The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

The earl looked quite startled at this pronouncement, as well he might I thought. Catherine went on remorselessly, ‘And since the king has apprised you of my marriage to Master Tudor and of our quiet, secluded family life, I must beg you to recognise that his grace is still very young and probably unaware of the consequences there could be for his stepfather and siblings if these facts were to become known to certain members of the regency council. Here at Hadham we live as the Tudor family. People are not aware of my connection to the king and I hope and pray that our existence can remain a secret from your world of high schemes and state policies. I must ask you to keep that secret, my lord. Indeed, I require your oath on it.’

  Suffolk’s reaction was abrupt and solemn. He took three long strides to her chair and bent his knee to the floor, holding out both his hands and gazing up, his pale-blue eyes locked with hers.

  ‘You took my oath of fealty at your coronation, your grace, and I have no intention of changing my allegiance now. I am your liegeman in life and limb. I will do anything that you require of me as long as it is good in the sight of God and my king, which in this case it clearly is.’ A pulse could be seen throbbing in his temple as he waited for her reaction and it seemed an age before she stretched out her own hands and briefly touched them to either side of his in token of the oath of fealty made between lord and vassal. At this he bowed his head and rose, backing away to his former position by the fire.

  ‘You may rest assured that I will keep your secret,’ he said, ‘as I was required to do by the king also, until such time as either he or you release me from this oath. This I swear on my life.’

  Then he crossed himself and made a bow in King Henry’s direction. The Earl of Suffolk might be an English nobleman, but with his thick blond hair and fresh complexion he looked more like a wandering Teutonic knight as depicted in the Romances d’Arthur, which I had heard read in Catherine’s salon in the days before we left Paris.

  King Henry smiled back at the earl. I could see that he greatly admired his new steward and his mother did not look entirely immune to his physical charms either. They both listened attentively as he held forth freely from the kind of dominant position that would not have been tolerated at court.

  ‘As for the two of us discussing a French peace, I believe the Duke of Bedford is returning to Paris very soon in order to try and mend the relationship with Burgundy which Gloucester has done so much to damage. It would be foolish of me to undermine his efforts by holding clandestine discussions at Hertford with the sister of the Pretender, would it not?’

  She shrugged and signalled me to pour wine from the flagon on the nearby buffet. ‘As you wish, my lord. Shall we drink to the possibility of peace at least? Although I must say that I do not envy the negotiators of such an agreement. My brother was never very good at making up his mind, except about our mother, of course, whom he never could bear.’

  ‘It must be owned that she never gave him much to thank her for,’ remarked Suffolk dryly. ‘The Treaty of Troyes declared him a bastard and it carries her signature.’

  Catherine frowned. ‘She is an old lady now. I doubt if she remembers what she signed or even that she has a son still alive.’

  I offered her wine and she took it. ‘Let us look to the future, not the past.’ She raised her cup and Suffolk took one and did the same. ‘To peace between France and England!’

  They both drank, but the king shook his head at the cup I offered him. ‘I do not care for wine,’ he said.

  ‘The queen drinks her wine watered, your grace,’ I told him. ‘Shall I water some for you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. The ale we had at dinner was enough.’

  The earl then shot a question at me, which I decided was really aimed at Catherine. ‘I wonder, is your mistress still a queen now that she is the wife of a commoner?’

  Catherine and I exchanged glances, neither of us sure how to respond, but King Henry had no hesitation. ‘She has been crowned, so she will always be a queen,’ he declared indignantly.

  ‘And my husband is not exactly the commoner you think him, Lord Suffolk,’ added Catherine with pride. ‘Owen Tudor is directly descended from Llewellyn the Great, Ruler of all Wales, as was the king’s grandmother, Mary de Bohun.’

  The earl’s eyebrow rose in surprise. ‘Indeed? Then I see why your secret must be preserved, Madame. If this can be proved, then your Tudor sons have as much royal blood as Humphrey of Gloucester.’

  ‘Who says it cannot be proved?’

  It was Owen who spoke from the shadows. He had entered the hall quietly and had obviously heard the exchange between Catherine and Suffolk. Now he moved into the room, approaching the group around the fire with a deep frown on his face. ‘My family ancestry, as sung by bards, goes way back before Llewellyn. I can sing it myself, only not in a language you would understand, Lord Suffolk.’ He bent his knee to the earl, but it was hardly a subservient salute. ‘But you are right about one thing, my lord. It would not be music to the ears of Humphrey of Gloucester.’

  He stooped to kiss Catherine’s hand and cheek and then knelt before King Henry’s canopied chair, bowing his head respectfully. ‘God give you good day, my liege. I beg your grace’s pardon for not greeting you on your arrival, but I was not aware that Lord Suffolk was apprised of the situation here.’

  The king stood up and signalled Owen to rise. ‘It is good to see you, Master Tudor,’ he said and I was surprised to see that he was not dwarfed by his stepfather. The little king was not so little any more, promising to follow his father in height. ‘You need not be worried that my lord Steward is aware of your marriage to my mother. The Earl of Suffolk is a loyal vassal of the crown and a good friend to the House of Lancaster.’

  ‘Of which the Duke of Gloucester is a leading light, my liege,’ Owen pointed out. ‘And he is not well-disposed towards us Tudors.’

  ‘And he and I are not well-disposed towards each other,’ the earl broke in. ‘You need have no fear that I will be making a confidant of his grace of Gloucester.’

  Owen shrugged and went to stand behind Catherine’s chair, touching her shoulder reassuringly. ‘My wife and I are in your hands, my lord. The king has put us there and we must trust in his judgement.’

  ‘It seems that you must, Master Tudor.’ King Henry favoured his stepfather with a grim smile, which looked out of place on the face of a twelve-year-old boy. Then he gestured to his clerk, who had been waiting in a corner, obviously expecting to be summoned. He brought the king a parchment scroll from which hung a heavy wax seal on a red ribbon.

  Henry held it out to Owen. ‘This is for you. It is a deed of denizenation. I had my lawyers seek it in your name in Parliament in recognition of your loyal service to my father and my mother. It makes you exempt from the restrictions imposed on Welshmen under English law. More importantly, your children will be classed as English.’

  It was not until later, when Geoffrey explained it to me, that I realised the significance of this gift. The king could still not bestow land or a knighthood on Owen as a Welshman, but this move would lay the foundation of a future for his children in the land of their birth. Owen was immediately aware of this and dropped to his knees once more before the king. His voice was hoarse with emotion as he took the document.

  ‘I thank your grace for honouring me in this way,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I was a loyal servant, but now I will be a loyal subject, which is a fine and precious gift. And your brothers will be Englishmen of whom I hope you will one day be proud.’

  I wondered then why no mention had been made of little Margaret, who was now a bright and bonny toddler in the nursery, a playmate for Anne and Thomas’s precious daughter Hester born two months before her and Agnes’s two-year-old Gladys. It was not until much later that I learned the reason for this.

  PART THREE

  Journey into Jeopardy

  (1435–1437)

  37

  On a cold, wet day in early 1435, I saw two women in hooded mantles talk
ing together under an arched side door to Westminster Palace. At first they were of no particular interest, but as I passed closer I could see under their hoods and I realised that one of them was the Duchess of Gloucester and the other was Margery Jourdemayne, the girl who had assisted the midwife at the birth of King Henry.

  Pulling my own hood lower over my face, I calculated how long it was since I had encountered the same two women consulting together in the herb garden at Windsor Castle. It was at least seven years. From what I knew of the proud and image-conscious Eleanor Cobham, such an enduring friendship with someone of yeoman stock like Mistress Jourdemayne was unlikely and yet the relationship had clearly persisted and, judging by the way they were conversing, cheek by jowl, some well-established intimacy was indicated. Then, as I watched, a package was passed furtively from Margery to Eleanor, and the two immediately parted. Perhaps it was not a friendship but a business relationship. The duchess disappeared inside the building and Mistress Jourdemayne made for the palace gate. On the spur of the moment, I decided to follow her.

  I had come to Westminster to deliver a gift from Catherine to the king, a baldric she had embroidered for him in bright silks and glittering gold thread, ‘To wear around your hips or across your shoulder as you choose,’ she had written in the accompanying letter. ‘It was all the fashion among the young courtiers in Paris when I was your age and you could make it so in England. They had bells sewn on theirs, but I have not done that because I think it rather undignified and a king must never be that.’ The relationship between the royal mother and son had improved quite markedly now that King Henry had reached his fourteenth year and taken an observer’s seat on the council of regency. He had not yet been declared of age, but at least his letters were no longer vetted so that he and Catherine could exchange news and ideas. The young king was beginning to make his preferences felt and to choose the people whose counsel he preferred. Cardinal Beaufort, the Earl of Suffolk and, secretly, his mother were among those favoured; unfortunately in Catherine’s eyes, so was the Duke of Gloucester.

  I had come to London to visit Mildy, who had given birth to her first child, a boy named Gilbert. Geoffrey had been unable to accompany me to Westminster due to an out-of-town case, and so my stepson Walter, who had escorted me from Hadham, was once again my companion.

  ‘Quick, Walter, I must speak to that woman,’ I urged him, indicating the hooded figure heading for the gate. ‘Did you see who she was talking to? It was the Duchess of Gloucester.’

  No longer a callow youth but a vigorous man in his prime, though unmarried still, Walter did not hesitate but obligingly loped off in pursuit of Margery Jourdemayne. She was setting a fast pace across the wide palace courtyard, her dark cloak pulled protectively about her against the steadily falling rain, and it was not until she had passed through the main gate and out into the thoroughfare beyond that he managed to reach her. I hurried after him and found them sheltering together in the lee of the gatehouse bastion. Walter was in the process of calming Margery’s understandable alarm at being accosted by a strange man.

  ‘I am sorry to send my stepson after you, Mistress Jourdemayne,’ I hastened to reassure her, panting a little. ‘I am not as quick on my feet as he is and I saw you crossing the courtyard. Perhaps you remember me. I attended Queen Catherine at the birth of King Henry. I was called Madame Lanière then, but I am now Mistress Vintner and this is my stepson, Walter.’

  Margery’s frown gradually faded. ‘I do remember you, mistress, but your English is greatly improved since then.’ She smiled to offset any potential insult and nodded a greeting to Walter. ‘Master Vintner, God be thanked that you are not the cut-purse I first thought you to be. Let us by all means talk together, but shall we go to the chapel porch? This rain is penetrating, is it not?’

  Dark clouds hung low overhead and the porch of St Stephen’s chapel was full of shadows as we shook the moisture off our outer clothes. With her hood pushed back, Margery could be clearly seen as the shrewd countrywoman she was; deep, intelligent eyes, cheeks laced with broken veins and skin weathered and lined. Although I knew her to be younger than Catherine, she looked ten years older. Not wishing Walter to hear our conversation, I drew her aside to sit on the stone bench along the wall. Prudently he kept us in view, though out of earshot, hovering in the doorway that led into the chapel.

  I began cautiously. ‘I could not help noticing that you were speaking with the Duchess of Gloucester. I remember encountering you together in the herb garden at Windsor after the last king’s death. Are you still helping her with herbal cures?’

  Margery’s expression grew wary. ‘Ye-es,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But I am well known to many court ladies who come to me for cures and potions. My home is not far from Westminster.’

  ‘Are you no longer a midwife?’

  Her harsh laugh, more like a bark, startled me. ‘I am a little of everything, Mistress Vintner,’ she answered. ‘Midwife, herbalist, healer – some people call me a wise woman or even a sorceress, but they all come to me when in need. Some want to get a baby, others to get rid of one. Some want love potions, others beauty lotions, and some want their fortunes told. I can do it all.’ She leaned forward until her shadowed face was close to mine, eyes glittering. ‘What do you want, Mistress?’

  Her breath was sour, but if she sought to frighten me she did not succeed. I remembered her as a girl and I knew that although she was trying to disguise it, at heart she was kind. I smiled benignly at her and shook my head. ‘Nothing like that, Mistress Jourdemayne. I want some information, if you will be so kind.’

  That appeared to shock her. Even in the gloom I could see that her cheeks had paled under their sun-browned surface. ‘About what?’ she demanded sharply. ‘I never discuss my customers. Everything I do is confidential, otherwise no one would consult me.’

  I held up my hands to placate her. ‘This does not concern your customers – at least not present ones. It is merely for my own interest. I want to know what became of the king’s caul? Do you know?’

  She pretended not to understand me. ‘The king’s caul? I have no idea what you mean.’

  I held her gaze, my expression, I hoped, firm. Despite the intervening years I had not forgotten the midwife’s warning that we should never mention the king’s birth ‘in the Veil’ or its mysterious disappearance afterwards. ‘I am sure you remember, Margery. Mistress Scorier slit the caul and the veil slipped away from the baby’s face. The king breathed and we all sighed with relief. It was a tense moment. I have since learned that such cauls are believed to hold magic powers and can be very valuable, so did you keep it or did Mistress Scorier?’

  I could see fear flicker in her eyes just before she dropped her gaze and whispered. ‘I was the apprentice. It is the midwife’s responsibility to take the afterbirth and burn it.’

  ‘But did she?’ I persisted. ‘Or did it travel from Windsor to your village? It is called Eye, as I remember – well-named, I think, for a woman with the sight. A caul must be useful in some magic spells.’

  Abruptly she stood up, having gathered her forces. ‘I told you, I do not know what you mean and I advise you not to ask any further questions on this subject, Mistress Vintner – of anyone.’

  I rose to confront her. ‘Of the Duchess of Gloucester for instance?’

  Her eyes flashed and she glanced about to check for listeners. ‘This has nothing to do with the Duchess of Gloucester, do you understand. Nothing!’

  ‘Are you sure? Does the caul have power to aid conception, perhaps? And does the duchess not long to give her lord an heir?’

  With an angry hiss Margery Jourdemayne turned her back. ‘Shh! No – more – questions. Good morrow, Mistress!’ She flicked her hood over her head and strode towards the exit, flinging one parting shot over her shoulder. ‘Be careful. I warn you, be very careful!’ The church door slammed.

  Walter wandered over from his watchful stance at the inner door. ‘She left rather suddenly,’ he remarked. ‘Is eve
rything all right, Mette?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ I rubbed my nose thoughtfully. I had wondered if pieces of the caul might have been sold as fertility aids, but now I suspected there was more to it than that. ‘Walter, please run out and see which way she goes – towards the palace or away?’

  He was back in seconds. ‘She went back to the palace and she was in a great hurry. What did you say to her?’

  ‘It is not so much what I said, as how she took it,’ I replied enigmatically. ‘I think I have rattled a cage.’

  That evening, as we sat beside the hall fire after our meal, I described the meeting to Geoffrey. Usually I took the opportunity of mending my husband’s chemises and the household linen as we talked over the day’s events, but on this occasion my mind was otherwise occupied.

  ‘I must admit I had not expected her to be so agitated by my enquiries,’ I added, when I had concluded my tale. ‘I am beginning to suspect Margery Jourdemayne of dabbling too deeply in spells and I have a bad feeling about Eleanor of Gloucester’s use of her services. The caul has a direct connection to Catherine as well as the king and Eleanor has no love for her.’

  Geoffrey stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Margery Jourdemayne,’ he murmured. ‘For some reason that name rings a bell. I can check tomorrow, but I think there was a case before the council of regency a few years ago concerning charges of witchcraft and a plot against the king. It was a serious case and some of those found guilty were hanged, but some were given prison sentences and I think Mistress Jourdemayne may have been one of them.’

  ‘A plot against the king,’ I echoed, my stomach lurching unpleasantly. ‘What kind of plot?’

  ‘Something about foretelling the king’s death, as far as I remember. One of the men accused was an astrologer and one woman – Mistress Jourdemayne if it was her – was charged with something called “image magic”. That is when a wax figure is made of a person, either to do them harm or to read their future.’ Geoffrey frowned deeply and scratched his head. ‘But I may not remember it right. I will take a look at the Council Rolls tomorrow if I can.’