by Tony Riches
I take a deep breath. ‘Catherine has agreed to marry me.’ Even as I say the words the idea sounds absurdly reckless.
Nathaniel raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I must congratulate you... although I don’t see how they will ever allow such a thing.’
‘That is why I’m telling you first. They will never allow it, so it has to be done in secret—and kept secret until it’s too late for them to stop us.’
Nathaniel sits back in his chair and strokes his new beard which makes him look older. Eventually he speaks. ‘We need to find someone prepared to conduct the service.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a priest, although I know Catherine will want the marriage to be blessed, even if it has to be done in secret.’
Nathaniel agrees. ‘It will help if they have influence at the Council of Westminster, someone whose word will not be questioned.’
‘Such as a bishop?’ I see the sense of Nathaniel’s suggestion.
‘A bishop would be ideal, if you can find one who does not feel obliged to inform Cardinal Beaufort.’
‘Bishop Philip Morgan of Ely is a Welshman, wealthy enough not to need Cardinal Beaufort’s support—and influential enough not to worry about upsetting Duke Humphrey. I could ask Catherine to write to him, requesting his help.’ I have never spoken to Bishop Morgan but he has known Catherine since before she came to England and would not betray her trust.
‘I’ll be happy to deliver the letter to the bishop in person, if that would help?’
‘I think it best if nothing is written down about this, at least for now. Will you travel to see the bishop and see if you can persuade him to visit the queen here?’
‘You are right. It is a risk to even tell Bishop Morgan what you are planning—yet I don’t see we have any choice.’
I feel a sense of foreboding again. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Nathaniel?’
‘You believe it is your destiny to marry Queen Catherine?’
‘I’ve always believed some things are meant to happen—and if this marriage is, then nothing we do will stop it.’
Bishop Morgan arrives the following week and has a private meeting with Catherine. A large man with a florid face and a deep Welsh accent, he suffers with poor eyesight and has learned to become a skilled listener. This proved invaluable in his diplomatic work, as the bishop served as Chancellor of Normandy and supported the peace negotiations.
Catherine confides to me later that Bishop Morgan tried his best to persuade her to see sense. He warned that the consequences could be serious for her and worse for me, yet realises she is determined and has offered his full support. The marriage will, he says, teach humility to those who are too quick to dismiss the mother of the king.
That evening the three of us meet in the queen’s apartments to discuss the arrangements. Catherine introduces me to the bishop, who is greatly interested in my Welsh ancestry.
‘I served as rector of Aberedowy as a young man.’ The bishop has a wistful look in his eye. ‘If I hadn’t gone into the church I could have been with your father, Tudor, fighting the English.’
‘My father was steward to the Bishop of Bangor. I remember little of that, as I was only seven when I came to London.’
The bishop smiles. ‘And now you wish to marry Queen Catherine. Can you confirm to me that you are free to do so?’
‘I can, Bishop Morgan, and I am grateful that you agreed to travel here.’
The bishop turns to Catherine. ‘There are many who would not agree, my lady, although I see no obstacle to this marriage—and I am happy to officiate at your wedding. We can hold it in the chapel here in Wallingford. It seems as good a place as any.’
‘Thank you, Bishop. There is one person we trust to be a witness, yet we still need to find a second. The problem is... we suspect the Constable of Wallingford, Thomas Chaucer, might be an agent for Cardinal Beaufort—and we can’t be sure who else to trust.’
The bishop looks unsurprised. ‘I will ask my good friend William Grey, the Bishop of London, to act as our second witness. It may be helpful if the validity of the marriage is ever challenged.’
‘Do you think it will be challenged, Bishop?’ I am concerned at how quickly our plan could unravel.
‘Of course—although you must understand that it is consummation which truly seals a legally binding marriage. Let us imagine you were to have another child, soon after you are married.’ He pauses to allow us to think about what he is saying. ‘There would be little point in their challenging that, would there?’ There is a twinkle in his eye when he sees our reaction.
Catherine brightens as she understands his point. ‘Any children of my marriage will be members of the royal family.’
I have always wished for a son and can see the logic of what the bishop is saying. Even Duke Humphrey will hesitate to accuse the king’s mother of having a child outside a legal marriage, particularly with his somewhat questionable past in that regard.
The bishop continues. ‘You will find William Grey is both discreet and sympathetic. He has little time for Cardinal Beaufort’s politics or the way he conducts himself as Bishop of Winchester. William may even agree that you can stay at his palace until all this blows over. He lives in London now and his country residence would be the perfect place to escape the attention of those in Westminster.’
Catherine is interested. ‘Where is his country palace, Bishop?’
‘It’s a manor house in a village called Much Hadam, in Hertfordshire.’ He gives me a knowing look. ‘Out of sight is out of mind, Tudor, remember that. They will have their hands full with this coronation in France and will be too busy to go searching for the mother of the king.’
After some discussion we decide the service will be held at midnight in the castle chapel. I am relieved to learn that Thomas Chaucer has been called away on business in London, and doubt anyone will wonder who is burning church candles at such a late hour. Nathaniel has agreed to act as a witness and also to keep a watch on the door to prevent the ceremony being interrupted.
Our second witness, Bishop Grey, has arrived from London earlier in the day and spent a long time in a meeting with Queen Catherine and Bishop Morgan. He is elderly, but his mind is sharp. Bishop Grey is content to agree the plan to allow us sanctuary at his country manor, although he cautions that his tenure as Bishop of London is to end after a year. After that we might need to make alternative arrangements, depending on the reaction at Westminster if the marriage is discovered.
We all agree it will be best for our plan to be kept secret for as long as possible. Catherine’s main concern is how we can keep it from everyone when she visits her son in Windsor. There will be little privacy in the king’s busy household and it seems almost certain someone will find out, particularly if she is with child.
The castle chapel is ancient with small leaded windows set high in the walls. I shiver in the cold night air, hardly able to believe what is happening, and pace nervously in the dark hallway of the chapel. I repeatedly ask Nathaniel if he can see anyone approaching and start to wonder if something has gone wrong when Catherine arrives, a beautiful silk gown under her dark riding cloak.
Bishop Morgan has rehearsed the simple ceremony with us both in the privacy of the queen’s apartment and recites the formal wording from memory.
‘Owen Tudor, wilt though have this woman to thy wedded wife, wilt thou love her and honour her, keep her and guard her, in health and in sickness, as a husband should a wife and forsaking all others on account of her, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’
I am ready. ‘I will.’
The bishop continues. ‘Queen Catherine, wilt though have this man to thy wedded husband, wilt thou love him, honour him, keep him in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband and forsaking all others on account of him, keep thee only unto him, for so long as ye both shall live?’
Catherine replies. ‘I will.’ Her voice is clear and confident in the still night air.
N
ow I answer. ‘I receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part and thereto I plight thee my troth.’
Catherine responds and it seems time stands still. I look at Catherine and see not a queen but the confident woman who loves me, and who I love so deeply in return. I take the gold ring, which Catherine has chosen from her jewellery, and place it on her finger. The bishop gives us his blessing and it is done. I kiss my new bride and a Welsh servant has married a queen.
We thank the bishops for their kindness and loyalty to the queen, and Catherine presents Nathaniel with a gold crucifix as a token of her gratitude. Moving silently back through the silent castle grounds, I finally close and bolt the door of Catherine’s bedchamber, to spend our first night together as husband and wife.
* * *
The house at Much Hadam is on the edge of a quiet village some forty miles north of London. Although officially the palace of the Bishops of London, it is more of a manor house than any of the palaces I have lived in. The main feature is a high-ceilinged timber hall, over a hundred years old. The decoration is simple, as befitting its religious function. The rooms are spacious and the furniture practical.
My concern is Catherine will think it too plain after the luxury she has known, but I needn’t have worried, as she finds our new home at Much Hadam offers her the freedom she always longed for. The one thing that troubles her is Bishop Morgan’s suggestion about how she can explain her sudden disappearance. Before leaving Wallingford the bishops joined us for a toast in the queen’s apartments and the talk soon turned to this problem.
Bishop Grey raised the question. ‘What are you going to tell the rest of the household?’
The question hangs in the air and I glance at Catherine. We haven’t discussed it, although we can hardly expect to slip away without anyone noticing. There are always visitors calling at the castle to see the queen and the bishop is right, we must decide what is to become of the household staff.
Catherine answers. ‘We need time. There must be some way to answer any questions before it’s too late for them to challenge our marriage.’
Bishop Morgan nods to Catherine. ‘You don’t need anyone’s permission to travel around the country. For now, all you need to say is that you wish a change from Wallingford. You don’t have to tell anyone where you’ve gone.’
‘They will think it strange if I travel alone—and they will wonder where Owen has gone.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘I will tell Nathaniel to keep the queen’s household busy. I can say I’m going to the coronation in France. That will buy plenty of time.’
Catherine looks uncertain. ‘What will they say if someone like Duke Humphrey insists on knowing where I am?’
Bishop Grey answers. ‘I understand you will not like this, my lady, although it will stop any questions if it were suggested there is a problem with your health?’
‘To say I am ill?’ Catherine frowns at the thought.
Bishop Grey looks flustered. ‘In a manner of speaking, my lady. I was thinking of your father. It could be suggested that you have... shown early signs of his problems.’
‘You mean to suggest I am losing my mind?’ Her French accent returns and her face is flushed.
Bishop Morgan intervenes. ‘You said the constable here, Thomas Chaucer, is a first cousin of Henry Beaufort and possibly watching your household for the Cardinal?’
I see where this is leading. ‘I could explain to him, in strict confidence, why the queen has to be taken away from public view for a while—and ask for his co-operation in keeping this secret for as long as possible?’
The bishop nods again. ‘He will no doubt inform his cousin, Henry Beaufort—who in turn will ensure no questions are asked.’ He looks at Catherine. ‘You will need to consent to this, of course.’
Catherine stares out of the window. I follow the direction of her gaze and see how the ancient leaded glass distorts the view of the river, blurring the edges between where the water ends and the land begins. I remember how they locked her father away for his own safety and to hide his torment from the people. Catherine once confided to me that even her mother acted as if he was dead. No questions were asked as no one wanted to hear the King of France had gone mad. It was plausible that his daughter could inherit something of his ways.
‘I agree,’ she says, her voice so soft it can hardly be heard.
I know her well enough to see she already regrets her consent. I am the only one who knows her secret. Sometimes she wakes and has to struggle to recall her own name or where she is. The day could come when she will not be able to remember anything. The possibility she truly does have something of her father’s madness troubles me, and for her it could become a paralysing fear.
Chapter Nine
Spring of 1431
The powerful longbow creaks as I heave it back to full stretch and sight down the arrow. My arm strains with the effort of holding it perfectly still. I realise I am holding my breath and remember to breathe out. With a familiar swish that takes me instantly back to my youth, I loose the arrow and grin like a boy as it strikes satisfyingly deep into the centre of the makeshift straw target.
One of the unexpected aspects of life at Much Hadam Palace is that I have plenty of time to improve my skill with archery. That is part of the problem. Before my marriage to Catherine I worked hard, in a position of trust and responsibility, making sure the queen’s household ran smoothly. Now I see myself as a kept man, living off my wife’s allowance, with only maids, cooks and gardeners to worry about. Even they have little need of me, for as servants of Bishop Grey they ran his palace well enough on their own.
The village is little more than a hamlet, so the parish church of St Andrew's, said to have been built by men returning from the Crusades, is the focal point. When Bishop William Grey visits he explains that the grandeur of the village church, with its unusually long nave, is because of the adjacent official summer palace. The ancient door has iron hinges with fleur-de-lis, a sign of its Norman past, and the spire is a tall, traditional Hertfordshire spike, visible for miles around.
I am grateful for how well everything has worked out. Catherine’s wealth and allowances are more than enough for us to live in comfort for the rest of our lives. Bishop Grey doesn’t even require payment of rent, as the palace is owned by the church commissioners. It has all become a little too easy. I am lucky beyond my wildest dreams, yet find myself longing for the day when we can live openly as husband and wife, rather than hiding away in secret.
To show my gratitude and keep myself busy I cut down the young trees which have self-seeded in the churchyard, clear ivy from the walls, and restore headstones which have fallen. I find a rickety wooden ladder in the crypt of the church and climb high onto the roof to repair slates which became dislodged in the winter storms. It is satisfying work and I feel I am contributing to the local community, as well as keeping myself gainfully occupied.
The villagers I meet are friendly and assume I am in the bishop’s employment, doing the work on his orders. It surprises me how easily we have fitted into our simple life in the country after the luxury of Windsor Castle or even the hustle and bustle of life at Wallingford.
Nathaniel rides to visit us and reports that all is quiet at Wallingford Castle. It seems our plan has worked. No unexpected visitors have called and no awkward questions have been asked. He brings a bundle of letters and messages for the queen, including one from Harry in Windsor. Catherine is able to reply to them all without revealing she is no longer in residence there—or almost nine months pregnant with her second child.
I worry that, instead of glowing with health, Catherine spends so much time in her bed. I know almost nothing about childbirth so must rely on the judgement of the village midwife. A cheerful, buxom woman with unruly ginger hair, as far as I am aware she neither knows or cares about our identit
y and seems reassuringly unconcerned about Catherine.
‘She needs to rest, sir.’
I search the woman’s deeply lined face for clues to what she thinks. ‘Is it normal for my wife to look so pale?’
The midwife must see my concern. ‘Your wife has not slept well for many nights, sir, so it is best she stays in her bed.’
‘Can you tell how much longer we have to wait?’
‘The baby will come soon enough, one day, two at the most. I will stay here and have everything ready.’
I feel a little reassured. ‘You must tell me what I need to do.’
‘Some say husbands should keep away, but I know better.’ She gives me a conspiratorial look. ‘You sit with your wife, sir. She will be glad to see you.’
I try to let Catherine sleep for as long as she wants, then take the midwife’s advice and go to see her. Catherine is curled up on her side, a thin coverlet over her, her swollen stomach clasped in both hands. I pull a chair to her bedside and take her hand.
‘How are you feeling?’
She looks up at me with drowsy eyes. ‘I can feel the baby moving.’ She places the flat of my hand on her bulge. ‘The child kicks hard. It must be a boy!’
I can feel a strange movement. ‘Is it bad luck to talk about names before the baby is born?’
‘No.’ Catherine laughs. ‘Although I didn’t have any choice with Henry.’
‘Well, this time you can choose.’
‘Truly?’
‘Of course,’ I stroke her forehead, ‘I will name the next one.’
‘In that case... if it is a boy I would like to call him Edmund.’
I sit back in the chair. ‘Edmund?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’ I hope she misses the lie and remember my jealousy at how happy she had been with Edmund Beaufort. ‘What if it is a girl?’
