by Tony Riches
I follow Henry to the inner chamber, a private room which once served as Catherine’s dressing-room. Now simply furnished to Henry’s austere taste, her tapestries are replaced with bare, whitewashed walls. Whatever the young king has to say, he doesn’t want it overheard.
Henry turns to me. ‘I have decided one of your sons will be granted an earldom when he comes of age, together with the lands and property to enable him to take his place at court.’ He continues, without waiting for my reply. ‘The other will enter the church. I will see he has a rewarding career and is prepared for high office.’
I take a deep breath. ‘My wish is that Edmund and Jasper will both take up their role at your court, when they are of age, Your Highness.’
‘You must know, Master Tudor, that a life in the church is a worthy career. If I were able to, it is a path I would have chosen for myself.’ The king seems ready to return to the royal apartments.
Another approach occurs to me. ‘Neither of my sons has the calling to devote their lives to the church. With respect, Your Highness, I ask you to reconsider?’
‘One of them must.’ Henry stares at me, unblinking. ‘They are too young to decide for themselves, so I ask you to choose which of them it will be.’
Later I discuss the king’s proposal with Nathaniel. It casts a cloud over an otherwise perfect day and I can’t contemplate the thought of having to tell either of my sons the news. I rashly promised they would both have titles and now one will have to be disappointed.
Nathaniel ponders the problem. ‘Do you think all it needs is a little time, until the king has the chance to know Edmund and Jasper? He has only met them once.’
‘I’m not so sure. King Henry seems to have made his mind up.’
‘At least he has said that one of your sons will be made an earl.’
‘Yes—but neither of my boys would wish to enter the church.’ I look at Nathaniel as a thought occurs to me and curse my oversight. ‘I’ve been so preoccupied with Edmund and Jasper coming here that I never mentioned their brother Owen, even to them, let alone to the king.’
‘Is it possible there might be a way to turn this to your advantage?’
‘I have never seen my other son—and it is high time that I did.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I will see if I can bring my youngest son to meet his brothers—and his half-brother. The king agreed to a service of thanksgiving for the safe return of my sons. It is only right that we all attend.’
* * *
Edmund Kirton has been a monk at Westminster Abbey for some thirty-seven years before being elected abbot. Sympathetic to my dilemma, he approves the visit of young Owen, now aged nine, to attend the service of thanksgiving in Windsor.
‘I remember how hard you worked here as a postulant, Master Tudor.’ The abbot smiles. ‘I knew you would never join the order.’
‘I will always be grateful to the Benedictine order—for granting me sanctuary and helping me rediscover my faith, Your Grace. I learnt a great deal during my time here but you are right, I did not have the calling and it is the same for my other sons.’
‘Some are called to serve the world by devoting all their energies to preaching the Gospel and tending the poor.’ The abbot looks directly at me. ‘Others are called to bring new life into the world through the sanctity of marriage. A few are called to give themselves over to God in prayer and willing penance.’ He nods to a waiting monk, who leaves the room and returns with my youngest son.
Dressed in a novice’s dark woollen hooded tunic with a scapular apron, he wears the black leather cincture belt around his slim waist. Young Owen looks more like his brother Edmund than Jasper. He pulls back his hood to reveal cropped, gold-blond hair and studies me with Catherine’s blue eyes but doesn’t smile or speak.
I try to control my emotion. ‘You know I am your father?’
Young Owen glances at Abbot Kirton for reassurance. ‘I have been told about you, sir.’ His voice sounds confident for his age.
‘The abbot has agreed you can visit the king, your half-brother—and your other brothers, Edmund and Jasper.’
‘I should like to see my brothers.’
I have to remind myself of the disciplined upbringing my son has been given. The novice master, one of the most experienced brothers, will have tutored him every day. Unlike my other sons, who had servants even during their care with the Abbess of Barking, young Owen will only have known the life of the monks.
‘They will be pleased to see you. For many years we thought you had... died, here in Westminster Abbey, so it is something of a miracle to us that you are here now.’
The abbot replies. ‘It is God’s will.’ He looks at young Owen. ‘We are all born with a purpose.’
On the journey back to Windsor I learn a little more about the life my youngest son has led as an oblate. He has been given the name of Edward Bridgwater, for reasons he is unable to explain, as he has no recollection of ever visiting the town of Bridgwater, although he has once been on a pilgrimage to the Benedictine Abbey of St Mary at nearby Glastonbury.
‘What do you know of me, your mother or your brothers?’
Young Owen thinks for a moment before replying. ‘Until yesterday all I knew was that I had been given into the order when I was born.’
‘They told you who your mother was?’
‘The abbot said she was the Queen of England.’
‘She was...’ I look at my youngest son and know how happy Catherine would have been to see him now. ‘Her eldest son, your brother Henry, is King of England and France.’
Young Owen looks back at me. ‘Why are you taking me to see him?’
‘He has no other family, so it is only right he should meet you and know who you are.’
‘My family is God’s holy church.’
‘Do you remember what the Abbot said?’
He tries to recall Abbot Kirton’s exact words. ‘We are born... with a purpose?’
‘Yes.’ I regard my son, wondering how much to tell him. ‘You were given to God so that your brothers can take their place at the side of the king.’
The service in the old chapel at Windsor is a simple one, witnessed only by members of the king’s household. I had wondered if the king’s uncles, Cardinal Beaufort or Duke Humphrey, would make an appearance, if only out of curiosity. They must have more important matters to attend to than the king’s half-brothers.
I introduce my youngest son as the one I have chosen for a life in the church. Henry is pleased to learn of another half-brother and hear of his devotion to a pious life as a monk. Young Owen takes everything in his stride, seemingly unimpressed by the splendour of Windsor Castle or the bravado of Edmund and Jasper, who seem unsure how to deal with him. After the service they are full of questions for their new-found brother, who answers them calmly, although he has few of his own.
Jasper is intrigued. ‘Did you take a vow of poverty?’
‘Vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.’
‘I would not want to take any of those!’
Young Owen is undaunted. ‘It is the life God has chosen for me. I don’t wish for anything else.’
Edmund has been listening. ‘I would never take a vow of chastity. I must have a son, to inherit my fortune!’
‘I must serve the Lord without distraction.’
‘You can never marry?’ Edmund’s brow furrows at the thought.
‘We give up marriage for the sake of the kingdom of heaven.’
‘Well I plan to marry as soon as I can—and have plenty of good strong sons!’
Chapter Eighteen
Spring of 1445
The old stone wharf at Portchester echoes with shouts and the blaspheming curses of sailors as they make our ship ready for the journey to France. A year has passed since a young French wife has been found for the king, who is now twenty-two. Margaret, daughter of Duke Rene of Anjou, is barely fifteen and speaks almost no English but is rumoured to be beautiful, p
roud and strong-willed.
King Henry sent Sir William de la Pole to France to represent him at the betrothal. Since then Sir William and his wife Lady Alice have remained with Margaret, making arrangements to bring the new queen back to England. Sir William’s reward is to be made Marquess of Suffolk. Lady Alice, daughter of the late Thomas Chaucer, once constable of Wallingford, is now Margaret’s English lady-in-waiting.
Juliette is pleased when Lady Alice chooses her to assist with the new Queen’s household and in turn secures a place for me as a member of the royal escort. We stay at Portchester Castle, waiting for favourable winds for France. Old and in need of maintenance, I think the castle is a poor choice for the new queen’s first sight of England, despite the hasty work which is still in progress as we hear it is time for us to sail to France.
I steady Juliette’s hand as she nervously walks up the narrow gangplank to board the ship. We find a space on the taffrail at the stern and watch the final preparations for sailing. Wooden crates, coils of thick rope and barrels of supplies still stand on the quayside and a rowdy group of men noisily persuade a fine black mare to board the ship.
‘Perhaps the horse knows better than us.’ I watch the mare protest with loud whinnying as the men haul her onto the deck.
‘Don’t be so superstitious, Owen.’ Juliette stares up at the high mast where sailors precariously balance as they prepare the sails for use. ‘This seems a small ship for such important cargo?’
‘Too small.’ I cast a glance across the deck to see if we are being overheard. ‘The king refuses to replace his father’s flagship. The Grace Dieu was struck by lightning and burned at its moorings and the best ships of the old fleet are all sold off, so now he must commission whatever is available.’
‘The king has no need of warships. All he wants is peace with France.’
I give her a wry look. ‘And he will have it—at a price...’
‘Don’t even speak of it, Owen.’ Her voice is unexpectedly sharp.
Before I can answer the mainsail drops and heavy canvas flaps in the freshening breeze as sailors trim the sheets. The final stores are now carried on board and the captain orders the mooring ropes cast off. Wind fills the sails and the ship lurches away from the quay as we head out into the English Channel.
Taking a deep breath of fresh air I can taste the salty tang of the sea for the first time in many years. It seems a welcome new phase of my life is beginning with this journey to Normandy. I have been content enough with the simple routine at Windsor, yet I know the royal court will not be the same once King Henry has a wife.
Our small but sturdy ship ploughs through the dark waves, despite the choppy swell. Every once in a while the bow plunges more deeply and seawater sluices over the deck, but she is built for the cross-Channel trade. The captain has chosen the timing of our departure well, so I feel reassured that we are in safe hands.
The favourable combination of wind and tide means we make good time on the crossing to the port of Honfleur before beginning the long and challenging sail up the River Seine. I return to the rail with Juliette and we stare at the fast-flowing river, watching as an uprooted tree flows past.
‘It seems the spring tides have brought a flood. When I was here last the river was so shallow we ran aground on a mud bank.’ I smile at the memory. ‘We had to wait until the next morning for the tide to float us off.’
‘You were fortunate, as a good many ships have foundered on their way upriver to Rouen.’
‘God was on our side that day.’ I study the high riverbanks on either side. ‘Our ship heeled over so steeply you couldn’t walk across the deck—but she righted well enough as the water rose again.’
Juliette takes my arm. ‘Let us walk around the deck, Owen, while we can.’
For a moment I wonder if she is referring to the threat of running aground or the need to be discreet when we arrive in Rouen. Our easy relationship is risky enough at Windsor but here there will be many who would disapprove, including Lady Alice. Everyone expects me to marry Juliette and I know I should, but have yet to ask her. She never mentions it, although sometimes I see the unspoken question in her eyes.
Juliette seems oblivious of my silence. ‘When we are in Rouen I will look for a new dress—no, I will need at least two new dresses, as there is a royal wedding as well as Margaret’s coronation.’
‘I heard Duke Humphrey is trying to prevent the Treasury meeting the expenses of the marriage and another coronation.’
Juliette seems surprised. ‘Why would he?’
‘You must know that Margaret is Cardinal Beaufort’s choice?’
‘Yes—but the king has more than enough money of his own?’
‘He should, but his father bankrupted the crown with his wars in France.’
‘I heard the celebrations are to be the grandest ever seen.’
‘They are, which is why Margaret has been kept waiting in France for so long.’ I lower my voice. ‘The king has been obliged to pledge the crown jewels, as well as his gold and silver plate, to raise the money.’
‘That’s terrible. Who is lending the money?’
‘Bankers and merchants—and I expect the good cardinal will all grow even richer at Henry’s expense.’
‘Can nothing be done about it?’
‘Not while he takes so little interest in such matters.’
She points ahead as the spires of Rouen appear on the horizon. ‘I wonder what Lady Margaret of Anjou will make of our king—or him of her, for that matter?’
I understand what she means. King Henry has never spoken of marriage or of any woman within my hearing. He spends long hours in prayer and lives a simple, almost monkish life, so it is difficult to imagine him with a fifteen-year-old wife. Particularly one as forceful and outspoken as young Margaret of Anjou is rumoured to be.
‘Perhaps she will be good for him.’ I smile at Juliette. ‘Give him an heir and bring some joy back to the royal court.’
‘Let us hope so.’ Juliette sounds uncertain. ‘She will need time to understand our ways.’
‘Are we really so different?’
‘The Duke of Anjou has fathered more children with his mistresses than can be counted—and her mother, Isabella, Duchess of Lorraine, led an army to rescue her husband when the Duke of Burgundy held him prisoner.’
‘Sir William de la Pole seems to think she is a good match for the king.’
‘I worry that Sir William might have been blinded by his... admiration for Lady Margaret.’ Juliette frowns. ‘Let us hope this choice is the right one.’
Weary after their long sea voyage I find the prospect of the farewell banquet tiring and dread the inevitable long speeches in French. Margaret of Anjou seems older than her fifteen years, with her elaborate headdress and pale make up. Slim and attractive, if not conventionally beautiful, she is the centre of attention in the crowded banqueting hall. When she speaks in French her voice is confident, yet she falters a little when she tries her heavily accented English.
The host is the Governor of Normandy, Duke Richard of York, a serious, abrupt man with a permanent frown, who eyes young Margaret with poorly veiled disdain. Duke Richard is the king’s cousin, with a strong claim to the throne through a direct line of descent. The duke would not be expected to welcome the prospect of an heir for King Henry. His wife, Lady Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, does her best to cover for the duke’s surly mood, chattering loudly with Lady Alice.
The liveried servant standing behind me leans forward and splashes red wine on my sleeve as he refills my goblet. I curse the man’s carelessness and am about to take him to task when Duke Richard calls the crowded hall to silence. An old priest rambles through a grace, which includes the blessing of the forthcoming coronation of Lady Margaret as Queen of England and France. When at last he finishes, the duke gives the signal for more servants to appear, laden with platters of food.
I am interested to note how the duke’s tastes have been influenced by Normandy tradit
ion, for the centrepiece is a roasted boar with one half coloured green and the other golden yellow. The music is also very French. Playing their high-pitched, reedy instruments, the musicians repeat the same phrase over and again until I wonder if I will ever be able to get it from my head.
My appetite waning, I am feeling a little drunk and am annoyed at Juliette, who has abandoned me to talk to a group of French ladies. I am planning to slip away and catch up on much-needed sleep when I hear Sir William, now Marquess de la Pole, call my name.
‘Tudor!’ He beckons to me. ‘Come and be introduced.’
I feel eyes on me as I approach the top table. I have not forgotten that Sir William was constable at Wallingford and knows far more about my past than I would wish. The Duke of York is paying no attention, deep in conversation with a French nobleman, although Duchess Cecily and Lady Alice are watching me approach with undisguised interest.
‘This is the man who married Queen Catherine of Valois—in secret?’ Lady Margaret speaks in French but I hear the seductive note of admiration in her voice.
At once I understand how Sir William might have fallen for her. I miss Catherine so deeply that hearing her name spoken in French is more than I can bear. In a flash of insight I realise that I will never stop loving her. I will never be able to commit to marrying Juliette and I can never be truly happy with any other woman.
The noisy banqueting hall has fallen silent as Margaret’s loudly voiced question coincides with a break in the raucous French music. Realising they are all waiting for me to reply, I take off my hat and bow.
‘Owen Tudor, at your service, my lady.’ I speak in my best French.
‘We thank you for coming to escort us to England.’ I see her eyes go to the red stain on my sleeve.
‘It is an honour, my lady.’ I replace my hat and take a step backwards, trying to hide the wine stain and cursing the careless servant.
Margaret glances in the direction of the Duke of York, who is still paying us no attention. ‘We will need loyal men once we arrive in England.’
