Wife to Henry V: A Novel

by Hilda Lewis

  “Patience you, too, Madam,” Beaufort said. She flushed, knowing his uncanny power of reading thought. He went with her to the door. “The King will send for you soon,” he said very low. “I have written.”

  * * *

  St Albans, Bristol, Shrewsbury. She followed Henry's progress. Back through Hereford to Kenilworth and his own beloved manor of Pleasantmaris.

  When she heard of the triumphs—of the people’s joy, of the celebrations and the costly gifts-it was as much as she could do not to break out into open complaining. She was weary of Westminster with its encircling river and its walls and towers and its coming and going of fifty thousand people. She wanted to be riding the spring countryside, to show herself to the people, to share in the triumphs.

  She tried to comfort herself—at least she was out of the way of Henry's coldness, his heartless lovemaking!

  But it was no consolation, none at all. Henry must return to France. And if he were killed? It could happen; it could easily happen. Would she be pushed from pillar to post like Isabella when Richard had died? These English would be no more willing to pay her Queen's dower, though it was set down black upon white, than they had been to pay her sister's. But-mother of the King, a baby King! That would be another matter, a quite other matter.

  * * *

  She forgot about the triumphs of which she had been robbed, forgot the uncertain future, forgot, even, her loneliness, in the amazing news.

  Jacqueline was in England. Jacque! She had run away from her hateful husband as she had promised.

  Her first thought was to ride to Dover to welcome her friend. She longed to see Jacque, to ask a thousand, thousand questions, to give a thousand, thousand confidences.

  She longed to see Jacqueline—but she feared Henry. To encourage her friend might make trouble with Philip.

  She put herself out of temptation by removing herself to Windsor.

  * * *

  Henry had sent messages of welcome to Jacqueline, orders for her entertainment. Gloucester himself was riding to Dover with a retinue fit to welcome a reigning Queen. But why? Catherine wondered. Wouldn't this anger Philip? And what was more important to Henry than Philip's friendship? Certainly no mistaken notions of chivalry!

  “But why, why?” she asked a Jacqueline aglow at her daring escape, at her nearness to the handsome Humphrey. “Henry needs Philip—Philip spells France. He'd never risk France for any woman, not for Venus herself.” Catherine was a trifle bitter.

  “Burgundy's false and your Henry knows it. When it suits Cousin Philip he'll go crawling to the Dauphin. But in me Henry has an ally. Such an ally! And he knows that, too. Holland and Hainault, Zeeland and Friesland are mine. And what's mine belongs to my friends. The richest heiress in Christendom if I had my rights. And why shouldn't I have my rights...when I have a husband to fight for me?”

  “Fight for you? Your husband? But he's robbed you, insulted you, imprisoned you—that's why you ran away, isn't it?”

  “Oh him!” Jacqueline waved an airy hand. “I don't mean Brabant, the nasty toad. Oh yes, Henry will find me a wonderful ally. Why should I grudge him anything since he's to be my brother? Listen, darling, darling Cat, and don't breathe a word. It's a secret. I'm going to marry Gloucester. We've arranged it.”

  “You're crazy. You can't. You're married already.”

  “Brabant isn't my husband—and never ought to have been. He's within the forbidden degree of blood. Whenever he came to my bed my flesh crawled. I'd shake as though I had a palsy. It was because I knew it was deadly sin. And why God didn't strike us all with thunderbolts I don't know.”

  “Because the Pope countenanced it.”

  “Then he must uncountenance it!” Jacqueline twirled on her toes. “I'm not going to live in mortal sin with an impotent boor. No, it's Humphrey for me, handsome Humphrey! This time I marry for love. Did you ever tell him, Cat, that I was ripe for a husband and an heir? I think you must have done—the man's hot for me.” “The man's greedy.” “I have enough.”

  “There's never enough for a greedy man...and I'm not speaking of riches, only.”

  “Still I have enough.” Jacqueline smoothed the rounded hips. “Enough to content any man.”

  “But not this man. His name's a byword.” For all her shrugging Jacqueline was a little dismayed. She looked down at the full, white bosom in the low-cut gown, turned to admire a pretty plump leg outlined beneath the tight cote; her face cleared. “I've got as much as any woman in the world—and a great deal more besides.”

  “Rank, lands, gold—and a pretty body thrown in! And still that's not enough to hold a lustful man.”

  “Your lustful man may be kept faithful. What sends him lusting may hold him fast, if his wife have wit...and something more.” She cast another look over her charming body. “It's your chaste man—chaste and cold and hard to win to tenderness—that's the man you must fear.”

  She gave Catherine a long, meaning look. It was the Queen's eyes that fell.

  * * *

  There was already gossip about Jacqueline and Gloucester.

  Catherine was worried. Jacqueline was so headstrong, so very much in love. One could wish, almost, Henry had not given her refuge. He detested scandal at any time; but this particular scandal! It was probably all over Europe by now; and, certainly, it would make trouble with Philip. And yet could you blame Jacque, poor Jacque who hadn't known happiness in spite of two husbands? But a little matter like the need for happiness wouldn't interest Henry. And the scandal, the scandal! What would Henry say when he came home at Easter as he had promised? His anger would be terrible. Even now she trembled at the thought.

  But Providence, it seemed, was kind. Henry would not be coming to Windsor after all. The people were clamouring to set eyes on the new, young Queen; he desired her to join him at Coventry.

  She leaned against the casement all shaken with excitement.

  The people wanted to see her. Her; Henry could no longer keep her from her rights. She would be beautiful and gracious and smiling; and all would be kind and easy between them.

  And so leaning against the window she saw Jacqueline go by in the springtime garden, a letter in her hand; saw the bright eyes and smiling lips and guessed who had sent it. She bent to Jacqueline across the casement. “I'm to join the King!” she said.

  “Oh Cat, how good! But he should have asked you long since—it's your right. But rights, rights! What rights have poor women but what husbands choose to give? Look at me—reigning countess in my own right! To me the oath was sworn, the knee bent. But Philip makes his sly bargain with Brabant,” and she would not call him husband. “And now it's to Burgundy my people look, Burgundy whom they serve and obey, Burgundy to whom in the end my lands would go if...” she smiled down at her letter, “if I were fool enough to stay with Brabant.”

  “You have no choice.”

  “Have I not?” Jacqueline smiled again.

  “Jacque, Jacque, have a care! Remember Philip. Remember the oath between him and your husband. Who fights Brabant fights Burgundy; and, in return Brabant's possessions—and that means yours, Jacque, as long as you're married to him, need I remind you?—will go to Burgundy. Of course Philip will see that your marriage holds good. If you try to break it then he becomes your mortal enemy.”

  “And—if I have a husband to fight for me?” The plump hands caressed the letter.

  “Then Philip becomes more dangerous. Suppose you got the marriage annulled—and I think you won't; suppose you took Gloucester—if Henry allowed it and I know he won't. Do you think Philip would allow everything you possess to pass into a new husband's hand and out of his own for ever? Never think it! Philip becomes not only your enemy and Gloucester's enemy but Henry's enemy—England's enemy.” .

  “Then leave Henry to deal with him! And leave me to deal with Henry. I fancy I can manage him. And now let's forget Cousin Philip while we may.” She swung into a gay mood. “Let's go to the Wardrobe, you'll need clothes for your progress. W
hen do you start?”

  “At once, almost. Will you ride with me?”

  “Not I. I've done enough riding lately—away from trouble.”

  “Then see you don't ride towards it. Jacque—you mean to be left behind with Gloucester.”

  “Naturally; though for all the good it may do me I may as well be at Mons. Westminster's as far, or so it seems.” She pouted. “But we waste time! To the Wardrobe. Your clerk has a pretty taste in clothes; and in women, too, so I hear.”

  “Change the subject you may; but still your mind runs on wantonness.” Catherine tried to play sedate, but for all that she could not help laughing.

  “Can you wonder? Twice married—and not a single hour of love. Nor will have unless the fates are kind. As for your Wardrobe clerk, certainly I shall turn my charms on him. Oh not for wantonness—Gloucester's my fate; but to coax him, if you'll letrme, to give me a gown; or two, perhaps. I left home in a hurry!” She laughed thinking of that hurry.

  “Take what you please—no need of coaxing. As for this clerk of mine, if his eye rove too freely, why then he shall be punished. We'll have no scandal in the Queen's household.”

  “Can you avoid it? Such a handsome fellow, so I hear.”

  “I haven't noticed him.”

  “Haven't noticed the handsome Tudor, gentleman of Wales?”

  “Gentleman?”

  “Owen Tudor, Esquire.”

  “Esquire!” Catherine shrugged. “He must be thirty if a day. Why isn't he a knight, this gentleman from Wales?”

  “So you did notice him! As a matter of fact he's Henry's age—thirty-five or so, though he looks younger. As for the knighthood, Henry offered him one. Here you've been in England two months and you don't know the first thing about your own servants. He's something of a hero, this Tudor, let me tell you! He fought against Henry in Wales when they were boys together; then he fought for him at Agincourt—that's when Henry offered him the knighthood.”

  “Why didn't he take it?”

  “This!” Jacqueline tapped her hanging pouch. “So Henry offered him a place in his household instead.”

  “Which he didn't refuse; more lucrative, no doubt.”

  “No doubt...except that the man's honest.”

  “No grass grows beneath your feet! Where did you learn all this?”

  “My women. Like all the women in this house they're crazy about the man; you can't stop them talking. Not that I want to. Cat—'' she was suddenly serious, “freedom, life itself may hang upon a servant's word...as I know well. We think we're safe; but who knows what the future will bring? Did I? I'm alive now only because I knew whom to trust. The first thing I do wherever I go is to find out all I can about the servants. It's an example you'd do well to copy. But—” she was lighthearted again, “here we stand gossiping about this marvel when we might be setting eyes on him. Come, Cat, I'd like to see this wonder for myself.”

  * * *

  For the first time the Queen looked at Tudor. He was not unlike the King in figure—lean and long-legged; wide shoulders, narrow waist. But he looked ten years younger than Henry; there was no grey in his dark hair. He was, she could not but admit it, debonair. For all his respect for Madam the Queen, there was a gaiety about him, a warmth. And his voice was warm, too; there was a lilt to it she had riot noticed before, maybe because her French ear had not been sufficiently attuned to the English tongue—the singing lilt of Wales.

  With his own hands he brought out gowns and cloaks, cotes and houppelandes. They lay across press and stool, in rainbows of colour.

  She lifted a yellow gown. His eyes, before her own, warned her that it dimmed her brightness, changed delicacy to sickliness, brought out all the Valois in her. After that, she left the choice to him—gowns and jewels, shoes and gloves. Everything.

  And now it was Jacqueline's turn. He did not wait for her to choose; he held out the yellow gown. Catherine had the notion that he was willing to give only what would not suit the Queen.

  “Madam the Countess will make her own choice,” she said a little sharp; but Jacqueline was already holding the glowing colour against her cheek, her hair.

  “Yes,” Jacqueline nodded. “Your gentleman has perfect taste. What did I tell you?” She sent the man a smiling, sidling glance.

  “A good servant.” Shocked at the glance, Catherine spoke as though he were stock or stone. She wished Jacque had more dignity.

  * * *

  It was early March when the Queen rode out from Windsor. Spring had come early; the willows were out and the hazel waving scarlet banners. She was troubled about leaving Jacqueline; she hoped Gloucester would not take it into his head to come ariding. Much as she loved Jacque she wished again that Henry had not welcomed her.

  Through Hertford, through Oxford, through Northampton.

  The towns were gay as she passed through—everyone in Sunday clothes to greet the Queen; civic processions, public prayers and gifts; gifts enough to turn any young woman's head, even a Queen's. She forgot about Jacqueline.

  It was mid-March when the Queen's train entered Coventry. Henry rode out to meet her; he looked well, she thought, as he bowed over her hand, kissed her cheeks—clear-eyed, tanned, rested. Her own triumph riding through his England, the cheers of his English and their praises, rose to combat her fear of him. She looked at him, he thought, not like a wanton or a child; she looked at him like a Queen.

  The city went mad with joy. Not only the Queen, the new young Queen, but the King—England himself—was within its walls.

  When she dressed for the banquet her woman lifted out a gown the Queen had not seen before. It was a satin of creamy pearl shot with pale rose. And the ornaments, as Guillemote held them up—the great pearl necklace, the bracelets, the rings for ear and finger-glimmered cream and pink and tender green, casting colour upon the pale gown.

  “Beautiful, beautiful!” Guillemote lifted her hands; it was almost as though she prayed before the lovely gown. “It was sent to the Queen's apartments a bare hour before we left. They were up all night, sewing. Master Tudor brought it himself.”

  She said nothing standing there all bewildered at the lovely gown.

  “But surely Madam knew! It is for the night of the Queen's first meeting with the King, so he said.”

  She flushed at that. This Clerk of the Wardrobe went beyond himself dictating not only what the Queen must wear but when. I shall not wear it...but the gown was beautiful. She caught the words back on her tongue.

  Henry came to her bed that night. A temperate drinker, he had drunk more than usual. He had a warm, a boyish look. “The gown...a poem!” he told her. “Who's the poet? I'll send him a gift.”

  She shrugged, pretending ignorance.

  “When you are well-served, my sweet, remember the servant.”

  That night he took the trouble to woo her. Her fear of him receded. She would be afraid of him again, she knew; but not tonight...not tonight.

  * * *

  Rich Leicester welcomed them, pomp piled upon pomp.

  She did not see much of Henry; engrossed as ever in state affairs, in the business of raising money, in making his public thanksgivings and his pilgrimages, he found time for her only in bed. But still he thought of her; fearing she would be dull he sent for James of Scotland to amuse her.

  They sang together, played duets upon the lute and harp. He put the absurd rhymes he had translated at her coronation to music; she sang for him the sweet, silly song of the charming princess. When she came to the lusty lover she crimsoned like any virgin; but James Stewart laughed aloud. There was talk of letting him buy his freedom, and who knew but that he mightn't take back Joanna Beaufort as his Queen? The lusty lover—it was a part he hoped soon to play himself.

  * * *

  Pontefract. She looked up at the dark castle from which few prisoners ever returned. “Your Cousin of Orléans is looking to see you,” Henry said...

  She knew the moment's pause, wanting to refuse. This bird of Paradise, what did
he look like after six years in a cage? Moulting, shabby—the exquisite Charles? Strange, she thought again, that Isabella's first husband had been done to death within these walls, and now her second husband was imprisoned here. Coincidence? or design, a sense of fitness?

  “He's my prisoner, naturally,” Henry told her; “but he’s free enough—rides, hawks, sings his songs, and, as usual, he's in and out of love.”

  She smiled at that. Even Isabella's death—and he had loved her to distraction—hadn't saddened him for long. He'd made a song for her—and then he'd married again. In and out of love, as Henry said; singing his heart out, pure and sweet as a lark. What did he look like now, handsome Charles, gay Charles? Six years...and captivity, however free, is still captivity.

  Henry and Charles embraced each other like dear friends, not at all like gaoler and captive. Charles, Catherine saw, had grown a little stout and he had lost his fine, high colour. He kissed her cheek and chin and promised to make a new song for her.

  But when Henry had left them together, Charles forgot about his new song; his voice trembled as he asked of France and of his wife. But he turned his head aside when he asked about the little daughter Isabella had left him.

  “So pretty,” she said. “And gentle. And a most sweet dignity.”

  “Like her mother.” He was silent for a while; then he asked, a shade too brightly, “Is her match made?”

  “They talk of Alençon's heir.”

  “Good. Good enough...save that she is too young. Eleven is too young. Let her play while she may. Tell them, Catherine, tell them that! Would God I were home again.”

  Proud in her hope of conception, brave in his new kindness, she did not fear overmuch to ask Henry her favour. True he had scolded her when she had begged James' freedom; but for all that they were bargaining over the matter now. And what were a few rough words if she could gain liberty for her cousin?

  Henry hardened at once.

  “No,” he said. That and nothing more. His tone should have warned her. And when she persisted, said as once before, “You are no Isabeau. But were you Venus herself, bed is no place for meddling in public affairs.” And then added, “In bed or out I allow no woman to meddle.”