Blood Royal (62 page)

How bored the Cardinal must have been in his years of exile overseas, far from his own court, Catherine thought. How much happier he’d be – they’d all be – together, on the road to France.

They weren’t going to set sail for Calais till the early tide tomorrow. They’d have a night at the castle at Southampton. The Cardinal and the rest of the noble visitors were to make their way through Castle Watergate, rest and eat. The Earl of Warwick had already marshalled his troops and was leading them off to inspect their preparations.

Owain was at the elbow of the Southampton dignitary as the man approached the royal party, still looking flustered. There was warmth in the brief, direct glance Owain gave Catherine as he bowed; affection in the gentle shoulder-pat he gave Harry as he straightened up from his bow. Smoothly, once the introductory bowings and formalities were over, it was Owain who asked the frisky, pink-cheeked Harry, ‘You could go straight to the castle … but wouldn’t you like to look round the town … let Master Soper here show you the ships he built for your father?’

No one said no. Catherine couldn’t believe the freedom on this fresh wind. Master Soper’s cheeks went red with pleasure at the glow in Harry’s eyes. They stayed red for the rest of the afternoon, as he proudly showed the little King Simnel Street and Butcher Row and Bugle Street, where the bakers made loaves to victual ships for France and the butchers prepared meat enough to feed hundreds and sometimes thousands of soldiers. He walked Harry on board the enormous Genoese carrack, the Marie Hampton, with its smooth carvel-built hull, one of the finest of the vessels captured a decade ago from the French that now graced the English fleet which would sail tomorrow, to show him the miracle of the compass needle that always pointed north, encased in its iron-free binnacle fixed before the helmsman’s place on the castle. He demonstrated the use of lead and line, and of running glasses, whose steady stream of falling sand told a captain how long he’d kept a particular course, and of tide tables, and of the rutter, the manual containing information about every sandbank and sounding on the route to Calais. He described the excitement of sailing for Bordeaux, La Rochelle or Bilbao, for wine, or to Compostela with a cargo of pilgrims. Master Soper, a capable Southampton merchant turned clerk
of the King’s fleet, had personally built the biggest English ship ever, the
Grâce Dieu
, and the
Valentine
and the
Falcon
that had accompanied it; he’d built the
Holighost de la Tour
, too, and the
Ane
, and remodelled the
Gabriel de la Tour
. But, as Owain murmured to Catherine, walking along behind the small, chattering King and the eager, sweating shipwright, stopping every now and then to admire the skilful sealing of the planking with pitch, resin and old rope called oakum, all that work had been done in the days when French naval attacks were a constant fear. There was no French threat from the sea any more; which was why King Henry’s will had specified that most of these expensive royal ships be gradually sold off and the funds returned to the royal coffers. Master Soper, who had built up the English fleet and cherished it throughout his youth, now had the melancholy task of dismantling everything he had once created. ‘It must be hard for him,’ Owain said quietly and sympathetically in Catherine’s ear. ‘But it’ll be something he’ll remember for the rest of his days, that the new King was so interested in his work today.’

On another day, Catherine thought, if she’d been feeling as wretchedly trapped as she often did in the familiar castles of the Thames Valley, she might have been plagued by a kind of muddled nostalgia at the mention of those long-ago naval clashes: nostalgia for the days when, however insecure she might have felt, she still knew who she was; when, waiting in Paris for war news, she and everyone around her would have rejoiced whole-heartedly at reports of a French raid on the English coast. But not today; not with this wind in her nostrils. Not with her son dancing and prancing in front of her, asking a thousand questions without a trace of fear of the sea. Not with yet another example of Owain’s kindly resourcefulness to wonder at – how had he had time to find out about this man’s fate? And not with Owain walking so courteously beside her, not close enough to take her arm, but stooping slightly to murmur information into her ear, so she could feel the warmth of him along her left side. The past was past. There was only now, and the tang of salt in her mouth. It was enough.

‘What about Dame Butler?’ she asked, almost timidly. So many arrangements she didn’t know about had been made while she and Harry wintered quietly at Windsor; she didn’t want to make any assumptions that might seem foolish. ‘What will her position be in France?’

But she could see as soon as she had the courage to look into Owain’s laughing eyes that she hadn’t misunderstood. ‘For now, she’s in charge of the Cardinal’s household,’ he said. ‘A capable woman, Dame Butler. But once my lord Warwick realises how busy he’s going to be controlling his army, it may be a relief to him that she’s here. He’ll need to find someone to take charge of Harry; keep the royal household. I think he’ll find the Cardinal willing to let her go.’

She laughed out loud, letting the sharp air rush deep into her lungs. Harry would be so happy to escape the Earl.

‘You do think of everything,’ she said warmly. A gust of wind blew through them, so hard it put slapping white crests on the water and puffed out her skirts behind, almost knocking her off balance. She turned round, leaning backwards into it, grinning, stopping her ears against the startling crackle of canvas and the softer creak of wood. Owain stood before her, one hand on his hat to stop it blowing backwards off his head, laughing helplessly at the stinging force of it beating against his face; then he turned round, like her, to get it behind him. They were side by side again; wrapped in a cocoon of wind. Before she was quite aware she’d done it, she found she’d slipped her arm through his.

The captain was Portuguese: little and wrinkled, with bright pale washed-out eyes looking calmly out over the sea while his hands moved their instruments and his mouth moved in a stream of reminiscence: ‘The sun so hot on your back all day … the earth still hot underfoot all day … the scent of the flowers in your nostrils … great big sweet flowers, full of the magic of moon … you’re drunk with it, in love from it …’

Harry had been entranced for hours, ever since they raised anchor; standing up on the castle, his cloak stiff with salt, licking it off his lips, his eyes wide.

The sea here was bracing and harsh, the wind wild with seagull cries; but it was an easy run for these treacherous waters. They could all imagine the kind of southern place the captain was telling them about; the sensuality of those spice smells; the wink of starlight.

‘… sea the colour of sapphires and emeralds … then sunset, and the calm coming down … sailors singing … deep voices, so deep … the stars, so bright … and sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, a flash of light … dolphins and mermaids, playing together in the surf …’ the man crooned.

Cardinal Beaufort lowered his eyelids in languid enjoyment. He caught Catherine’s eye. They were sitting on barrels on the ship’s castle, watching Harry watch the captain. There were half a dozen of them, old friends reunited by leaving England and Duke Humphrey behind, wrapped against the wind in great rough cloaks that Dame Butler and her son had brought up from the captain’s cabin. Catherine grinned back, wrapping her cloak tighter about her. She didn’t dare look at Owain. He was leaning back, behind Master Somerset, but so much taller that she could still be aware of his silhouette without having to look properly. His eyes were closed; there was a faint light on his face; she could see he was lost in the pleasure of wind and words.

The sun was low in the sky; a spare, brisk, reddish sunset stripped of the land’s gentle golds. The wind was freshening. Rysbank Tower, on its island at the entrance to Calais harbour, was a dark finger pointing up from the dark stripe on the horizon, getting bigger. They’d be there in an hour, God willing, the captain said, through the splash and crackle of movement.

‘You know your stars, my boy?’ the captain was asking now. No respecter of royal formalities, he was chucking the delighted Harry under the chin. ‘Know the phases of the moon?’

Harry nodded. ‘A full moon tonight,’ he said importantly. ‘I know.’

‘O-pa!’ the captain exclaimed, with a kindly pretence at astonished respect. ‘Well, you’ll see it in a moment … it’s
rising over there … faint still … but it’ll help guide us in … just wait …’

There was silence for a while; or what passed for silence: the rush and slap and heave of water; the sound of sails.

‘And the evening star, you see the evening star?’

Lulled by the rough old voice, yet feeling at the same time more acutely alive than she remembered feeling for years, perhaps ever, Catherine looked up. Such a familiar movement. How often she’d looked through the failing light of the evening for that bittersweet point of brightness. How often she’d remembered the strained, desperate glance that a much younger Owain had once given her, bowed with shame and the hopelessness of reality, coming out of the woods from Poissy at the end of a day’s silent riding, yet not quite giving up, muttering at the sight of it, ‘
Venus … your star …
’ and, when Christine, a few paces behind, didn’t immediately seem to notice or to intervene, rushing on, ‘
I don’t know what I can promise … but I’ll always …
’ Catherine had been as aware as he had of Christine clicking on her mount behind; catching up to make sure there were no last rash words. He’d probably never thought of those few hurried phrases again; he couldn’t have any idea how often she had. She took in another lungful of air, forgiving both their younger selves, strangely at peace. It didn’t matter any more. None of it did. All that mattered was that they were all here now, together.

Harry was gazing up. He looked worried. She could see he hadn’t spotted the star yet.

There was a rumble of encouragement from behind in the half-dark: Owain. ‘This way, look,’ he said, holding Harry’s gaze, pointing up. ‘There, you see?’ Harry’s teeth flashed; he’d found it. ‘The most important star,’ Owain’s voice went quietly on, and Catherine wished they’d seen it a moment earlier, when the light had been brighter, when she might still have been able to make out the expression on his face. ‘Once you know it, you can steer your whole life by it.’

Landfall brought a queasy rocking and tipping of the hard ground underfoot, the flicker of lanterns, the heat of the fire
in the great hall at the castle, the rush of soldiers trooping off the ships and to their quarters, the fifes and drums that marked the start of the night shift for the three troops of the scruffy-looking permanent garrison at Calais, and, when Harry had begun to whine that he was hungry, and she was almost dizzy with lack of food herself, the simple traveller’s supper of herrings and beef and Bordeaux claret and English wheaten bread, baked that morning at Southampton. As quickly as she could, Catherine retired to help Harry to bed. The Earl of Warwick had been quick to give permission for her to attend her son; he wanted his knights and the Governor to discuss troop movements and supplies as soon as the meal was finished, and the Governor was to brief him on the military situation.

Harry was asleep on his feet before he even reached his chamber. She eased his clothes off as he lolled against her on the side of the bed, thanking God for the warmth of the evening that would allow her to slip him naked between the sheets without worrying too much about lacing up nightshirts. Her own head was swimming with fatigue and sea air and what she told herself were too many new impressions to absorb so quickly; but she knew deep down that what she meant was the tremulous new shyness that had tied her tongue and made it all but impossible to talk to or even look at Owain, ever since he’d said what he’d said to Harry about the evening star. You’re overwrought, she told herself, watching the little rumpled head on the pillow; listening to the innocence of her child’s quick breathing; glad of the silence; glad to be away from other people’s eyes. You need a good night’s sleep as much as he does.

But she couldn’t sleep. She was jangling with life and exhilaration; she needed to walk, to breathe this new air that was so nearly French. Not that she was homesick exactly, or nostalgic for her childhood. Her memories of her own past she simplified into just two emotions: boredom and fear. She could do without both. No, this excitement about getting into France was more about escaping from the next life she’d made for herself in England. The air she was breathing here,
with its sea scents, seemed full of memories, but fuller still of tantalising whiffs of the unknown future. Once they were out of Calais, completely away from the sounds and sights and smells of complacent Englishness, into the strange war-ravaged place that lay beyond, they’d be somewhere uncertain, undefined, where they would never quite know whether they’d be safe … but, when she got back to France, it just might feel like home.

The seagulls were circling outside. Their mewing made her restless. She just couldn’t go back to the great hall. She hesitated on the stairs, then slipped past the cries and clinking of knives and cups, out into the courtyard to gaze up at the glittering sky, where the full moon was sailing serenely through the clouds. To look at Venus.

It was cold now, even in the shelter of the castle keep, where there was no wind. Catherine could hear the rough English voices of the soldiers scrambling along the top of the earthworks; calling to each other as they paced from one corner tower to the next; and the faint answering cries of others, southeast of the castle, patrolling the walls of the town, looking out to sea to make sure no enemy ships were sneaking unnoticed to shore, or across the marshes. Other towers and miserable forts were dotted in the watery gloom – by the dunes of Sangate, or by the bridges and roads to the Hammer River. Every landmark had its uncouth English name: Ballangers Bulwerk near Cowbridge; Boots’ Bulwerk; Newenham Bridge, crossing the canal of ditchwater that ran out of the town’s upper districts into the sea. Every landmark was patrolled to reassure the settlers that no enemies were somehow approaching by what passed, in this boggy wilderness, for land. It was all like this, right across the Calais Pale: Guisnes and Hammes and Marc and Terouanne: grim little towns cowering behind walls, towers and earthworks, lines and squares set in water by the will of man. It was all the squelching of feet and endless damp, the cries of seabirds, and the quiet calling of scared men at night, waiting for the creep of boots. The town of Calais’ four gates were locked by sundown to
keep its three thousand Englishmen – wool merchants and mint gatherers and herring fishermen and publicans – safe in their beds. Usually only Lantern Gate was ever open at all, even by day.