I took it from him. There was a tray of wine and wafers on a side table in the ante-room where we stood and I gestured towards it. ‘Wait here and take refreshment if you please. Her grace might wish to speak to you.’
Catherine’s chamber was shuttered and shadowy, lit only by a few candles scattered about. I brought one to the bed and bent over her with the letter. She was wide awake, her eyes huge and red-rimmed. When I had helped her to sit up, I broke the seal of the letter at her bidding and handed it to her.
‘It was carried by Owen Tudor, Mademoiselle. He has brought his harp in case music might bring you solace. I believe he played for the king at Vincennes.’
There was a crackle of paper as Catherine unfolded the letter. ‘I do not wish to see anyone, Mette. I told you.’
‘Perhaps if the door was open he could play in the ante-room. Shall I at least ask him to fetch his harp?’
I put the candle down beside her so that she could see but she did not respond to my suggestion, seemingly absorbed in the contents of the letter. I took silence to mean consent and left her to read it.
When I returned, the letter lay on the coverlet beside her and she was staring into space but she turned to look at me as I approached. ‘Henry knew he was dying,’ she said dully. ‘He gave detailed instructions for what was to be arranged for the regency after his death and for the education and care of his son. But, Mette, it seems he said almost nothing about me.’
She shivered and I took up a shawl to cover her shoulders but she went on directly ‘The king’s body is to be embalmed and an effigy of him is being made that will lie on his coffin. Sir Walter tells me the funeral procession from Vinciennes will move slowly through France to Calais and I am invited to join it at St Denis in two weeks’ time. I am to follow at what he calls “a suitable distance”.’ Her voice broke at the words ‘a suitable distance’ and no wonder!
She dissolved into deep, heart-rending sobs and I went to cover her shoulders with the shawl and take her in my arms. For a long time she wept for a marriage and a man whose true nature she was only now beginning to understand. From outside the chamber door in a haunting elegy came the ripple of harp music.
The grand funeral cortège wound through the Île de France and Normandy to Calais; King Henry’s final farewell to the territories he had conquered. As instructed, Catherine joined the cortège at the abbey of St Denis and, in the basilica where so many of her relatives and ancestors were buried, she had her first opportunity to pray and weep over the coffin of her dead husband. How desperately she must have longed to seek solace from the warm and living presence of the little son she had been obliged to leave in England and how much the separation must have added to her grief.
Agnes and I attended her vigil, watching as she knelt beside the catafalque, her black widow’s weeds drooping shapelessly off her bony frame like mourning flags on a windless day. At only twenty years old she was a dowager queen stranded between kingdoms, without husband, father or brother to champion her cause. It was a lonely and precarious position.
The effigy of King Henry that was laid on top of his massive lead-lined and gilded coffin was fashioned from boiled and tooled leather, crowned with gold and adorned with the mantle of sovereignty, but in my eyes it was a grotesque puppet which made a mockery of the magnificent and forceful man that had been Henry of Monmouth. The features of the face were painted in garish colours, the hair was coarse and kinky like the fibres of a frayed rope and the expression was that of a peevish merchant, not a proud and glorious king who had been admired and fêted throughout Europe; by whom I myself had been both frightened and, fascinated. And, of course, there was no sign of the iconic scar which had disfigured his face and shaped his character. However Catherine appeared not to notice these failings and kept touching the effigy as if it were the man himself and this her last contact with the husband she had waited five years to marry and lived with for only a few short months.
For days on end, as the cortège wound its way through the war-torn countryside, it rained, almost as if the heavens were weeping for the conqueror of the land he was passing through. But, much to everyone’s relief, a mile or so before we reached Pontoise the rain stopped and the sun came out. Steam began to rise from the long column of horses and riders and a courier galloped up to the Duke of Burgundy who rode at its head. Without drawing rein Duke Philippe perused the letter handed to him, but it was not until the cortège had entered the town and the catafalque was being lifted off its car that the duke approached Catherine as she emerged, dazed and blinking, from her litter.
‘I regret to tell you that I have received terrible news from Ghent,’ he said, taking her arm supportively. ‘My beloved duchess, your sister Michele, is dead. There was an outbreak of sweating sickness and she succumbed quite suddenly and unexpectedly. I am shocked and saddened almost beyond words. I cannot believe that God has taken such a good and beautiful person.’
Catherine stared at him dumbstruck, the small triangle of her face almost as pale as the widow’s barbe which she now wore to hide her chin and throat. For several seconds she seemed to gasp for breath then she uttered a keening cry and crossed herself. ‘Ah sweet Jesu, death truly stalks us. You are right, my lord, Michele was a good person but it seems the good are beloved of the angels whilst you and I stumble on under an earthly pall of misery.’
Together, in respectful silence, they watched the royal bier with its bizarre effigy carried slowly into the church of St Eustace under a richly embroidered canopy borne by the leading citizens of Pontoise. The duke bowed his head in salute. ‘I admired Henry enormously,’ he said. ‘He was a man of great faith, an implacable enemy and a staunch ally. In some ways I think he and Michele were quite similar; conscientious, loyal and God-fearing. I believe they will both be safely gathered into Heaven’s grace.’ He bent to give Catherine a brotherly kiss on the cheek. ‘I must bid you farewell, sister,’ he said. ‘I need to make a start for Flanders while the light lasts. I know you think your future looks bleak at present but, for Henry’s sake, I will always be your friend, should you need me. May God give you strength.’
As he strode off to remount his horse, I rushed forward to support Catherine, who looked as if she might sink to the ground. ‘Oh, Mette, he is right,’ she murmured faintly. ‘If I am to give due honour to my lord and support to my son, I need God’s strength now as I have never needed it before.’
18
When the cortège reached Rouen, King Henry lay in state for several weeks, giving time for the new barons of Normandy to pay homage to the monarch who had rewarded them for their part in his campaigns by granting them title to the estates of dead or dispossessed French nobles.
Owen Tudor had ridden in the escort of five hundred men at arms who had followed the king’s coffin but, after leaving Senlis, Catherine had not asked him to play for her again. However, during her vigil beside the catafalque in Rouen, she sent for him to come in the evenings, after the long queue of citizens had gone. Apart from quietly thanking him each time, nothing passed between them except, after several days, a small purse of coin which she placed beside his harp as she left.
Owen sought me out to ask if this ‘payment’ meant she no longer wished him to come. ‘I fear she does not like my music after all,’ he said, his deep-brown eyes troubled.
I hastened to reassure him. ‘On the contrary, Master Tudor, I think she appreciates it greatly. She merely feels that you deserve some recompense for the time you have already spent playing. Please do not stop coming.’
He slung his harp over his shoulder, safely packed away in its leather bag. ‘When I played for the king it was often to lull him to sleep and judging by the weariness I see in the queen’s eyes she, too, needs help in that way.’ I noticed the blood rush to Owen’s cheeks as he said this and guessed that his awe of King Henry had also inspired a young man’s fascination with his queen, to the extent that the very planes and shadows of her face were imprinted on his mind. His lilting Welsh v
oice trailed away as he added hesitantly, ‘Perhaps I could play outside her chamber door again …?’
‘It is an idea, certainly.’ His shy concern for Catherine induced in me a similar benevolence towards him and I had another sudden thought. ‘Have you eaten, Master Tudor? You are probably missing your evening meal by coming here. Let me arrange some refreshment for you.’
He shifted from one foot to another, fiddling with the strap of the bag. ‘I usually find some scraps left when I return to troop headquarters. We are billeted in a barn on abbey land outside the walls.’
I waved my hands in dismay. ‘Oh no, Master Tudor, that will not do. I should have asked sooner. Come with me. I think we can do rather better than scraps.’
While Catherine nibbled listlessly at a meagre meal with her ladies in the great hall of the bishop’s palace, I sat with Owen Tudor in a small chamber off the kitchen as he consumed a large bowl of pottage enriched with venison and several slices cut from a manchet loaf. ‘Bishops dine much better than bowmen,’ he grinned, dipping the delectable white bread in the meaty soup. ‘I have not touched white bread nor eaten venison since leaving Wales.’
‘And where did you dine so royally in Wales?’ I enquired. Deer-meat was the prerogative of the hunting classes, which meant that it was generally restricted to the tables of monarchs, bishops and barons.
‘In the wild lands of the Welsh mountains, deer are not guarded as closely as they are in England and France. My godfather hunted them even when he was a hunted outlaw himself.’
My eyes widened. ‘And who is your godfather?’ I asked.
His expression darkened and he made the sign of the cross. ‘Not is – was – for he is dead, God rest his soul. The great Welsh freedom fighter Owen Glendower was my mother’s uncle.’
It was a name that had been infamous across Europe twenty years ago. Owen Glendower had led a Welsh rebel force over the English border to try and win back the principality from the English crown. Around the fire in their honeymoon camp at the siege of Melun, King Henry had told Catherine stories of this battle in which, as a young prince, he had received the arrow wound which had scarred his cheek and nearly killed him; an incident that had also given him a deep respect for the power and accuracy of Welsh archers.
‘Glendower tried to unite the Welsh people, like his ancestor Llewellyn the Great had done two hundred years before. He failed, but he was a great man for all that. And because the people loved him, they did not betray him to the English. Officially he was an outlaw, but he lived on his manors in the wild lands of the Welsh border for years after the war and he took me into his household and taught me everything – reading, writing, swordplay, archery, manners and, best of all, music and poetry. Everything I am, I owe to him.’
‘And was it his death that caused you to join King Henry’s French expedition?’
Owen shook his head. ‘No. Glendower sent me away. I was fifteen when he arranged for me to join Sir Walter Hungerford’s troop. He said he wanted me to learn battle-craft under a great leader, but he was already ill and I believe he did not want me to watch him die. So instead I fought at Agincourt and later watched King Henry die. Ironic, is it not?’ I waited as he took another spoonful of the venison pottage and presently continued. ‘And here is another irony. King Henry and I are both descended from Llewellyn the Great; he through his mother and I through my father.’
My reaction to this statement was laced with a touch of sarcasm. ‘No! Are you telling me that you are the rightful Prince of Wales, Master Tudor?’
Owen gave me an impish look. ‘My claim is as good as his was anyway, for we are both descended from daughters of Llewellyn, although admittedly his six-times-great grandmother, Gladwys ap Llewellyn, was my five-times-great grandmother Anghared’s elder sister – if you are still with me.’
Now I had to laugh. ‘Well, we are all descended from Adam and Eve, Master Tudor, are we not?’
To his credit he shared my mirth, but only briefly. ‘That is what I thought and more or less what I said when my godfather drew my bloodline, but he roared at me in anger, “The blood of Welsh princes flows in your veins, Owen – never, never forget that!”’ The young archer’s sculpted jaw jutted proudly and he shrugged. ‘So I do not.’
I relayed the gist of this conversation to Catherine while she prepared for bed and was rewarded with a wisp of a smile. ‘I wonder if Henry knew that he and his squire were related, however remotely?’ In the mirror glass and the dim light of the bishop’s chamber her face, dominated by her sunken cheeks and framed by the unforgiving widow’s barbe and wimple, reminded me agonisingly of a skull. Then, as happened so often when she thought of the dead king, tears misted her blue eyes. ‘I think he might have told me if he did, for it would have amused him.’
‘Master Tudor wondered whether you might be having trouble sleeping. He suggested he might play outside your chamber door again.’
‘That was a kind offer. I will think on it. Will he come to the cathedral tomorrow?’
‘He will come wherever and whenever you summon him, Madame.’
She folded her hands, staring down at the great ancestral betrothal ring Henry had given her. ‘It is good to know that I have such unconditional support.’
At that moment there was a knock on the door. A page entered, dropping to one knee. ‘Despite the late hour his grace the Duke of Bedford begs an audience, your grace,’ he said.
Catherine frowned and straightened her back. ‘Place another chair beside the fire, Mette,’ she told me, adding to the page, ‘and tell his grace I will see him.’
Like all the members of the funeral cortège, John, Duke of Bedford was dressed entirely in black, except for the Lancastrian S-link collar of mourning silver he wore around his shoulders. He bowed low, unsmiling, over Catherine’s hand and kissed her cheek briefly, before obeying her silent gesture and seating himself in the cushioned chair across the hearth. Swarthier of complexion than his older brother King Henry had been, there was already a scattering of grey in his thick dark hair and responsibility had drawn deeper lines on his brow than on that of his younger brother, Humphrey of Gloucester.
‘I regret that I have more sad news for you,’ he said sorrowfully.
I had not thought that Catherine could become any paler, but somehow her white face blanched further and in a strangled whisper she pleaded, ‘Not little Henry, please God not my son …’
He hastened to relieve her distress. ‘No, no, Madame. The young king is well as far as I know. It is your father, King Charles. News has just come from Paris that he died yesterday. The herald said that he fell asleep at night and never woke in the morning. Such a peaceful death is granted to very few.’
Catherine’s hand flicked over her face and breast in the sign of the cross. ‘God rest his soul,’ she said faintly, adding in a clearer voice and almost without emotion. ‘In truth he has been dying for years. Every time he slipped into madness he emerged a little less alive than he had been before. His was a tragic life.’
‘And it brought tragedy to his country,’ observed Bedford, nodding. ‘Had he been a strong ruler like his father, he would not have lost control of his nobles. Henry would never have invaded if he had been confronted by a united France.’
‘Do you really believe that, my lord?’ Catherine looked surprised. ‘Well, you may be right. My father was a peace-lover. He tried to placate and only succeeded in antagonising. And my mother was no help to him. Sometimes I think his madness was a retreat – a cloak to hide his sense of failure.’
‘Yet I have heard him called Charles the Well-Beloved,’ responded Bedford. ‘There will be those who greatly mourn his passing.’
‘Myself among them. How sad that only four of his children still live and three of them will not be able to attend his funeral. Jeanne cannot leave Brittany, I must bury my husband and Charles remains an enemy. Perhaps my sister, Abbess Marie, may emerge from Poissy to attend his obsequies. I hope he will be buried with due honour.’
‘Poor babe,’ murmured Catherine, ‘so young and with such a burden to bear.’
‘He will not be alone. His father made strict provision in his will for his care and guidance and he will have many able men to help him rule.’
She leaned forward earnestly. ‘But you are the one Henry trusted most. So do not stay too long in France, my lord. My son will need you particularly.’
Bedford looked doubtful. ‘I regret that I may not be in England for some time. Philippe of Burgundy has refused to take the French regency, saying he is too much affected by his wife’s death. I must lead the council in Paris therefore.’
‘But who will take charge in England?’ asked Catherine anxiously.
‘Henry’s will names our brother Humphrey as protector of the realm, unless the regency council rules otherwise.’
‘Who will be on the council?’
‘Warwick, Exeter, Beaufort, Hungerford – there are many who are worthy.’
‘And me? Is there a place for the king’s mother on such a council?’
Bedford looked astonished at this suggestion, almost as if she had blasphemed. ‘I do not know. Henry made no mention of it. The English have long memories and Isabella, the last French queen regent, was far from popular.’ He was almost squirming in his seat as he said this.
‘In France we have had several strong queen regents,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘My mother was regent for my father on and off for years.’
Bedford’s unease appeared to increase and he coughed apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Madame, but not with any great success and, as you may be aware, there is no great love for French ways in England.’
The Tudor Bride Page 19
