by Tony Riches
The man returns with a platter of bread and several thick slices of cured ham, with a chunk of cheese, but doesn’t show any sign of recognising me. We finish our meal, keeping watch for the man, then I slip out of the door while Nathaniel pays.
Nathaniel echoes my own thoughts as we ride towards Windsor. ‘I’d like to know what happened to Samuel Cleaver.’
‘Me too. I’d almost forgotten about him—until now.’
At last the distinctive silhouette of Windsor Castle appears on the horizon and it is time for us to part.
‘Take care to avoid Abbot’s Langley on the way back.’ Nathaniel waves and spurs his horse, as he hopes to reach Wallingford before nightfall, a further thirty-mile ride in the late summer evening.
I arrive at Windsor and stable my horse, then ask if I can see Sir Richard. The earl is busy but agrees to see me later that afternoon, so I find myself with time on my hands and decide to visit the captain of the guard. He is surprised to see me and greets me warmly.
‘Owen Tudor—and wearing a sword at last!’
‘Good to see you again, Captain. I’ve come about Samuel Cleaver, you remember him?’
The captain did. ‘He was charged and locked up in Newgate Gaol. I heard he somehow managed to escape while waiting to be sentenced.’
‘I thought it’s impossible to escape from Newgate?’
The captain shakes his head. ‘Cleaver had an accomplice. They wounded one of the guards but he was able to describe the man. It was the one we never caught.’
‘I saw him, at the inn in Abbot’s Langley. He works there.’
‘You are sure it is the same man?’
‘Of course, I will never forget him.’
‘I can let you have a couple of men if you want to go after him?’
‘I’ll let you know, Captain. It depends on the outcome of my meeting with Sir Richard.’
I thank the captain and make my way back down the long corridors to wait. As I turn a corner I almost bump into Juliette. She looks slim and attractive in a fashionable burgundy dress with long sleeves and a lace headdress that suits her. I stand there staring at her for a moment, my mind full of memories.
Juliette speaks first. ‘Owen! I was wondering what had become of you.’ She looks at me in silence for a moment, as if overwhelmed by memories. ‘You look well. What brings you to Windsor?’
‘I have a meeting with the Earl of Warwick.’ I am surprised at how Juliette has become even more beautiful as she has grown older.
‘Where have you been?’ There is accusation in her question.
I don’t wish to lie to her, so close to being able to reveal our secret.
‘I am still with Queen Catherine’s household.’ It is the truth.
She reaches out and places a hand on my arm. ‘I have missed you, Owen.’
I feel the warmth of her hand, but must not allow her false hope. ‘Did you return to France for the king’s coronation?’ I try to keep my tone business-like, as if I’m talking to any of the king’s staff and not my former lover.
Juliette seems to sense my coolness and removes her hand. ‘Yes. We were away for most of the year.’ All trace of her pleasure at the sight of me is gone.
‘And have you... found someone else?’ I have no right to ask, but am still deeply concerned about how I have treated her, after she trusted me with her love.
‘Who could take your place?’
I can’t answer and see the sadness in her eyes, the woman I could have married so long ago. I made my choice, although I have not forgotten how special our time together had been.
‘Would you ever come back to me, Owen?’ There is sudden hope in her voice and I wish I could tell her the truth about my marriage to Catherine, about Edmund and Jasper and our life now in Hatfield.
‘I am sorry, Juliette. You should find someone more worthy, while you can.’
Our brief exchange troubles me as I head for my meeting with Earl Warwick. Although I left Hatfield in a positive mood, the sight of the scar-faced man, then seeing Juliette, brings back more painful memories than I would have wished for.
The earl keeps me waiting before inviting me into his study. A map of France is spread out on his desk and marked with coloured lines to show the extent of English territory. Last time I saw the earl was in London, dressed in full armour at the head of the king’s royal procession. Sir Richard wears a plain tunic now, over a faded linen shirt. He looks older and regards me with poorly disguised suspicion, his eyes going to the fine sword and dagger at my belt.
‘Come with me, Tudor, there’s something you should see.’
The earl leads me out through the rear doors to a courtyard where the men-at-arms practice swordsmanship. As we approach I can hear the clang of swords on armour and the occasional deep-voiced call of encouragement. We enter the yard and see a knight in full armour sparring with one of the royal guards.
The guard swings his broadsword at the head of the knight, who parries the blow to a cheer from the men-at-arms gathered to watch. With a bone-jarring clang the knight delivers a well-timed blow to his opponent’s helmet using the weighted pommel of his sword. The guardsman seems concussed for a moment, and then raises both hands as a sign of surrender. Then the knight raises his visor and I see it is unmistakably Harry, although I would never have recognised him.
‘I presume you want me to say it’s time to tell the king what you’ve been up to, Tudor.’ The earl keeps his voice low.
It is not the welcome I expected. ‘We have honoured our promise to you, my lord.’
The earl nods. ‘You have, and for that at least I am grateful.’ He looks at me as if he wishes things could be different. ‘I am going to ask you to delay a little longer.’
‘Why, my lord?’
The earl glances at the men-at arms gathered around the king. ‘Not here. Come back to my study.’
We walk back down the corridor in silence, then reach Sir Richard’s study and he ushers me inside and closes the door.
‘It is not because of the king—although he could do without all this.’ The earl looks serious. ‘John, Duke of Bedford has succumbed to the same illness that finished his brother. I understand he does not have long to live.’
‘Why does that mean we have to keep our secret?’ I find it had to see how the Duke of Bedford has any significance for me.
‘Don’t be a fool, Tudor. You know Duke Humphrey will have you arrested as soon as he learns of your disloyalty? If Duke John dies, which he surely will, Humphrey will be the heir apparent. It would be the worst possible time for you to give him a way to discredit the king.’
‘How would the truth discredit him?’ I am confused. ‘We were properly married and King Henry’s half-brothers were born within wedlock.’
‘Let me spell it out for you, Tudor. First you will be locked up in the tower. Then rumours will spread that Queen Catherine was unable to control herself and lay with her servants. Your witnesses will be silenced, one way or another.’ He gives me a scathing look. ‘Any records of your marriage will be destroyed. Put quite simply, I don’t want the truth, as you insist on calling it, to be known until the king is of age.’
‘Sixteen? Catherine will never agree.’
The earl stands and opens the door. ‘You had best make sure she does, Tudor. And remember—watch your back.’
* * *
The warning signs are there, although I don’t want to acknowledge them. Catherine is even more upset than I expected at the news she must not tell Harry about his brothers until he comes of age. It means another five years of secrecy and subterfuge. She becomes obsessed with the idea something will happen to the baby she carries.
She wakes me in the middle of the night, her face pale and her eyes wide in the dim moonlight through the window. ‘I’ve had a bad dream, Owen. I saw my own funeral, in Westminster Abbey.’
‘It’s only a dream.’ I smooth her brow, then run my hand over her rounded curves. ‘Not long now before there’s one more i
n our family.’
Catherine is still reliving her dream. ‘There was a little effigy next to mine. It was a boy... he looked like you.’
‘It’s natural for you to worry when the child is so close.’
‘I worry something will happen to me before I can explain to Harry.’ She has concern in her eyes. ‘I must tell him, before it’s too late.’
‘You will, Catherine, as soon as this baby is born.’ I hug her closer. ‘And it is going to be the easiest birth of all of them.’
Catherine agrees. ‘We were lucky with Edmund and Jasper, they’re both growing into strong healthy boys.’
‘So forget your silly dreams?’
‘There is something I want to tell you, Owen.’
‘What’s that?’ I suspect I already know the answer.
‘Sometimes my dreams seem... real. I find it hard to remember what I’ve dreamed and what has really happened.’
‘I think we all do that a little.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I sometimes... forget who I am.’
I put my arms around her protectively. ‘That’s not surprising. We’ve been pretending you are an ordinary woman for a long time now. Even I have to remind myself you are the mother of the king.’
When I wake to find the bed next to me empty I suppose Catherine has risen early. I lie there alone, listening to the summer birdsong and thinking about the conversation we had in the middle of the night. Catherine’s baby is close to being due and it is only natural she should worry.
As I dress I decide to make a special effort to help her from now on. We never discuss her father’s madness or how difficult it must have been for her to witness as a child. I am unsure if to do so will make her nightmares worse or help her come to terms with her past.
The bishop’s cook, a cheerful woman named Mary, is making bread in the kitchen. There are plenty of bakers in Hatfield, although Mary likes to make fresh loaves every day and regularly tells me there is nothing to compare with the smell of baking bread. She looks up and smiles when she sees me.
‘Good morning, sir.’
I watch her kneading and turning the soft dough on the old oak table. ‘Good morning, Mary. Have you seen my wife?’
Mary stops her kneading and looks at me as if unsure what to say. ‘I have sir... I thought it strange she was going riding—in her condition, if you know what I mean?’
‘She was riding?’
‘Not on a horse, sir. I saw her leaving the stables in the wagon when I came to light the ovens early this morning.’
I glance at the ovens, now almost ready for the bread. ‘Thank you, Mary.’
I am worried now as it is not a good idea for Catherine to ride in the old wagon with the baby due. We used it to carry our luggage to Much Hadham, and when Edmund was born he was brought to Hatfield on the wagon. Well built, with a rain canopy supported by wooden hoops. It is only used occasionally now for carrying supplies. Briony and Catherine sewed cushions, padded with wool, for the boys to rest on, but the wagon is uncomfortable to ride any distance on the poor local roads.
In the stables I find the wagon and both the horses we use to pull it are missing. I curse the time I have wasted since she left, and saddling my Welsh Cob, canter to the crossroads. The town is to the left but it is not a market day and the road looks deserted. Ahead is the road to London and I can see a few riders in the far distance but no sight of our distinctive wagon.
That only leaves the lane which skirts the bishop’s land to the west and runs down to the River Lea. The ride along the bank of the river is a favourite of Catherine’s although I think it unlikely she would take the carriage far as the roads are deeply rutted.
Our last conversation returns to my thoughts. If Catherine woke not knowing who she was, she could be anywhere. I ride back to the stables and go in search of Briony. She is not in her room, which reassures me a little as I hope it means she is with Catherine. At a loss to know what to do, I ask the cook to explain to Catherine if she returns that I have ridden to Windsor in search of her. The realisation she might have gone to see the king has been at the back of my mind since I first learned she is missing.
The road becomes busier as the morning draws on. Once I think I can see the wagon in the far distance, and then find it is a different one as I ride closer. I can ride faster than the slow wagon, but Catherine left early. I continue as fast as I can, only stopping once to water my horse, yet by the time I reach Windsor it is late afternoon.
There is no royal standard flying, which suggests that the king is not in residence. A guard informs me the king is in Westminster and has been there for some time. I thank the guard but now have a new problem. Westminster is a good day’s ride from Windsor and Catherine might have left the wagon in preference for a riverboat, if she is even trying to see her son. I have ridden too far to turn back, so decide to find a pallet in the servants’ quarters and ride to London at first light.
The London road is busy with carts and wagons, as well as horses riding alone and in pairs, although I don’t see Catherine’s wagon all day. I have not slept well the previous night and woke with tell-tale welts where bed bugs have feasted on my blood. The bites soon begin to itch annoyingly, which does nothing to improve my mood.
By the time I arrive at the Palace of Westminster I am wondering if the journey has been a waste of time. Unlike Windsor, where I am known by many of the servants and staff, I find it impossible to gain access until I claim to have an urgent message to deliver to the Earl of Warwick. The soldiers on the gate look at my fine clothes and sword and ask me to wait.
A page boy eventually arrives to take me to see Sir Richard. I allow my horse to be led to the stables and follow the page with mixed feelings. I am right to be concerned for as soon as I see the earl it is obvious he is not in a good mood.
‘I’ve been expecting you, Tudor.’
‘Is Queen Catherine here, my Lord?’ I silently pray for good news as I wait for his answer.
‘The queen dowager arrived here demanding to see the king. As you know, she was in no condition to have risked such a long journey.’
‘Is she alright?’
‘No thanks to you, Tudor.’ He glowers. ‘I thought you agreed to stop her telling the king until he is of age?’
I thank God Catherine is safe. ‘I thought she had respected your request, my lord, but she left without my knowledge.’ I see the earl looks annoyed but not angry. ‘Has she told the king?’
‘She has not seen the king.’ He softens a little. ‘The journey here brought on the birth of her child.’
‘Where is she now, my lord?’ The news is a shock.
The earl points towards the towering spire of Westminster Abbey. ‘This is no business for the king’s physician. She is being cared for in the abbot’s infirmary.’
I find Catherine sleeping, her face as white as a fresh linen sheet. One of the abbey monks is seated at her side, his head bowed in prayer. I cross over to Catherine and kiss her tenderly on the cheek. Her skin feels cold and she stirs and says something, but I can’t make out her words. There is no sign of Briony or our child. There should be a baby, snuggled in the bed next to her or perhaps in a basket.
I turn to the monk. ‘Where is the baby?’
The monk looks at me, as if wondering what I mean, then makes the sign of the cross as he understands. ‘The child is given to God.’
‘It was a boy?’ Somehow I have known for months.
Catherine murmurs something and I lean over her and strain to understand her words.
‘I named him Owen, after you.’
I kneel in prayer in the privacy of the chapel of St Paul, to the side of the aisle of Westminster Abbey. Candles flicker in the silence as I pray for Catherine, that God is merciful and spares her. I say a prayer for the mortal soul of my youngest son, Owen, who is taken before I even see him. I pray for my boys, Edmund and Jasper, that they will have as rich and rewarding a life as mine.
Chapter Twelve
>
Autumn of 1436
Catherine is never quite the same as the woman I fell in love with. A year has passed since that fateful day in Westminster, yet its shadow lingers over our lives. On a good day, Catherine is as bright and happy as ever, reminding me of the beautiful young queen I would lie awake dreaming of. Then a dark depression drifts over her and she becomes distant and forgetful. I find her most difficult when she insists her youngest son, Owen, still lives.
‘I gave him to the monks.’ She looks shocked that I don’t believe her. ‘He is alive, I saw him when he was born. He has your dark hair.’
I recall the words of the monk who prayed at her bedside. ‘He was given to God.’
Catherine is adamant. ‘He lives, Owen.’ Her eyes flash with anger and she grips my hand so hard it hurts. ‘Don’t you want to see him? Our son is waiting with the monks of Westminster Abbey for us to visit him.’
‘I’m sorry, Catherine. You have to understand. Our son is dead.’
Catherine stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘Why would you lie to me about such a thing?’
I hold her close until her anger passes. ‘We have two good strong sons. Let us put the past behind us and talk about our future.’
Edmund and Jasper bring a new happiness to me. I like being a father and am determined to do everything I can to give them the best start in life. I buy them each a pony from the horse fair and teach them to ride. I spend hours in the woodshed crafting them little bows of yew. We set up a straw target in the courtyard and after many failed attempts they learn to shoot an arrow straight and true.
In the evening, before they go to bed, the boys beg me to tell them stories. I tell them my real name is Owain ap Maredydd ap Tudur. Flickering candlelight casts grotesque, dancing shadows as I tell them of the last true Welsh prince, Owain Glyndur, and the great adventures of the Welsh rebellion against the English. I see their wide eyes when I explain how their grandfather, Maredydd, escaped with me to London when he was forced to flee his homeland.
