out.’
Duke Humphrey nodded eagerly. That was easy enough to promise. Warwick would be there to handle the army, after all.
‘Next. No other candidate but Marmaduke Lumley to be put up for the bishopric of Carlisle … and the Council,’ the Cardinal added.
Duke Humphrey breathed in deeply; then nodded again.
‘And, of course, no changes at the bishopric of Winchester – my bishopric – in my absence,’ the Cardinal finished.
Duke Humphrey glowered.
The Cardinal raised his eyebrows; waited. But it was clear that Duke Humphrey wanted his uncle out of the country so badly he’d agree to almost anything to get him to go. Reluctantly, he nodded a third time.
Blood Royal Page 47
