Root of the Tudor Rose (11 page)

‘Then I won't leave for Beverley until tomorrow. There's no pressing need.' Henry turned back to the bed and stroked a tendril of damp hair away from Catherine's forehead. ‘Don't worry, my sweet, I'll tell Alnwick to send a messenger to Beverley and Bridlington to inform them of the delay. But perhaps we should consult a leech-doctor. I'll have one sent for.'

The Duchess of Clarence found Catherine sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows with her knees drawn up to her chin, drinking a hot posset which Guillemote had made for her.

‘So, Catherine, my dear. Might it be that you are with child?' Margaret greeted her, getting straight to the point.

‘With child, my Lady?' Catherine looked stunned. ‘But surely …'

‘Well, you have been very sick this morning, Henry tells me; he's even asked Bishop Alnwick to send for a leech doctor.'

‘Yes, but …'

‘I have every hope that a leech doctor will not be needed, though it will do no harm to bleed you a little, I suppose. Now remind me, when was it that you and Henry were together in Leicester? How many weeks ago?'

‘But that was during Holy Week!'

‘And what has that got to do with it?'

‘Well …'

‘Are you telling me that meat was not the only thing that was denied to Henry during Holy Week? Surely you don't expect me to believe that you denied him his pleasure, too?'

‘No,' said Catherine in a small voice, her eyes wide.

A broad smile on her face, Margaret looked at her young sister-in-law with affection. She seemed so small in the great bed, vulnerable, little more than a child herself. ‘Babies can be conceived in Holy Week, Catherine, just like any other time of year. Whatever makes you think they can't be? They are our Saviour's greatest gift to any woman, especially a queen.'

Catherine shook her head in disbelief. Queen Isabeau had been right. She had spent far too long in the company of nuns.

Henry was overjoyed. Margaret had gone to find him, to tell him that Catherine had some very special news for him, news which she really should tell him herself. He knew, of course, that there was only one situation which was important enough to make Margaret say that.

‘She's not …? Margaret, are you saying that she might be …?' He couldn't bring himself to use the word.

‘I'm saying nothing,' Margaret beamed, ‘even though it would give me the greatest pleasure to be the bearer of good news.'

Henry almost ran out of the room, so anxious was he to get to Catherine. He burst into their bedchamber to find Guillemote helping her into a loose robe.

‘Catherine! Margaret says that … you might be … you could be …'

‘Yes, my Lord,' she smiled. ‘It does seem reasonable to suppose that I am with child.'

Henry covered the distance between them like a hound, half-leaping to envelop her in a huge embrace. Guillemote instinctively raised her arm to restrain him.

‘Oh, Your Highness! Be careful! You mustn't be too rough with her.'

‘Of course, of course. I'm sorry. Oh, Catherine, you cannot possibly know how happy this has made me!' He seized both her hands and covered them with kisses.

Catherine, feeling better, was of a mind to tease him. ‘I think, perhaps, that you are now the happiest man in England?'

‘No, Catherine.'

‘No, my Lord?'

‘No. I am the happiest man in the world!' He seized her hands again then frowned suddenly. ‘It will be a boy, won't it?'

They spent the evening as a family, over a modest meal in the private solar, Catherine, Henry, and Margaret, waited upon by Guillemote and entertained by only two of Henry's musicians whom Margaret ignored completely as she prattled on about the prospect of a Christmas baby. All the signs and portents were good, she said excitedly, pointing out that the child had probably been conceived in Leicester Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Lancaster. He would be a fine young man and a great king, continuing the traditions of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, the wise and powerful John of Gaunt. Henry listened, beaming indulgently.

Catherine sat back in her chair, her hands resting lightly on her belly. With a fixed smile on her face, she watched Henry beaming with pleasure and listened to Margaret's exited chatter as though from a great distance, while her own mind was filled with trepidation. The hopes and fears of the entire English royal family were vested in that small scrap of humanity which was growing in her womb and her overwhelming feeling was that there would be testing times ahead. Despite the sophistication of her life in royal circles, she couldn't quite shake off her convent upbringing. A phrase from the Book of Genesis niggled at the back of her mind: ‘
In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.
' Though she would never have admitted to her anxiety in front of Margaret and Henry, she did wonder how much giving birth to a baby would hurt.

They retired early to bed and Henry held her gently in his arms as though she was something very precious indeed. Feigning sleep, with her head on his shoulder, she prayed silently that her baby would be a boy so that she could give Henry the one thing he desperately wanted; an heir to his throne. Though she would have to endure the curse of Eve in order to do it, this would be the culmination of everything that she and her mother had worked for.

The King was awake before cockcrow, slipping his arm gently from under her head in case he should wake her. He intended to make a very early start this morning. Now it seemed likely that Catherine was pregnant, he wasn't going to take any risks with her health. Needs must make this pilgrimage without her but he was more anxious than ever for the blessings of St John and St Crispin. They would, he was certain, grant that Catherine was carrying a male child.

Before setting out, Henry had asked Sir Walter Hungerford to remain with Catherine and Margaret in York, confiding in him that there was now an added reason why the Queen needed his protection. He had every faith in Hungerford, a mature man in his middle forties. Devoted to King Henry, as he had been to his father before him, Hungerford was a royal councillor and had been steward of the King's household for several years. Sir Walter smiled and said he would be both honoured and delighted to be responsible for the safety of the Queen and the Duchess of Clarence.

Now Margaret really came into her own as Catherine's adviser. She was a good deal younger than Catherine's own mother but still an experienced older woman. Queen Isabeau had never concerned herself with any aspect of Catherine's education, either religious or secular, with the result that her daughter was remarkably ignorant about the workings of her own body. The nuns at Poissy had confined themselves to teaching her the catechism and how to turn her mind to pious thoughts. Beyond telling her it was the will of God that all women must endure the loss of blood each month and explaining the practicalities of dealing with that, they had studiously ignored every other aspect of the female body. Of course, Catherine was well aware of how the child had been conceived but she had no idea of how her pregnancy would affect her or what changes she could expect as it progressed.

So she plied Margaret with eager questions which Margaret did her best to answer, excited at the prospect of Catherine bearing Henry the baby which would become heir to the throne of England and, in time, the throne of France.

Despite the misery of her morning sickness, the time passed quickly enough for Catherine while Henry was away and it didn't seem long before a swift horseman in the King's livery brought the message that the royal party would return from their pilgrimage the following day. Catherine decided that there would be a special feast to celebrate Henry's safe return and it was not the only thing they had to celebrate. She had no doubt that rumours were flying around the court already. After all, they had talked quite freely over supper in front of two of Henry's musicians, the worst of gossips, but no official announcement about Catherine's pregnancy had been made, so this seemed to her a very appropriate occasion on which to make it.

She and Margaret summoned the royal chef from the kitchen to discuss what food might be served. Tomorrow would be Thursday, a flesh-day, so meat was permitted and Anton favoured venison. True, it had come almost to the end of its season but he knew of a carcass which had been correctly hung for twenty-one days and the haunch and the shoulder would both be delicious cooked slowly in red wine and served with a juniper sauce. Chicken, too, he thought. It was a pity that grapes were out of season since he liked to serve his roasted chicken stuffed with grapes. Still, it was the best time of year for lamb, now at its youngest and sweetest, so they would certainly spit-roast two or three depending on their size but, for this special occasion – and here Anton grinned broadly because he'd heard the gossip and already knew the reason for the celebration – he would be very happy to serve dressed peacock.

‘But you must not carry it to the table, my Lady,' he warned, wagging his finger dramatically, ‘the way the English ladies do.
Mais non!
It will weigh too much. It is much too ‘eavy for you now that you are, er,
enceinte
!'

‘Oh, Anton!' Catherine laughed, pretending to be scandalised. ‘You must not say that to anyone else. It is still a secret!'

‘No secrets from Anton,' he said, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Anton, ‘e knows everything! I myself will bring the peacock to the table.' He mimed the way he would present the peacock, bowing extravagantly to them both. ‘It will be beautiful, the most beautiful peacock you ‘ave ever seen! His ‘Ighness the King will marvel at the size and the colours of the tail feathers and it will taste –' here he paused to kiss the tips of his fingers in a Gallic gesture, ‘mmm … divine!'

They couldn't but approve Anton's suggested menu and, leaving them laughing at his antics, the chef went back to exercise his tyranny in the kitchen.

Henry and his small retinue had reached Wicstun, where they were to spend the last night of their pilgrimage before undertaking the final twenty miles of their journey back to York the next day. Henry retired early, soon after nightfall, so as to make best use of the morning light to get the journey under way. He wanted to reach York as soon as he could, if only to take Catherine in his arms again; Catherine, his queen, who carried the heir to his throne within her womb. He had prayed earnestly to St John of Bridlington that she should bear him a son. He knew the saint would not let him down.

The slightest sound in the night always had Henry reaching for his sword, on the defensive in an instant, and it seemed to him that he had only been asleep for a matter of minutes when there was a scuffling sound outside his door accompanied by muffled whispers. He leapt up.

‘What's going on?' he demanded, wrenching open the door. ‘What's all the noise?'

Outside, his guards were restraining a messenger wearing royal livery. The man's clothes were dishevelled and his boots were caked with mud.

‘Beg pardon, Your Highness,' muttered a guard. ‘Can't be too careful.'

‘Of course, of course. What is it?'

‘This man says he's got a message for you, Sire, from the Duke of Gloucester. Says he's got to give it to you personally. Says it can't wait ‘til morning. Messenger reckons he's been riding for near ten days to get here, what with havin' to find out where you were and everything.'

‘Where have you ridden from?' the King demanded as the messenger delved into a large leather scrip which was strapped around his neck and under his arm. Henry snatched the message from him.

‘From Windsor, Your Grace, an' I been ridin' since the first day of April. I came quick as I could. I must have wore out about eight ‘orses, I reckon …'

‘Alright, man, alright. Go now, go to the kitchen. One of the guards will show you where it is. Get something to eat and a night's rest. I'll see you're well paid in the morning for your trouble. Guard, go to it. Leave two men outside my door and bring more candles.'

Henry kicked the door closed as he tore at the royal seal on the letter. He felt a sudden throb of fear. With trembling hands he tried and failed to read the message in the dim glimmer of a rush lamp burning in a wall sconce near the fireplace.

The guard returned with two lighted wax candles which he placed on Henry's table. Bowing, he backed out of the room. Now Henry spread the letter on the table and arranged the candles so that he could read it.

A moment later, the guards outside his door heard a dreadful sound. It was neither a cry nor a shout. It could have been the yowling of a dog fox with its paw in a trap or the anguish of a soul in agony. It chilled their very bones to hear it. They looked uncertainly at one another.

‘Best fetch Bishop Alnwick,' said one. ‘Sounds like he's had bad news.'

William Alnwick found Henry slumped over his table, motionless, his head on his arms.

‘My Lord, what is it? The guard said it was bad news …'

Henry shuddered. ‘Thomas,' his voice was muffled against his sleeve. ‘My brother … Thomas …'

‘The Duke of Clarence?'

Henry raised his head and stared ashen-faced at Alnwick. ‘Dead,' he said. ‘The Duke of Clarence, yes. My brother, Thomas, yes. Dead. Dead since before Easter. And I never knew! Dead all the time I was in Leicester, dead all the time I was in Beverley, in Bridlington. I could at least have prayed for him if I had known. Dead all that time … and I never knew!'

‘How could you know? He's in France.'

‘Was in France,' Henry corrected him in a dull voice. ‘Was in France. Keeping the peace, looking after my interests. I should have known that the French wouldn't honour the truce. You can't trust them, I should have realised that. I should have brought Thomas home. He'd still be … oh, God, he'd still be …'