Root of the Tudor Rose (12 page)

‘What happened, my Lord?'

Henry held out the letter and, in silence, Bishop Alnwick read the brief message. It begged to inform His Highness that his brother Thomas, Duke of Clarence, had been killed in battle on the twenty-second day of March, having bravely sought out and attacked a Franco-Scottish force at Baujé in Anjou. The English force had been heavily outnumbered and the battle was lost. The message ended with a request that Her Grace, the Duchess of Clarence, should be informed of her husband's death.

‘How am I to tell her?' Henry whispered. ‘What can I say?'

Bishop Alnwick paused for a long moment. ‘Perhaps I should tell her,' he said. ‘It will not be easy but I'll do what I can.' He crossed himself slowly. ‘The Duchess is a deeply pious woman. She will understand that it is God's will.'

Anton was supervising the roasting of lambs. The kitchen at York was not laid out to his liking but he was so genuinely delighted at the good fortune of his royal mistress that he would put up with a few inconveniences, just to help her celebrate the announcement of her pregnancy in style.

He himself was dressing the peacock, stepping back every now and then to judge the effect of his artistry. He needed to adjust … those two tail feathers just … so! He stepped back again, onto the foot of someone standing just behind him.

‘
Quel crétin
! Get out of my way, you stupid …' Anton stopped and turned around. ‘Oh, Sir Walter! I'm so sorry. I thought you were one of the scullions, they are always getting under my feet …' His voice trailed off as he saw the look on the face of Sir Walter Hungerford. ‘What ‘as ‘appened?'

‘Something dreadful. Dreadful. The King has not returned. He has ridden on to Pontefract. But Bishop Alnwick has returned and has brought the gravest news. I come to tell you that there will be no celebration today, no feasting. The King's brother, the Duke of Clarence, has been killed in battle in Anjou.'

‘
Mon Dieu
!'

‘Bishop Alnwick is with the Lady Margaret now. At the moment, food is the last thing the royal ladies want to think about, though the rest of the household has to eat, of course, so not everything will be wasted. Perhaps you could use up the lambs at least. I'm sorry. I know you've been to a great deal of trouble.'

Sir Walter turned and left the kitchen. Anton crossed himself and sighed. Then he looked around him at the huge quantity of food which had already been prepared and was ready to be served; breads, salads, vegetables, sauces and purées, fruits in spiced wine, jellies, flans, and cheeses. The long trestle tables pushed against two walls of the room groaned with the weight of it.

Anton opened the kitchen door. There was the usual raggedy gaggle of beggars outside, waiting for the used trenchers and whatever food was left over from the table. Anton stood to one side to let them in to the kitchen.

‘
Entrez, mes amis
,' he invited them. ‘Tonight, you shall eat like kings.'

Chapter Seven

Windsor Castle, England, Summer 1421

These were bleak days for the King, bleak and despairing. He spent hours closeted with his advisers, discussing at length the best tactics for retaliation. Then when his advisers had left he would sit with his two remaining brothers, John and Humphrey, until well into the night, plotting retribution. His main worry was getting together sufficient money to raise an army. The royal coffers were all but empty and Parliament had refused to impose yet more taxes, forcing Henry to spend weeks begging and borrowing from anyone who would lend to him, promising to pay back with interest as soon as he had France obediently under English rule.

Neither John of Bedford nor Humphrey of Gloucester was in any position to lend money but they had always been supportive. Henry watched them now, as they sat opposite him with ledgers, scraps of parchment, and ink horns spread out before them on the table, frowning in the candlelight as they discussed how an army of sufficient size might be raised. They hadn't changed very much since they were small boys, he reflected. They might have been back in the school room, John with his round, earnest face and handsome Humphrey, absently pulling at a lock of his russet-brown hair and looking on while John crossed out yet another column of figures. But there was one person missing; Thomas should have been there, too.

Henry was not a man who readily admitted to feelings of affection but, as the first-born, he had always been fiercely protective of his younger siblings, raising his fists to fight their childish battles, hiding their little misdemeanours from their parents. In later years, on the battlefield at Agincourt, he had saved Humphrey's life, defending his badly wounded brother by standing astride him as he lay helpless on the ground and protecting him until he could be dragged away to safety. Humphrey had survived, with nothing more to show for his injured leg than an occasional limp. But Thomas was dead and there was nothing Henry could have done to save him. In his private moments, he was almost deranged with grief. He wanted to kill whoever had delivered the mortal wound. He wanted that more than anything. The King had never been a man to turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was his belief.

Henry wanted revenge.

‘You know,' said John with a frown of concentration, his quill pen poised in mid-air, ‘if we add Uncle Henry Beaufort's monies to what we have here, there should be sufficient to pull together a decent number of men and horses and equipment.'

‘And keep them in France for as long as it takes to quell the French?' asked Humphrey. ‘How much has he given?'

‘Seventeen thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, three shillings, and fourpence,' said Henry promptly. ‘And it was readily offered. I'll have to pay him back, of course.'

‘And with interest,' John added. ‘It's true he's a man of God but he's certainly familiar with Mammon.'

‘I don't much care how he regards his wealth,' said Henry, ‘as long as he's prepared to lend it to us when we need it. And I'll worry about paying him back when I've brought those French bastards to heel.'

‘Then our problems are solved,' said Humphrey. ‘We go to France.'

‘In the meantime,' John said, gathering his writing materials together, ‘we go to bed. Come, it's late and the candle burns low.'

‘There's little to tempt me to bed,' said Humphrey. ‘Henry has the most beautiful woman at court to grace his pillow, even if she is with child. But my bed's a cold and lonely place. So, I'll have another goblet of wine.'

‘I thought your bed was being warmed by that young, er … what was her name?' John started saying but Henry cut across him.

‘Ah! I knew there was something I had to tell you both. Talking of beautiful women … I'd almost forgotten. I have received a message from Calais to request permission for the Countess Jacqueline of Holland to visit England. It seems she has run away from her husband.'

Humphrey raised his eyebrows. ‘John of Brabant? I'm not surprised, if what I've heard is true. Looks like a rat.'

‘Rotten teeth, too,' said Henry. ‘They say his breath stinks!'

‘How very unpleasant,' said John, curling his lip in distain, ‘particularly since she seems such a charming woman, if a little too vivacious for my taste. But I confess to having been quite taken with her at your wedding to Catherine.'

‘So, tell me, Henry,' said Humphrey, ‘have you invited the Countess to come to court?'

‘Indeed I have. She's Catherine's kinswoman, of course, so she'll be company for her while I'm in France.'

Humphrey drained his goblet. ‘Do they know each other well?' he asked, reaching for the decanter.

‘Oh, yes, I think so. And of course, when she was a lot younger, the Countess Jacqueline was married for some years to Catherine's brother, John. Before he died, that is.'

‘Yes, I'd forgotten that,' said John. ‘And has she any money to add to your army funds?'

‘I imagine not. Not if she's run away from her husband. No doubt she'll be destitute, near enough. So I have arranged a small payment for her each month while she remains here as Catherine's companion. She arrives from Calais sometime next week. Would one of you be prepared to meet her at Dover?'

‘I think I should be the one to do that,' said Humphrey. ‘If nothing else, I should do it officially in my capacity as Warden of the Cinque Ports. I shall travel to Dover at the end of the week with a deputation to welcome her.' He poured himself a generous measure of wine. ‘So, let's drink to the prospect of another attractive woman at court. I've used up all the available ones under the age of forty!' He raised his glass to his brothers with a lewd laugh.

Now that there was to be an heir to his throne, there were some things that must be done before the King left for France. Henry would leave nothing to chance. He singled out the sour-faced Elizabeth Ryman, one of the older ladies of the court, and asked her to be wholly responsible for the physical welfare of his unborn child from the moment of birth. She would be given a small band of dedicated nurses to assist her and the gift of a sizeable manorial estate in recognition of her services to the Crown.

Catherine was mortified by this decision and, a few nights later, found the courage to confront her husband as they prepared for bed. She had learned that, if she wanted a favour of any kind, the bedchamber was the place to ask it.

‘My Lord,' she began pleasantly enough, ‘there is really no need for Mistress Ryman to concern herself with the baby, you know. That will be my duty. Indeed, that will be my pleasure. So, Henry, for my sake, please tell Mistress Ryman that her services will not be needed.'

Henry regarded her with a flinty expression on his face. ‘Catherine, I will not have my judgement questioned. This is my wish and my decision stands. Mistress Ryman will assume her duties the moment my son is born. Oh, and Catherine, you will arrange to be in Westminster for the birth.'

‘In Westminster? By why, my Lord? I am very happy here in Windsor and …'

‘It is my particular wish, Catherine. My son will be born in the Palace of Westminster and he will immediately be placed in the care of Mistress Elizabeth Ryman. He will be the heir to the throne of England and his wellbeing is of paramount importance. It is imperative that he is given constant attention of the highest standard. My Lady, you will see to it that my wishes are observed.'

She bit her lip and said nothing as he turned aside to sleep but she lay awake in the darkness for a long time, trying very hard not to feel hurt. It was bad enough that her husband was planning to invade her native country yet again, to kill her countrymen, without the fact that she had the bleak prospect of remaining in England alone. She had no real friends here, apart from Margaret, and Margaret could sometimes be quite distant since her husband's death. Sleep evaded Catherine, nor did she particularly want to sleep. She'd had a vivid, frightening dream recently and could only pray that her childhood nightmares would not start plaguing her again.

As she awaited the birth of her baby, Catherine was surrounded by people who were preoccupied with their own concerns. Henry was entirely engrossed in planning the invasion of France and Margaret spent most of her time kneeling at the
prie-dieu
in her private solar, praying for the eternal rest of her dead husband, not wanting to talk to anyone.

So Catherine sewed and embroidered or practised playing her harp but did none of these things with much enthusiasm. Or else she would pick up a book, having become particularly fond of the tales of Geoffrey Chaucer, now that her command of English had improved so much. She was totally absorbed in
The Parliament of Fowls
when she felt the baby kick in her belly for the first time. Excited but alarmed she dropped the book and rushed to find Margaret.

Rising from her prie-dieu and kissing her rosary, the Duchess embraced her sister-in-law. Then she stepped back and regarded her with sad, lack-lustre eyes. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,' was all she said, crossing herself.

Catherine found herself spending more and more time with Guillemote. As old friends, they spoke French comfortably together and Guillemote, having lived through so many of her mother's pregnancies, was surprisingly informative about the process of having babies. She managed to allay some of Catherine's fears about the pain she could expect to endure but still, in her heart of hearts, Catherine felt very apprehensive. Women died in childbirth. It was a fact.

The King was so busy that it was several days before he remembered to tell Catherine that her cousin, the Countess Jacqueline, was expected at court. Catherine was overjoyed at the news but, despite her excited questioning, Henry could tell her little beyond the fact that his brother Humphrey had elected to meet Jacqueline at Dover and, no, he had no idea about what arrangements had been made for the visit or how long she would be staying. Nevertheless, Catherine hugged herself with delight. Here, at last, was the friend she had despaired of finding in England. The prospect of having Jacqueline at court meant that life promised to take on a new and thoroughly enjoyable dimension. There would be so much to catch up on, so much to talk about, that she could hardly wait for her cousin to arrive. They hadn't seen each other since the wedding at Troyes and they hadn't had a chance to talk very much even then. Catherine hadn't met Jacqueline's new husband either, though she had been concerned to hear that the Duke of Brabant was a thoroughly unpleasant man.

She would love to have travelled to meet her high-spirited cousin but, though she was no longer troubled by morning sickness, her pregnancy made her disinclined to leave the comfort of Windsor. Travel made her queasy at the best of times, now she avoided it at all costs. She was pleased to think that Jacqueline would be escorted safely to Windsor, even though her escort would be Humphrey of Gloucester. Try as she might, Catherine couldn't quite bring herself to trust her husband's brother.