Blood Royal

by Vanora Bennett

  ‘You can’t come to the discussion on Anglo–Papal relations, though,’ Duke Humphrey said, quickly and fiercely, before the Cardinal could demand that too. He had to salvage his pride somehow.

  The Cardinal’s smile widened. The deal was done. He could afford a concession now. ‘Very well,’ he agreed smoothly. Catherine didn’t think he cared.

  Feeling the pleasurable ache in her shoulders as she let them drop – she must have had them up round her ears for the whole discussion – she watched the rest of the table begin to talk again.

  ‘So, off to France with His Majesty!’ one of her bishops was twittering in her ear, leaning forward, twinkling in avuncular fashion. Duke Humphrey was draining his wine, wiping his mouth on his sleeve; looking relieved; leaning back to say something to the Earl of Warwick who was two seats down. The Cardinal was signalling for more wine. Catherine replied to the bishop with all the polite attention she could muster, but, out of the corner of her eye, she was watching the Cardinal; and watching Owain, so altered in his court clothes, step forward, check that the Cardinal’s cup was still full, then listen as the Cardinal murmured something else in his ear with another of those sly, knowing smiles. Owain straightened up. He and the Cardinal both looked down the table, straight at Catherine, catching her eye. They were both laughing.

  ‘I should have told you earlier that this was what I was planning,’ Duke Humphrey said, escorting her out but making sure his stiff, unyielding arm scarcely touched hers. ‘Obviously you have to be there. In France. Uncomfortable; but duty calls. A living symbol; all that.’

  She bowed her head.

  ‘April departure,’ he went on. His eyes were fixed firmly ahead. ‘Campaign season. Calmer seas. So – no point in changing your household till then. We’ll keep you as you are for the winter.’

  She bowed again.

  ‘Warwick will be leading the army that’s going out with you,’ he said. ‘Knocking the heads together.’ Truculently, he added: ‘But he’ll go on being in charge of the boy as well.’

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured, despite the obvious impossibility of such a thing, and bowed her head again. She didn’t want Humphrey to see the smile on her face.

  Surrounded by the bustle of robing, lost in her blissful thoughts, she was being folded into her cloak. She’d wake Harry up as soon as she reached her rooms; tell him everything.

  ‘Happy now?’ a familiar deep voice breathed in her ear.

  She whirled round. Owain was laughing down at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, gazing back into eyes the colour of the sky. She didn’t just mean for fastening her into her cloak. She could see this was all his work.

  But he only raised his shoulders in a modest shrug. He wasn’t admitting anything: just smiling.

  They stood for a moment more.

  ‘Your habit’s gone,’ she said at last, embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment in the middle of this elbowing, fiddling, mellow crowd. Sad too, so sad; even with him here. She didn’t know what had happened to Owain, but everything had changed, she could see. His time with her was clearly over. He’d become someone else; hadn’t even felt the need to explain who, or why.

  But he still had that opaque look in his eyes when he smiled back down at her. He shrugged again, looking a little embarrassed. ‘Ahh … well, the Cardinal made me,’ he said wryly. In accurate imitation of the Cardinal’s smooth, worldly, faintly mocking voice, he quoted: ‘“Dear boy – it’s absurd to wear a religious habit you have no right to. How many years have you been dressing up like that, making God a promise you haven’t got near to keeping? My advice is: don’t tempt the Almighty without good reason; leave it off until you’re actually in the cloister.”’

  She laughed quietly with him, lulled back into trust by the familiarity of his voice. He didn’t sound as if he’d changed; as if he’d gone from her. But there was still doubt in her smile.

  ‘But we’ll be off in April,’ she said. She could see him grasp her thought: That’s just a few months away; why spend a fortune on secular clothes now, when you’ll be back in your habit by spring?

  He wasn’t abashed. Not in the least. He just flashed her another grin: the carefree smile she remembered him having long ago; having lost long ago, too.

  ‘Ah,’ he said easily, ‘you don’t know this part yet, do you? The Cardinal’s extending my leave from the cloister for longer than you – or I – expected. He wants me with him in France, as his secretary, until after the Paris coronation. He’s planning to ask your permission; I’m not supposed to tell you until he has. If you say yes, I won’t be in your immediate household any more – but I’ll be on the ship to France with you in April.’

  PART EIGHT

  The Mutability of Fortune

  ONE

  The sun was bright behind the fuzz of young green. There was a buzz of talk above the gentle clip-clop of hooves. She could see the walls of Southampton; rooftops behind them; a glitter of happiness on the sea beyond that.

  ‘I can smell salt on the wind,’ Harry was saying beside her.

  Catherine strained her eyes to the horizon, wondering whether, with the skies so clear, she might somehow already be able to make out France.

  Their own group was big enough: Lord Tiptoft, the steward, Lord Bourgchier, the chamberlain, Lord Cromwell, and, keeping Harry’s back straight on his little skewbald pony whenever he slumped, the Earl of Warwick. Harry’s four knights, their esquires, and the rest of the Beauchamp friends and relatives who made up the body of the King’s household. Harry hadn’t been allowed his women servants back; but Thomas Asteley, his former nurse’s kindly husband, was in the entourage. So was Master Somerset, jigging uncomfortably along at the back, just ahead of the lesser servants.

  There were many more men waiting for them by the Watergate and around the crane on the Town Quay: a crowd of several hundred men-at-arms, going all the way back inside the gate to the Woolhouse, jostling and joking in the wind, looking up at the glowing clouds rushing busily across the sky: earls, dukes, bishops and Owain. They were all standing around Cardinal Beaufort in his scarlet robe, watching him talk to a plump, worried-looking man in splendid furred merchant robes, who kept pushing up his long sleeves as if he longed to get down to some more practical work than entertaining this throng of nobility.

  Owain was unfamiliarly bulky in his quilted breastplate and sombre velvets, standing a little back from the centre of the throng, in the shelter of a large merchant house built into the city wall, with a gaggle of women sheltering behind him against the wind. She hugged to herself the quiet sense of homecoming that the sight of him gave her. It had been six months. Then she stared at the nearest of the women behind him. She knew her. It was Dame Butler, with her grey hair escaping from under her dancing headdress and the fine wrinkles under her eyes showing as she screwed her face up against the buffeting of the breeze.

  ‘Dame Butler!’ Harry squealed excitedly. ‘She’s coming to France with us!’

  ‘Hush now,’ Catherine murmured, leaning over to put a restraining hand on the child’s knee, wondering gratefully at the same time how Owain had managed to pull off even this feat: getting the little boy’s favourite servant (and her own) into this group of travellers. Even as she hushed her son, she realised that it didn’t matter today if Harry shouted or rushed around like a child. After brief acknowledgements to the Cardinal and the worried-looking man from Southampton, Earl Warwick had trotted straight off to make himself known to his men. He’d forgotten his charge. It was all going to be all right.

  Everything about this voyage seemed well-starred, Catherine thought with satisfaction. She didn’t just mean the strange voyagers’ happiness of setting sail with Owain; of months, maybe years, before they would need to return to their real futures. There was so much more to be pleased about.

  Humphrey had done his usual trick: handing out jobs without thinking through what they involved. He’d overloaded Warwick. One man couldn’t possibly be in charge o
f the English army heading for France and, at the same time, keep a stern eye on Harry. So Catherine thought she would have her son pretty much to herself for all the time they were abroad.

  And Owain seemed to have used his time in his new position as the Cardinal’s secretary to hire back Harry’s favourite servants – those fired by Warwick. How had he done that? Harry would be so happy with Dame Butler near at hand again.

  Finally, the Cardinal’s return meant that there was someone in whom Catherine had felt able to confide her fears about the planned French coronation. They’d discussed it at length a few weeks ago, when the Cardinal had visited Windsor. The Cardinal had nodded and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, not in the least offended by her halting suggestion that Duke John might fail to organise a ceremony that would satisfy a French audience. ‘Please,’ she’d said, relieved at the serious understanding look on his face, the way he was absorbing her words, ‘you must persuade Duke John that he has to do it properly, or not at all. He must find the right form of words for the ceremony; make sure the right crowns and swords and robes are available; prepare Reims Cathedral and the royal road on to Saint-Denis and Paris. Unless it’s right, there’s no point in bothering. For us … for the French, these things are sacred, truly sacred.’

  She’d found she was nodding her head emphatically forward, desperate to convey how important it was. ‘People will only believe Harry is the true King of France if they see him crowned more authentically than Charles was. Otherwise there’ll be doubts … dangerous doubts … and they’ll go on forever … everyone knowing it’s not right. I don’t think Duke John understands … because he’s English.’

  She’d hesitated when she heard those hasty words tumble from her lips. But the Cardinal had a wry little smile about him. She could see he wouldn’t take offence. So she plunged on: ‘… and you English have so much less ceremony, less ritual, less …’ she searched for polite ways to phrase this, not wanting to call the English coarse or provincial or uncouth; but the Cardinal only nodded again and said, ‘I know just what you mean.’ Catherine didn’t want to say, ‘I know this because Duke John gave my father a burial that wasn’t good enough for a King of France. Even though I wanted to stay and make sure it was all done properly, he wouldn’t let me.’ Instead, in a rush, she finished her plea: ‘I don’t know if he’ll listen to me – I think he just thinks the French are too fussy about these things – but you can make him see sense.’

  Thank God for the Cardinal’s even temper and subtlety. His eyes were warm as he clasped her hands and said, ‘My dear, I will be more than happy to do whatever you feel best to make the coronation a success. We’ll do it together, you and I. We’ll lick John into shape.’ Getting up, he clapped her on the back as familiarly as if they’d always been fellow-conspirators, and said with enthusiasm, ‘Excellent, excellent!’

  ‘How brave you’re becoming,’ he added admiringly. ‘Just listen to you. When we first knew each other you’d never have said boo to a goose.’

  Catherine drew back a little. That surprised her. Had she changed? ‘Well, I speak English a little better now … but it’s Harry,’ she mumbled, suddenly shy again, if proud too. ‘Protecting Harry.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Cardinal replied reassuringly. ‘A mother’s feelings. Very natural and commendable.’

  He walked her to her escort, patting at her all the while. He was genuinely excited at the idea of helping her create the coronation ceremony she felt appropriate, she could see he was. He was rubbing his hands and glowing, and breathing a little faster at the idea of this new opportunity for shifting and shaping; at his chance to influence Duke John in a way that would, in turn, increase his influence with the King. He was the type to enjoy making elaborate plans.

  How bored the Cardinal must have been in his years of exile overseas, far from his own court, Catherine thought. How much happier he’d be – they’d all be – together, on the road to France.

  They weren’t going to set sail for Calais till the early tide tomorrow. They’d have a night at the castle at Southampton. The Cardinal and the rest of the noble visitors were to make their way through Castle Watergate, rest and eat. The Earl of Warwick had already marshalled his troops and was leading them off to inspect their preparations.

  Owain was at the elbow of the Southampton dignitary as the man approached the royal party, still looking flustered. There was warmth in the brief, direct glance Owain gave Catherine as he bowed; affection in the gentle shoulder-pat he gave Harry as he straightened up from his bow. Smoothly, once the introductory bowings and formalities were over, it was Owain who asked the frisky, pink-cheeked Harry, ‘You could go straight to the castle … but wouldn’t you like to look round the town … let Master Soper here show you the ships he built for your father?’

  No one said no. Catherine couldn’t believe the freedom on this fresh wind. Master Soper’s cheeks went red with pleasure at the glow in Harry’s eyes. They stayed red for the rest of the afternoon, as he proudly showed the little King Simnel Street and Butcher Row and Bugle Street, where the bakers made loaves to victual ships for France and the butchers prepared meat enough to feed hundreds and sometimes thousands of soldiers. He walked Harry on board the enormous Genoese carrack, the Marie Hampton, with its smooth carvel-built hull, one of the finest of the vessels captured a decade ago from the French that now graced the English fleet which would sail tomorrow, to show him the miracle of the compass needle that always pointed north, encased in its iron-free binnacle fixed before the helmsman’s place on the castle. He demonstrated the use of lead and line, and of running glasses, whose steady stream of falling sand told a captain how long he’d kept a particular course, and of tide tables, and of the rutter, the manual containing information about every sandbank and sounding on the route to Calais. He described the excitement of sailing for Bordeaux, La Rochelle or Bilbao, for wine, or to Compostela with a cargo of pilgrims. Master Soper, a capable Southampton merchant turned clerk of the King’s fleet, had personally built the biggest English ship ever, the Grâce Dieu, and the Valentine and the Falcon that had accompanied it; he’d built the Holighost de la Tour, too, and the Ane, and remodelled the Gabriel de la Tour. But, as Owain murmured to Catherine, walking along behind the small, chattering King and the eager, sweating shipwright, stopping every now and then to admire the skilful sealing of the planking with pitch, resin and old rope called oakum, all that work had been done in the days when French naval attacks were a constant fear. There was no French threat from the sea any more; which was why King Henry’s will had specified that most of these expensive royal ships be gradually sold off and the funds returned to the royal coffers. Master Soper, who had built up the English fleet and cherished it throughout his youth, now had the melancholy task of dismantling everything he had once created. ‘It must be hard for him,’ Owain said quietly and sympathetically in Catherine’s ear. ‘But it’ll be something he’ll remember for the rest of his days, that the new King was so interested in his work today.’

  On another day, Catherine thought, if she’d been feeling as wretchedly trapped as she often did in the familiar castles of the Thames Valley, she might have been plagued by a kind of muddled nostalgia at the mention of those long-ago naval clashes: nostalgia for the days when, however insecure she might have felt, she still knew who she was; when, waiting in Paris for war news, she and everyone around her would have rejoiced whole-heartedly at reports of a French raid on the English coast. But not today; not with this wind in her nostrils. Not with her son dancing and prancing in front of her, asking a thousand questions without a trace of fear of the sea. Not with yet another example of Owain’s kindly resourcefulness to wonder at – how had he had time to find out about this man’s fate? And not with Owain walking so courteously beside her, not close enough to take her arm, but stooping slightly to murmur information into her ear, so she could feel the warmth of him along her left side. The past was past. There was only now, and the tang of salt in her mouth. It was enough.<
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  ‘What about Dame Butler?’ she asked, almost timidly. So many arrangements she didn’t know about had been made while she and Harry wintered quietly at Windsor; she didn’t want to make any assumptions that might seem foolish. ‘What will her position be in France?’

  But she could see as soon as she had the courage to look into Owain’s laughing eyes that she hadn’t misunderstood. ‘For now, she’s in charge of the Cardinal’s household,’ he said. ‘A capable woman, Dame Butler. But once my lord Warwick realises how busy he’s going to be controlling his army, it may be a relief to him that she’s here. He’ll need to find someone to take charge of Harry; keep the royal household. I think he’ll find the Cardinal willing to let her go.’

  She laughed out loud, letting the sharp air rush deep into her lungs. Harry would be so happy to escape the Earl.

  ‘You do think of everything,’ she said warmly. A gust of wind blew through them, so hard it put slapping white crests on the water and puffed out her skirts behind, almost knocking her off balance. She turned round, leaning backwards into it, grinning, stopping her ears against the startling crackle of canvas and the softer creak of wood. Owain stood before her, one hand on his hat to stop it blowing backwards off his head, laughing helplessly at the stinging force of it beating against his face; then he turned round, like her, to get it behind him. They were side by side again; wrapped in a cocoon of wind. Before she was quite aware she’d done it, she found she’d slipped her arm through his.

  The captain was Portuguese: little and wrinkled, with bright pale washed-out eyes looking calmly out over the sea while his hands moved their instruments and his mouth moved in a stream of reminiscence: ‘The sun so hot on your back all day … the earth still hot underfoot all day … the scent of the flowers in your nostrils … great big sweet flowers, full of the magic of moon … you’re drunk with it, in love from it …’