The Tudor Bride

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘Well I hope you can, mon amour, because if it was indeed Mistress Jourdemayne, I do not like the way my thoughts are turning. Why would she have suddenly decided to return to the palace after speaking to me, when prior to that she had clearly completed her business there and was heading home – unless it was to warn someone that I was asking awkward questions about the king’s caul?’ I leaned forward to engage his full attention and continued earnestly, ‘Tell me exactly what this “image magic” involves. Does this wax figure need to contain something from the person it is supposed to represent? Some hair, for instance, or some nail parings? Or a piece of the person’s birth sac – the caul?’ I gave this last example added significance by lowering my voice and more or less whispering it.

  Geoffrey stared at me, his mouth half open. ‘Exactly what are you implying, Mette?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘No, I do not want to voice my suspicions until you can confirm the identity of the woman accused of plotting against the king. Until then let us talk of something else. What fraud or felony did you defend in court today?’

  The following morning I walked down to Mildy’s riverside house and spent a few delightful hours talking of births and babies and holding little two-month-old Gilbert in my arms. Our conversation would have bored any man to death, but it kept two mothers chattering away busily, swapping cures and theories on everything from the merits and demerits of swaddling to the significance of cradle cap. The house Hugh Vintner had bought for Mildy overlooked the Vintry Quay where barges laden with the huge barrels called tuns manoeuvred in and out of the docks, and were loaded and unloaded at what seemed to me an extraordinary rate. From every window in the house there was a view of masts and cranes and heavy tuns swinging alarmingly at the end of ropes and our constant companions were the shouts of dockers and the heady smell of wine. On the dock itself carts lined up at the warehouse doors to carry away loads of the smaller casks and hogsheads into which the contents of the giant tuns had been transferred.

  When I arrived home Geoffrey was waiting for me and he wore an expression I did not like. ‘We must talk now, Mette,’ he said. ‘I have had Jem light the fire in my library.’

  I shed my pattens and fur-lined mantle and made my way to the private chamber at the back of the hall where Geoffrey kept his precious collection of books. They were stored flat on strong, purpose-built shelves; law books, almanacs and some treasured volumes of poetry and scholarship, bound in cloth-covered wooden board and clasped with pewter or silver – about two dozen in all. When I was at Hadham I knew that his books were his chosen companions when he was not working. There was an impressive lock on the library door, to which he held the only key and he used it now to lock us in.

  Two chairs had been placed by the fire and as soon as I sat down he passed me a sheet of paper covered in writing in his own neat hand. ‘This is a copy I made of the judgement. I found the account of the council hearing; it was in 1430 and the accused was Margery Jourdemayne. You will see she was sentenced to imprisonment at the king’s pleasure – or in this case the regency council’s. She could have been sentenced to burn but instead she spent only a year and a half incarcerated at Windsor Castle. It seems a light sentence. She was either lucky or well connected.’

  I ran my eyes over the carefully copied tract looking for the words ‘plotting the king’s death’, but I could find nothing. ‘I do not see any charge tantamount to treason here,’ I said. ‘What was her offence?’

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘It is not specified, but in the same roll there is the account of a trial of seven women accused of plotting the king’s death by witchcraft and they were sent to the Fleet prison. Their names are not given, but it seems likely that she was implicated with them in some way. I do not know why she was sent to Windsor, which is certainly preferable to the Fleet. The important fact is that when she was released her husband paid a surety of twenty pounds that she would abstain from all sorcery in the future. If she is still performing spells and magic for the likes of the Duchess of Gloucester, your questions would have put the fear of God into her. If she were to be charged with sorcery a second time she would be unlikely to escape the flames.’

  I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘I am not surprised that Margery is involved in magic cures for she clearly has acquired skills that are much in demand, but I would be amazed if she was plotting against the king. After all she was one of the people who helped him into the world.’

  Geoffrey considered my argument. ‘But Eleanor Cobham, our duchess of Gloucester, may have discovered more sinister uses for Mistress Jourdayne’s skills. Her star is rising at court and she is now regularly to be seen in the company of the king. If she believes that magic is helping her to achieve her goals then she will not want nosy members of Queen Catherine’s household asking impertinent questions. I fear that you may have stirred a hornet’s nest, sweetheart.’ Geoffrey leaned over and took back the paper. ‘I will keep this safe,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘If you are found with it you could also be suspected of being involved in sorcery.

  ‘What do you think I should do?’ I asked my husband.

  ‘I think you should go back to Hadham and lie low. If there is sorcery afoot, you certainly do not want to be implicated and nor do you want Eleanor to turn the Gloucester lantern beam onto you and thus discover the Tudor family. Loath though I am to see you go, I think you should leave tomorrow.’

  38

  Six months later, Alys, Cat and I were taking advantage of some early October sunshine to gather herbs for simples in the riverside garden at Hadham. On a spread blanket, little Margaret was contentedly burbling nonsense to her wooden doll as she rocked the miniature cradle which Owen had fashioned as a present for her third birthday. The three boys, now six and five respectively, were loudly playing a game of sheriffs and outlaws on the island with Jasper as the undaunted sheriff upon whom blunt arrows and cat-calls were raining down from the two older boys hiding in the bushes.

  The clang of the bell from the watch-tower silenced the boys and in seconds they had broken cover and were racing over the bridge to go and see who was approaching the gatehouse. Alys and I and the girls followed more sedately, gathering up the baskets, toys and blanket and letting Margaret toddle industriously along, holding my hand, as we made our way to the sally gate in the curtain wall. By the time we had crossed the bailey and entered the courtyard, the visitor had dismounted. By the bollard badge on his livery I knew him to be the Earl of Suffolk’s herald, presumably with a message for Catherine.

  She had not emerged from the house, but Owen had arrived from somewhere and now introduced himself and offered to take the visitor in to see her. I told the children to stay with Alys, handed over my basket and followed Owen and the herald inside. In Catherine’s chamber Agnes was helping her to change into a formal gown and I took a veil from a chest to fix over her hair.

  ‘Where are the children, Mette?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I trust Suffolk has not told his herald about them!’

  ‘They are all with Alys, Mademoiselle. He will have seen them, but he will not know whose they are.’ I began pinning the veil in place.

  ‘I wonder what news he brings,’ she fretted. ‘It must be something important for Suffolk to send his king of arms. I do not have a good feeling about this.’

  By the time we three reached the hall, Owen had acquired refreshments and a servant was pouring wine into cups. Both men bowed low as Catherine entered and walked to her canopied chair, which always stood opposite the fireplace against just such an occasion. Owen stood back as the herald bent his knee before her. Appearances were being scrupulously preserved.

  ‘My lord of Suffolk humbly greets your grace and sends me with grave news.’ The visitor had left his sword and mail coif at the gatehouse and he knelt bare-headed, the sweat from his hectic ride still damp in his reddish-brown hair. He withdrew a folded and sealed letter from the purse belted around his padded gambeson. ‘This comes from the Earl of Mortain, my lady.�
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  Catherine took the letter and examined the seal briefly. ‘Thank you. But you can tell me the news, can you not, Sir Herald?’

  The messenger nodded. ‘Mortain Herald came from Normandy yesterday to inform the council that his grace the Duke of Bedford died suddenly in Rouen two weeks ago. My lord of Suffolk has instructed me to convey his condolences on the loss of your royal brother-in-law, a great general and a noble statesman.’

  There was a long silence as Catherine absorbed these sad tidings. ‘This is sad news indeed,’ she told the herald. ‘But why was Bedford in Rouen? I had heard he was attending the peace conference which the pope called at Arras.’

  ‘He did go to Arras, Madame, but there was a stalemate. My lord of Bedford left the conference and travelled back to Rouen in early September.’

  ‘He walked out, you mean. Was there a result of the conference?’

  ‘There was, eventually. The Duke of Burgundy and Charles of Valois have agreed a truce. It has taken the English commanders in France by surprise and at Westminster his grace of Gloucester has called an urgent session of the council.’

  ‘As well he might!’ Catherine was more aware than anyone of the significance of such a truce. ‘That Burgundy and my brother should exchange the kiss of peace is nothing short of miraculous. The Duke of Bedford’s death may be a dreadful consequence of it, for it places my son’s French crown in grave jeopardy and Bedford of all people would feel it as a mortal blow. He was the backbone of England’s rule in France. You say he died suddenly – was there any reason given?’

  The herald shook his head sadly. ‘No, your grace. That is all I know.’

  Catherine stood up, crossing herself. ‘I will pray for him and his poor widow. Jacquetta is so young to be left without a husband. Thank you for performing your duty, Sir Herald. Master Tudor will see that you are well rewarded and that you are rested and refreshed before leaving. Good day.’

  As good as her word, Catherine went immediately to the church and settled herself before the altar of the Lady Chapel for a long period of personal prayer and reflection. I followed, worried by her pallor. Of all the late king’s brothers, John of Bedford had been her staunchest friend and champion. Had it been he who had led the regency council in England she might not have suffered the humiliations meted out to her by Humphrey of Gloucester. Catherine may have been praying for the soul of her brother-in-law but, kneeling discreetly behind her, I was praying that the collapse of the Burgundian alliance would ensure that Gloucester’s attention remained focussed well away from Hadham.

  Catherine’s thoughts in the church cannot have been entirely for the soul of John of Bedford however, because that evening, when the trestles had been cleared, she stopped Owen from fetching his harp.

  ‘Do not play yet, Owen,’ she said. ‘I would like to read you and Mette the letter Suffolk’s herald brought from Edmund Beaufort. I think we need to discuss its contents. We will not be overheard here.’

  Owen glanced across the room to where his two boys and my William were playing some game of their own devising, crawling over and under a makeshift obstacle course of trestles laid over benches. Pools of candlelight lit the occupied areas of the hall, while the abandoned corners were draped in shadow, rendering them dark and mysterious as the light died through the windows. Anne and Agnes had taken little Margaret up to bed with Gladys and Hester and Thomas, John, Walter and Hywell had gone off on some business of their own. Near the hearth Cat and Louise were playing a board game with Alys, occasionally protesting as the boisterous boys bumped or jostled their stools. I sat in the hearth-light with Catherine and Owen. As happened all too often for my liking, Geoffrey was absent in London.

  Catherine unfolded the letter on which the seal had already been broken.

  ‘I will dispense with the greetings,’ she said, ‘and just read the content.’

  I am sorry that I cannot tell you myself of the death of my lord of Bedford, but must rely on my cousin of Suffolk to convey the news to you. Everything here in Rouen is thrown into disorder as you may imagine and it is impossible for me to leave, especially with the funeral to organise and his widow to assist. According to his declared wish, the Duke of Bedford is to be buried in Rouen Cathedral. I would like to be able to tell you more about his death but alas his illness was short and I was not there in time. It seems to have been a sudden collapse and he died within hours. May his soul rest with God.

  Now to my concerns about you and your children, which have been much on my mind, especially now that I am a father myself. My own two girls are strong and healthy, but I am aware how fast they grow and realise that my godson and his brother must now be quite big boys and old enough to start their education. I am sure that you and Master Tudor will have made more than adequate provision for this, but it occurred to me that if anything were to happen to either or both of you there should be someone who would be in a position to take care of them and raise them as befits their birth, until such a time as their brother the king shall reach his majority.

  As you will know, my marriage to the Lady Eleanor has yet to be licensed by the council so I prefer to stay out of England until that situation is rectified. I expect to remain as a commander of our armed forces in Normandy, where I hold the Western border against the Duke of Alençon. It will not be the same here without the strength and wisdom of my lord of Bedford, but we will struggle on and it does mean that I am not at present in a position to offer your sons a position in my household.

  Catherine paused here to make an observation. ‘I read between these lines that it is the Duke of Gloucester who makes difficulties over their marriage licence, perhaps in retribution for Edmund’s attempt to marry me. Gloucester can be vengeful, as we know to my cost. However, here is where we get to the proposal I wish to discuss.’ She cleared her throat and continued reading.

  Another possibility is open to us however. My noble friend the Earl of Suffolk has a sister, Lady Katherine de la Pole, who has been a nun at Barking Abbey for many years and is now abbess there. As you may know, it is an ancient and well-endowed community which takes in numerous students; most of them are wards of the crown, and are provided with care, religious guidance and education of a high standard. If you are agreeable, I will make arrangements with Suffolk that, in my stead, the abbey would shelter your sons in the event of any misfortune to you. You can be sure that, no matter the opposition, the protection of the name de la Pole would guarantee security and safety for your precious sons.

  Catherine dropped the letter to her lap and glanced questioningly from Owen to me.

  Owen leaned back in his chair and made a face. ‘Lord Edmund is right. We should make provision of that kind, but I am not sure that Suffolk is the one to trust. We hardly know him.’

  ‘The letter would suggest that Lord Edmund is not aware that the Earl of Suffolk already knows your situation, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘Even so, he seems happy that Lord Suffolk should be told.’

  ‘Mette, is right, Owen.’ Catherine looked at him earnestly. ‘In fact it would not alter the position very much, except to bring the Abbess of Barking into our confidence.’

  He was not mollified. ‘But what do we know about her? She may be a Mother Superior of the worst kind. I do not want my sons submitted to a regime of prayer and mortification under the rule of a bunch of pious virgins.’

  ‘Not all nuns are pious virgins. And if Burgundy invades England, as he now very well might, at least they would be safe in a convent, would they not?’

  Owen stared at Catherine as if he thought she had gone mad. ‘Who says Burgundy will invade England?’

  I must admit that I grew wide-eyed myself at the thought of such a thing, but Catherine was adamant. ‘It is not unlikely,’ she insisted. ‘Now that he has made peace with my brother, the duke may well turn his ambitions towards England. Philippe of Burgundy admired my valiant Henry and the good John of Bedford, but he has scores to settle with the Duke of Gloucester, not least over the matter of Hum
phrey’s outrageous attempt to annexe Hainault by marriage to Jacqueline. I only make the point that a convent would be a place of refuge in a time of war.’

  ‘Perhaps our first act should be to find out more about Barking Abbey and its abbess,’ I suggested. ‘Geoffrey could make some enquiries. Barking is in the diocese of London and he has made friends with the new bishop.’ William Grey had been translated to the bishopric of Lincoln and Geoffrey had made a point of establishing good relations with his successor, Bishop Robert Fitzhugh, in order to extend Catherine’s arrangement at Hadham.

  ‘That is a good idea, Mette.’ I detected a note of relief in Owen’s voice. ‘If we learn more we can make an informed decision. Meanwhile I suggest we let the matter drop.’ He downed what was left in his cup and stood up. ‘I am going to make my final check on the guard.’

  Catherine watched him cross the hall to the main door, then caught my eye and shrugged. ‘He becomes more nervous every time someone else is told about the children,’ she sighed. ‘When is Geoffrey due back at Hadham, Mette?’

  ‘Not for some time,’ I told her ruefully. ‘The Michaelmas term has only just begun in the courts and he has quite a few cases to deal with. But if you can do without Walter for a few days he could take me to London. I might even make some discreet enquiries myself before I return.’

  Catherine looked grateful and reached over to take my hand. ‘Would you, Mette? It is getting a little late in the year for comfortable travelling but I would be grateful. Will you mind leaving William again?’

  ‘As long as he is with Edmund, William is happy.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Well that is true. If they did not have such different colouring, one would almost think they were twins.’

  I shuddered. ‘I am glad they are not. I would not wish the birth of twins on any woman!’