Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  I also tell them how their half-brother, Harry, is King of England and of France and will one day make them knights of the realm with noble titles. Catherine still insists that she wishes to see her eldest son but now I have taken precautions. The wagon is secured with iron chains. Briony is almost dismissed for her failure to prevent Catherine from leaving the house is let off with a warning. She is needed all the more now another baby is on the way.

  It comforts Catherine to feel a child kick in her belly again and she insists this time it will be a girl. After four boys she knows it is her time. She is so certain God will not refuse her prayers she sews miniature dresses with Briony in anticipation. At nights she asks me to place my hand over the baby and I laugh as I feel it move inside her.

  ‘Her name will be Margaret, after your mother.’ She repeats the words so often I know they will come true, even though she has taken to her bed again, and is now too weak to climb down the stairs.

  I caress her brow. ‘You must eat, Catherine.’ I secretly worry at how her bones show through her pale skin, a painful reminder of her frailty.

  ‘Later, Owen. I will eat later.’ Catherine refuses whatever the cook makes to tempt her.

  ‘You have to eat—for the baby to grow strong.’ My persistence is rewarded by Catherine tasting a spoonful of warm mutton soup. It is a start.

  She looks up at me with ice-blue eyes. ‘I wish to pay for prayers to be said for Bishop Morgan, every day.’ Her voice sounds weak, barely more than a whisper.

  ‘I will ask Nathaniel to see to it.’

  ‘Will we attend his funeral?’

  ‘Bishop Morgan was laid to rest in the chapel of Charterhouse, in London. You were not well enough to make the journey.’

  I don’t tell her that had been almost a year before. It happens more often now and I am growing used to Catherine forgetting things. Bishop Morgan had been more than a friend to us both. He risked his reputation, his livelihood and perhaps even his freedom for us. We will always remember his kindness and generosity but now he is gone and will be missed.

  A flicker of concern appears on Catherine’s face as the consequences of the bishop’s death dawn on her. ‘This means our time in the bishop’s house is at an end?’

  ‘It will take some time for them to appoint his successor, but yes, Catherine, it is time for us to leave.’ I feel the nagging uncertainty about our future return.

  Catherine looks around the room which holds so many memories. ‘Where will we go?’

  I take her hand. ‘I will find us somewhere safe, Catherine. There is no need for you to worry.’

  I fish with the spoon in the bowl of warm soup and find a tasty morsel of well-cooked mutton, which I offer to her. She takes it as a child would and opens her mouth for more. I cannot share my secret with Catherine until she is stronger. On his last visit Nathaniel told me Duke Humphrey had called at Wallingford Castle with a score of armed men, looking for the queen. It seems he knows our secret, as he demanded answers when he questioned the servants of her household. Although it is clear the duke doesn’t know where we are living, I fear it is only a matter of time before he discovers our hiding place.

  Nathaniel rides through the night from Wallingford Castle. The first I know of his arrival is when I am woken by his hammering on the door until it is answered by a worried servant.

  ‘I must speak with Master Tudor.’ He shouts as he barges past the servant. ‘It is most urgent.’

  I pull my clothes on as fast as I can and find he is already at the top of the grand staircase. ‘What’s happened?’ I guess the answer from his exhausted and dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Duke Humphrey’s men are on their way here.’ Nathaniel shakes his head. ‘They are going to arrest you, Owen. I came as soon as I knew.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathaniel.’ I glance back to my room where Catherine is still sleeping. ‘How long do we have?’

  Nathaniel frowns. ‘They could be here any time. The thing is...’

  ‘What is it?’ I know Nathaniel well and see the concern on his face.

  ‘I heard that Duke Humphrey has taken this personally. He has sworn to bring you to account.’

  ‘I can’t leave Catherine, Nathaniel. She is in no condition to travel—and the boys...’

  ‘I will stay here with you, if you wish.’ Nathaniel’s hand drops to the hilt of his sword. ‘Queen Catherine is as safe here as anywhere else, as are Edmund and Jasper.’

  ‘I’ve put you in danger too many times, Nathaniel. You know it will be hard for you if things go badly?’

  Nathaniel nods. ‘I understand—and I’ve made my decision.’

  As dawn breaks Duke Humphrey’s men swarm into the bishop’s courtyard like a pack of hunting dogs. The man commanding them places guards on all entrances to the house. I am expecting them and open the door, stepping out into the courtyard to face the young officer.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  The officer hesitates before replying. ‘I have orders from the Lord Protector of England. You are Owen Tudor?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Duke Humphrey has ordered me to take you into custody, to answer before the king’s council.’

  ‘I must remain here to care for Queen Catherine. She is with child and unwell.’

  The officer seems unsurprised. ‘The duke is aware of the queen’s condition, Master Tudor. My orders are that the queen dowager is to be admitted to the Abbey of St Saviour, in Bermondsey, to be cared for there by the nuns until her child is born.’

  ‘Queen Catherine is unfit to travel to London. I can’t allow it!’ I raise my voice and see several of the guards move closer, ready for the command to arrest me.

  The officer holds his ground. ‘I am authorised to use force if necessary, Master Tudor.’

  ‘What about my sons?’

  ‘The sons of the queen dowager are to be taken into the care of Katherine de la Pole, the Abbess of Barking, for religious education.’

  I curse my decision to remain at Hatfield when we could have all escaped to Wales, although I know in my heart that even there I could be hunted down and arrested. The duke seems to know everything about us and I wonder if he has an informer in the bishop’s staff and servants. I have no choice other than to surrender to the king’s men.

  Catherine’s shrill voice breaks through my deliberations. ‘You will not arrest him. As the king’s mother, I order you to unhand him!’

  I am as surprised as the young officer and we both turn to look at Catherine. She is already wearing her hooded travelling cloak, her arm steadied by Briony, dressed ready for a journey. Catherine looks pale but her voice sounds clear and confident. The officer takes a pace back as if unsure of his position, and his men look to him for orders.

  ‘I will have to be advised by the Duke of Gloucester.’ He gives me an uncertain glance then turns to his men. ‘In the meantime Master Tudor will accompany the queen dowager to Bermondsey Abbey.’

  The first sign of a grey dawn is showing on the horizon as we leave. Catherine rides in the wagon ahead of me and Nathaniel is at my side. Behind us follow the soldiers of the duke, acting as an unnecessary armed escort. They have made no effort to take my sword, for now at least.

  I bite my lip and try to hide my concern as I say farewell to Edmund and Jasper. They stand together in their best clothes, looking confused and worried. They were hurriedly woken from their beds and dressed to the sounds of men shouting orders. Servants were running up and down stairs, carrying bundles of our clothes and possessions to load the waiting wagons. Edmund clutches his little yew bow, while Jasper keeps a firm grip on his treasured wooden practice sword.

  I feel immensely proud of my sons. ‘You are going on an adventure, and I will come for you after the baby is born.’ I take my purse from my belt and hand them five gold nobles each. They look at the small fortune and seem to know what it means.

  ‘Be brave, boys.’ I tell them. ‘Remember you are Tudors.’

  I expect C
atherine to protest as her sons are taken by the soldiers, but it is as if her defence of me has taken all her energy. She kisses them both and tells them to be good boys, then watches impassively, raising one hand in the air as they ride away. I am concerned about her now, as I recognise the signs.

  It takes most of the day for our procession of wagons and riders to reach the old abbey south of the Thames at Southwark, stopping in Barnet at mid-day to rest and water the horses. Catherine looks dazed and nearly loses her footing as the sisters of the abbey help her from the uncomfortable wagon. As they lead her away I realise there is nothing I can do to help her now.

  Nathaniel persuades a young priest to let us share his small room, now crammed with as many of my possessions as we could bring from the bishop’s house. It is not much to show for a lifetime. My old longbow stands next to a bundle of my clothing on top of a locked wooden chest. Only Nathaniel knows it contains my life savings in gold nobles and silver groats, as well as Catherine’s silver and gilt cups. Concealed in old sacks under papers the secret hoard also includes my precious charter from parliament, confirming my rights as an Englishman.

  The priest, Thomas Lewis, is a talkative, clean-shaven man with a lilting Welsh accent. Thomas listens sympathetically to my story and explains that he works as a chaplain alongside the abbey sisters, helping pilgrims and the poor. I am pleased to learn the priest is a Welsh speaker. Originally from the North Wales town of Flint, Thomas has many stories of his travels around Wales and is good company.

  We take a meal of pottage in the abbey refectory, washed down with sweet mead, and sleep under rough wool blankets on straw pallets, tired after a challenging day. I wake early and go in search of Catherine, finding her in a side room of the infirmary. The winter sun shines through tall, stained-glass windows, creating colourful patterns of light and shade on the well-scrubbed stone floor.

  Catherine is awake and propped up in her bed on a cushion, with Briony seated in a chair at her side. She looks better than she has for a long time and smiles when I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She regards me with red-rimmed eyes and glances at Briony. ‘The sisters said Briony couldn’t stay with me—but I insisted.’ Her voice sounds a little stronger again.

  ‘We could not stay at the bishop’s house any longer, Catherine.’ I look around her sparsely furnished room, taking in the wooden crucifix on the wall above her and the leather-bound Latin prayer book beside her bed. ‘This is a good place to have some rest until the baby is born.’

  A flicker of concern crosses her face. ‘Edmund and Jasper... where did they take them?’

  ‘They are safe.’ I try a smile, although it is not how I feel as I miss my sons and worry about them. ‘I will bring Edmund and Jasper to see you when the baby is born.’

  A week turns into a month and I settle into a routine of visiting Catherine, passing the rest of my days helping the young Welsh priest, Thomas Lewis, deal with the many travellers and poor who come to the Abbey of St Saviour. As the chill of winter approaches Catherine becomes obsessed by the idea she will never see her sons again. She repeatedly asks me to bring them to see her, even though I patiently explain it is not possible.

  One morning I find her dictating her last will and testament to one of the nuns. Catherine’s preoccupation with her own death is unsettling. She describes vivid dreams where she sees her funeral, with me leading mourners down the long aisle of Westminster Abbey. Thomas Lewis tries to put my troubled mind at rest, pointing out it is natural for her to be concerned as she reaches full term, although I know it is a bad omen.

  As the New Year approaches I worry about Catherine’s health. Her cheeks are hollow and her once lustrous hair is thinning, although she has yet to reach her fortieth year. Her bright blue eyes still show the vitality I found so attractive, yet her lapses of memory become more frequent. Sometimes she stares as if seeing me for the first time.

  Her latest wish is for me to bring Harry to see her. She pleads with me, saying the touch of a king can heal the sick. I have not dared set foot outside the sanctuary of the abbey grounds, and am not convinced the king would find it easy to see his mother in such a condition. I take her hand in mine and tell her I love her. I promise as soon as the baby is born we will present her to her half-brother Harry.

  I kneel in the abbey chapel for the New Year’s Eve service and pray for my wife. I also say a prayer for our unborn child and wonder what lies ahead for us all as the bells clang high in their tower to mark the dawn of a new year. Too concerned for Catherine to enjoy any celebration, I retire to my bed and escape into dreams of happier times.

  I wake to feel someone shaking me and calling out my name, then recognise Briony’s worried face in the near darkness. Her long, dark hair, normally plaited under her headdress, straggles lank and loose over her shoulders. There are red spots of blood on her linen apron. The waiting is over.

  ‘The baby?’

  Briony nods. ‘You have a daughter.’

  My mind is filled with urgent questions. ‘How is Catherine?’

  Briony shakes her head and tries to suppress a sob. I glance at my sleeping friends and lead her out into the abbey cloisters. There has been a heavy frost overnight and I shiver in my nightshirt as I wait for Briony to compose herself and tell me what I don’t want to hear.

  Briony dries her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Catherine is weak.’ Briony glances towards the infirmary as if she doesn’t want to return. ‘She is asking for you.’

  ’Let me have a moment and I’ll come with you.’

  I dress without waking the snoring figures in the room and follow Briony in the dark to the infirmary, now lit with a dozen tallow candles, which give off a flickering yellow light. Catherine is awake, cradling our new daughter in her arms.

  She looks up as I enter. ‘Owen.’ Her voice sounds weak. ‘Have you brought my sons to see me?’

  ‘No, Catherine. The hour is late. They are sleeping.’

  I pull up a chair to sit at her bedside and glance at Briony, who withdraws to leave us alone together. The baby is tightly wrapped in clean white linen and its eyes are closed. All I can see is a tiny pale face and a wisp of dark hair. For a second I wonder if our daughter is still alive, then she screws up her face and gives a little cough.

  I reach across and she opens her eyes as I caress her hair. I feel a powerful sense of relief, followed by a deep sense of foreboding. My instinct tells me there is something wrong. I remember how our sons were so full of life from the moment they were born, yet our daughter seems so delicate, with the same sickly pallor as her mother.

  Catherine forces a smile. ‘Margaret...’

  ‘After my mother.’ I smile back at her. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I need to rest... but I am glad that now the worst is over.’

  I kiss her on the forehead. Her brow is feverish. ‘You must sleep, Catherine. Briony will take care of our daughter.’

  There are beads of sweat on Catherine’s forehead, so I cross the room to where a jug and bowl stand on a table and pour a little of the icy water onto a piece of clean linen. When I place the dampened cloth on her brow she closes her eyes with the soothing pleasure of it.

  ‘I love you, Catherine, with all my heart, and pray to God you will soon be well.’

  She doesn’t answer.

  In the three days after our daughter’s birth I watch her become a shadow of the woman I first met all those years ago in Windsor. The nuns tell me there is little they can do for her but pray, so I ask Nathaniel to deliver an urgent message to the king, asking him to send his best physicians. They have yet to arrive and in my heart I fear it will be too late.

  ‘Owen...’

  Her voice is so soft I have to lean over her and strain to hear. ‘I’m here, Catherine.’

  ‘Please tell my sons... I love them dearly.’

  ‘I will.’

  I take her frail hand in mine as I have done so often to comfort he
r in the past. The familiar gold rings on her thin fingers feel loose. Someone has manicured her nails, each one perfectly trimmed. I guess it must have been Briony. I give her hand a comforting squeeze, which she always returns. It is our way of reassuring each other everything is alright. Catherine doesn’t squeeze my hand and I look into her ice-blue eyes. They are wide open but I know I have lost her. I hold her in my arms for one last time and weep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I find I am looking forward to the challenge of the long ride ahead, as it offers a way of dealing with my grief at the double loss of my wife and only daughter, who has not lived for a week. The baby cried plaintively for her mother, using the last ounce of strength in her tiny lungs to wail in protest at being left. Briony did all she could, staying up all night to care for her, yet the child simply wouldn’t feed.

  The island of Ynys Mon is almost three hundred miles north-west of Southwark, but I feel an ancient connection with the place of my birth and have nowhere else to go. Thomas and Nathaniel understand why I cannot stay for Catherine’s funeral. It is almost certain I will be arrested if I do, with an increased risk of being captured on the roads leading out of the city if I delay my departure any longer.

  My saddlebags are hastily packed with half my fortune of gold and silver, entrusting Nathaniel with the safe keeping of my remaining possessions. I wear my sword with pride, my gift from Catherine and a sign to the world that I am a free man, with the rights of an Englishman to travel as I please.

  I ride hard all day and spend an uncomfortable night in a hayloft before continuing at first light. As I reach the outskirts of the town of Northampton I hear the urgent rumble of hooves on the hard ground behind me and turn to see a troop of the king’s soldiers approaching.

  A commanding voice calls out. ‘You there! Halt!’

  I consider trying to outrun them but the landscape is bleak and open, with no cover in any direction. I turn my Welsh Cob in the road and wait for them to approach.