Wife to Henry V: A Novel

by Hilda Lewis

  He felt himself stiffen in the bitterness of his pride. The People's Servant must be be humble—Warwick filled top-to-toe with his own pride warning him. God's Servant must be humble—was almost as though Thomas Netter, risen from his grave in far Rouen, stood by to warn him. The holy man and world-soiled Warwick warning him in one breath.

  He knew not what to do, what to say. He wanted to pray to St Edmund, to St. Dunstan that they might intercede for him all unworthy. Unworthy, indeed, to cry upon the saints, his heart so bitter and so wild. He longed unspeakably for Father Thomas who had known him as a little child, in whose kind arms his father had died. Father Thomas would have known how to help him to a gentler heart. .

  He set his thoughts upon Father Thomas, till he felt his heart grow gentle and fell upon his knees; knelt there until his limbs grew cold until heart and soul had emptied themselves into space...knelt blind and deaf until God gave him back his heart and soul again, gentle and clean and all-unknowing of the journey they had made.

  * * *

  When he came into her room he thought it was empty, so flat the mattress beneath the heaped furs, so linen-white the face against the pillow, so faint her breathing. Then the lids lifted and he saw her eyes fever-bright, dark in their dark sockets; saw, most pitiful, how she tried to lift herself in the bed, as though she would rise to pay reverence.

  He went to her quickly then, forgetful of the struggle and the anger and the bitterness; remembering only that she was his mother and that he loved her.

  He nodded to the lady Abbess to go; brought the stool and set it by the bed. And all the time her eyes, her sunken eyes were upon him, could not leave him, this dear son of hers. And surely he was like an angel of God with his hair bright as a halo, and his blue eyes and all the sweetness and the gentleness about him. She wanted nothing but to He there and look upon him before her eyes darkened forever.

  But she must not rest upon the gentle moment. Urgent against the body's weakness, the mind as yet unclouded, warned her. Upon this moment hung her dear love's life and the future of her children.

  Her lips moved. He took her hand lending her his own young strength. Almost he could shame his kingship, seeing it so wasted.

  “Madam,” he said gently; and then, “Mother...mother.”

  “My son,” she said, “oh my son...” The slow tears welled. She had seen so little of him, so very little. Of all the children she had borne, not one left with her for her solace and her joy.

  “The children,” she said. “Your brothers, Harry...”

  “Yes,” he said, gentle, the battle fought.

  “A man's brothers...shield upon his arm, cover to breast and back.”

  “Yes,” he said again. “And so it shall be.”

  “They will serve you well. Blessing them you bless yourself...and me...and me.”

  She fell to silence again, smiling upon the thought of her little sons...Owen's sons.

  “They are of the blood of Kings,” she said.

  In spite of himself the anger flew to his cheeks.

  She said, gently, “I could not give myself to any common man,” and thought of Owen who was above all men, gentle or simple, yes, or royal, even. “He is a true man,” she said and she was smiling, “brave and strong and beautiful...and the kindness of God. Be merciful to him,” she said, “because he was my husband and I his heart's delight.”

  Was, she said, was. He was torn between his pity and his jealousy; for the man she loved so passionately, so tenderly, that, dying, she was not afraid to name his kindness with the kindness of God. His jealousy swelled, reached out to those children-like himself sons of her body—whom her dying lips smiled to remember.

  She watched him, her whole soul set upon God that He would win the battle for Owen's sons.

  And watching, she saw his eyes widen, begin to stare; saw the colour drain from his face; he was stiff now as though the soul had gone out from his body and he had died in his place.

  In the silence he spoke, empty voice of the empty body; and the words he spoke were the words he had spoken before.

  “My brother...the son of my brother...shall wear the crown.”

  Her soul struggled with his; urged his meaning.

  But already the stiffened body was relaxing, the faint colour staining his cheeks, light stealing again to those blank eyes.

  But still her soul urged his.

  “The crown?” she said. And again, “The crown?”

  “Did I speak of a crown?” he said as once before. Why then, the heavenly crown. All good men shall wear it...all good men, my brothers...my brothers...” He shivered a little in the warm room, looking about him as though he had come a long distance and was not yet sure where he might be. “My brothers I shall cherish.”

  “So God shall cherish you,” she said. “And my husband? What of my husband?”

  She forced his eyes, all unwilling, to meet her own. “By him I will deal justly.” “Then you will set him above all men.” Her head dropped upon the pillow; her eyes closed. The door opened. Soft and dark as death the lady Abbess came in. For the moment, weary with his soul's journeying he thought it was death. His bones went weak as water.

  Catherine's eyes half-opened. “My intent...” she said, beseech you, forget not my...intent.”

  He knelt leaning his cheek against her hand as often when a child, “I promise, with kindness and with tenderness to fulfil your intent. You shall see...when you are strong enough. We shall fulfil it together.”

  He rose, stood looking down upon her. “I shall come tomorrow, and every tomorrow till you are well again. His voice was steady though his heart was broken with sorrow.

  Yes, he would come tomorrow, and tomorrow, until there were on more tomorrows. Let the Council wait; let his Uncle of Gloucester prick at him with affairs of State and Warwick threaten with a cold eye. He was fifteen...and his mother lay dying. Let them wait—Gloucester and Warwick, England itself—let them all wait.

  * * *

  Catherine turned her head to the lady Abbess. “Let him come here no more; neither he, nor my dear love, nor my young children.” She smiled the small smile that had once enchanted great Henry. “I am still full of sin, holy mother, and most of all the sin of pride. I cannot endure those I love to look upon my face...except my cousin Madam Queen Johanne. Let her be with me...at the last.”

  She lay, eyes closed; she opened them again upon the lady Abbess. “It is time to make my will,” she said.

  The Abbess put out her hand to the pens, the parchment; there was no false word of recovery.

  “The last will of me, Catherine...”

  “...made unto her sovereign lord,” the Abbess wrote, well-taught in form and etiquette.

  “...unto my son,” Catherine said, “before I die.” And Goodbye, Harry, goodbye. The words are said, the farewell taken. “To him...to Harry...everything.”

  The Abbess stopped writing. “There are others, my daughter...”

  “I have not forgotten.” The small, mischievous smile just touched her lips. “Do you think I could forget? Yet still it is all for Harry—save for a little I have put aside to pay my debts; they are not many, I think; and a kindness here and there to be remembered...dear Guillemote and the others. I have set them down. The rest—for Harry. So it will be safe. The world waits to rob the helpless, but who dare rob the King?”

  She lay back upon the pillow. The holy mother dipped a cloth in wine-and-water, wiped the sick woman's hands and forehead.

  “Bid him remember...his promise...the children,” Catherine said. “Tell him, in all the world, I trust him only.”

  The Abbess wrote upon the parchment.

  “Read,” Catherine said, “read.”

  “...you, in whom alone, in all the world I trust to carry out my testament...”

  “The children,” Catherine said, “you do not name the children. “Patience, a little,” the Abbess said and dipped the quill once more.

  'The children,” Catherine said
again, “the children...and his promise. Set it down. Remind him, oh remind him.”

  “What the King has promised he will remember.” “Yet set it down. Why do you not set it down?” she asked piteous, stretched a wasted hand to take her pen, let it drop.

  “It is not always a time to speak, my child. Set down the promise clear-and he may find it hard to perform. The King is not his own master yet. But he has promised. It is enough.”

  “You are wise, reverend mother,” Catherine nodded. Yet write...finish...while there is time.”

  “And I believe with all my heart that you will carry out my will...” The Abbess wrote.

  “Read,” the dying woman said, “read...”

  “…to fulfil my intent...” the Abbess read slowly.

  “Tenderly and kindly...my son's words,” Catherine said very softly. “Write them...oh write.”

  The quill scratched softly upon the paper.

  “...to fulfil my intent, tenderly and kindly,” the Abbess read.

  The sick woman's lips just shaped the words. “It is well said.” The small smile flitted across her lips. “The hidden promise stands clear. My son will understand.”

  * * *

  Her will was written, her confession made.

  Christmas went slowly by. She felt the peace, the holiness of the season, here in the convent; drew it deep into her soul. For the first time in her thirty-five years she was truly at peace.

  The King had ridden over as he had promised but she would not see him, nor did she ask to see her other children, nor did she speak of Tudor. Seeing one of those beloved faces, she could not, she knew, endure to die, but must beseech God for a little longer in which to be happy since her son had been kind and there was no more danger.

  New Year's Day brought a present from the King. The lady Abbess held up a crucifix of pearls set upon a tablet of gold.

  “It is over-late for such jewels,” Catherine touched it with her finger-tip. “And yet it is the blessed cross; and yet it is from my son,” she said and bade them put it where her eyes might see it.

  She spoke little after that; she lay silent, her mind moving about the past as though she could no longer endure the present where Owen was not, nor any of her children. She thought of Michelle who had been good to her long ago...she would like to see Michelle again. And Jacque. They had not been over-virtuous, she and Jacque, but they had known much sorrow and little happiness...there might be a corner of Heaven where they might walk and talk together. For John she had no fears. He had carried the burden upon his faithful shoulders to the last; surely he must stand near the throne of God.

  Of Henry she did not think. It was as though his memory had been wiped clean away.

  * * *

  The snow was crisp and clean and dry beneath Johanne's feet as she stepped from the litter. Her face looked thin and wrinkled and dark against the dazzle of snow.

  “She cannot last long,” the Abbess said. “Do not be deceived...a last flicker before the fire dies.”

  In spite of the warning Johanne could not but believe Catherine better. Her eyes were bright, her colour high. Bare of the coif the still-bright hair curled upon her shoulders.

  “God bless you, Johanne, for your faithfulness,” she said and her voice, though weak, was clear. “If your face is the last my eyes shall see, why then I am content.” She paused, sighed. “How can I lie in the face of my Maker Whom I am soon to meet? Oh God if I might see my dear love again! Tell him when the King makes all right, to come to my grave. Tell him I shall know where I He buried beneath the earth and my dead heart beat again. God, God that I might see him again before I die. Yet, as God wills so He wills! Were Owen here I could not die, I think, but must fight...fight to live. I am not afraid to die, Johanne...unwilling, a little, but not afraid, God has spoken. Christ is merciful...He will pardon me…”

  She stopped; took in her breath. Johanne heard it shallow, difficult.

  “I have not lived, perhaps, too well; and yet not so ill, neither. I have borne a King and two brothers to stand by his side. I have given a son to God—may it be remembered to me for good—though goodness was not in me when I gave him. And my little child is in Heaven. God, I think, will not disdain her prayers.”

  She was silent. Then, she said, on a tiny burble of laughter-Catherine to the last, “When my father died, my brother wept, all in black. But the next day there he was in vermilion—vermilion and gold. So much for his tears! Will Harry wear vermilion, do you think?”

  “Harry will do right in all things. And when he weeps, God Himself will stoop to wipe his tears.”

  “He is a saint,” she said; but she did not say it with joy. “Too good, too humble for this world. I fear for him, Johanne, I am very much afraid.”

  “You forget the Lancaster strain,” Johanne said, grim. “For all his gentleness they haven't broken it yet.”

  “He is not to be broken with rods nor with harsh words, but with gentleness he may be broken,” Catherine said. “And that is what I fear.”

  She lay back quiet once more. After a while she spoke. “Do you remember when my son was born?”

  “I remember. They brought the prisoner an extra cup of wine; an extra log for her fire.”

  Catherine's hand stirred, touched Johanne's. “How good you are!” she said again. “You bear me no bitterness, nor ever have.”

  “I am too old for that,” Johanne said. “I look to meet my friends in Heaven.”

  “You are hopeful—for your friends,” Catherine said and again it came, the small laughter.

  “How shall we live, not hoping?” Johanne said. “How shall we die—not hoping? And yet, how may I be forgiven? I did great wrong when I disobeyed my lord. The day my son was born all the bells in England pealed. Never such joy they said, for any princely child. And I was happy; happy as the Queen of Heaven, forgetting my disobedience. And for that my son shall weep; and England shall weep; and though I sit at God's feet—which is not likely—my lute across my knees, still I shall weep also...because I disobeyed my lord. Had I borne my son at Westminster everything had been different...my husband not angered against me nor I tormented...and Harry himself, different, perhaps too stronger, harder. There had been no Henry of Windsor to make an old sad prophecy come true; for what is foreseen must surely shape our course—our life and our character alike. No Henry of Windsor then, but Henry of Westminster...his father's son.”

  “And yet you love your saint as you never loved your soldier.” “I could die happier knowing him less a saint.” “Stop your torment. Windsor or Westminster or where you will—it's all one. A man is born what he is; he cannot go against his nature.”

  “But the thing that is foretold—a man's fate, a man's star!”

  “God alone rules fate as He rules the stars.”

  “But still He leaves us to play our little part. But for my disobedience there would have been no Henry of Windsor—and no fear of an old prophecy. You remember it?”

  “I remember an old nonsense.”

  “Would God it might prove so! But Harry himself. Twice he has spoken. My brother shall wear the crown...”

  “It was the Heavenly Crown he meant, counting all men his brothers.”

  “Maybe...maybe. And yet, Johanne, there is a dream I have...always the same dream. I am walking in the garden...at Windsor and my sons are there; two, only—the King and one other, Edmund or Jasper, I know not which; the faces are hidden. And I cannot tell which is the King—he wears no crown. And in my dream I say, How shall we know the King without his crown? And then one of them lifts up his hand and the crown is in it. And then he lifts his face. And it is Owen's son; Owen's son and not Henry's. And he turns and holds out the crown—but not to Henry's son. And then the garden is full of men and all of them with the face of Owen. And they are all crowned. But Henry's son stands alone...and his head is bare And I cry out, You are princes all; but there is one King and one alone. Where is the crown of Lancaster? And then they laugh and I am awake an
d weeping and afraid.”

  “Dreams. Dreams and prophecies!”

  “God speaks in dreams and prophecies.”

  “What then? You think He will punish the King for your disobedience—so great a punishment, so small a disobeying—you who believe in the Compassion of God.”

  “I believe in the Compassion of God, but it is a Compassion hard to understand. A girl was burnt in Rouen...a good young girl. And I approved and all Christendom approved. But be very sure God did not approve—Owen said that. And He—He let it happen.

  “To prove the truth by her Passion; she said that herself.”

  “But the blood bubbled, the flesh burnt. And my father. He lived like a beast of the forest...and like a wild beast, died.”

  “So he was cleansed of his lust and came simple and clean to the Pity of God.”

  “Yes “ Catherine said, “yes…but lowing him crouched naked in the dark, howling and savage and frightened God's Compassion was not always so clear.”

  “God will make all things clear,” Johanne said.

  * * *

  When she came to Bermondsey two days later she needed no words to speak the news of death. Catherine's nose, the grotesque Valois nose jutted sideways in her face, the fingers plucked.

  She lay muttering and did not know Johanne.

  “ The King.” She turned her head, restless on the pillow. No crown...no crown. Henry of Windsor...of Windsor...Who speaks?” Her voice came out in a wailing sound, “I cannot see...I cannot see.” Her head wove from left to right. “Is it you, my son Owen's son? You are grown so tall I do not know you. Why do your hands hold the crown? No, no. Edmund, Edmund do not so. God makes the King, not men. Give back the crown...”

  She sat bolt upright, her fingers left their plucking; her blind eyes stared upon her vision. She said, very clear, “The Tudors…crowned?” Her head shook as though she made no sense of it at all.

  After that she spoke but once. “Dear husband...dear love.” And then, “Owen.” Her head fell forward.

  The eyes of the dying are blind but they see clear beyond this world…

  Johanne closed the eyes. She took the cold hands and folded them across the breast. But...the Tudors crowned. How may that be?