Root of the Tudor Rose (20 page)

‘The baby doesn't know that! Look, it's over three months since Henry died and over a month since the funeral. Why not just a quiet little celebration? Oh, come on, Catherine, it will do no harm. A small
fête d'anniversaire
in the afternoon, perhaps, with some of his little friends?'

‘He hasn't got any little friends.'

‘Well, we could ask the Countess of Westmorland to bring her young nephew the Duke of York. Then there's the Earl of Ormond's son, James, and little Thomas Roos.'

Catherine looked doubtful. ‘They're all a few years older than Henry,' she said.

‘No matter,' Jacqueline prattled on excitedly. ‘Henry needs a few playmates. Oh, and Catherine, we could ask Edmund Beaufort to come, too. He's always seemed very fond of little Henry. And his sister, Joan, needs to get used to children if she's to marry James of Scotland and give him an heir to the throne. She could do with the practice!'

Catherine scrambled to her feet, smiling. ‘Yes, let's do it!' Suddenly she looked forward to a small impromptu party the next day, with just a few other children and adults in the nursery. Jacqueline was right, it was important to celebrate Henry's first birthday, such a significant milestone in his young life.

Anton was summoned to the nursery be consulted about food for the occasion and suggested honey cakes and gingerbread for the children with savoury pasties for the adults, followed by date slices in spiced wine. It was only an informal little party and there wasn't time for elaborate preparations.

Before giving the baby over to the care of Joan Astley, Catherine asked her to find Elizabeth Ryman so that she could inform her of the plans for the following day. She expected disapproval, of course, but she didn't care. After all, she was the Queen and she was not going to be intimidated by the woman. Elizabeth Ryman did seem to disapprove of everything Catherine did in the nursery, an unconvincing sympathetic smile thinly disguising her contempt, though she dared not openly criticise the Queen.

Next, Catherine went in search of Les Trois Jo-jo, to enlist their help in getting invitations written and delivered. The problem was that so near the Sabbath, there weren't many staff on duty in the castle so Joanna Troutbeck was dispatched to search for messengers and Joanna Belknap was sent off to round up as many clerks and scribes as she could. Belknap returned with a scribe and two clerks and Troutbeck had found three messengers lounging around in the stables, playing a card game with some of the grooms. They all listened attentively as the Countess Jacqueline explained what needed to be done.

All, that is, except Owen Tudor, whose attention wandered as he looked about him. It was the first time he had ever been into any of the private apartments in Windsor Castle and he could hardly tear his eyes away from the sumptuous tapestries and paintings that hung on the walls. The floor was covered, not with rushes and strewing herbs but with a thick woollen carpet of an intricate pattern. It must have come from the East, he thought, perhaps brought back from the Crusades. It was beautiful.

‘So, that's the message. Have you all taken it down?' Jacqueline asked.

Owen hadn't but he dared not say so. He could copy it later from his friend Gilbert, with whom he shared a carrel and an ink horn in the library. He nodded along with the others and they were dismissed.

Just as they were leaving the room, Gilbert elbowed Owen in the ribs. ‘The Queen,' he hissed. They stood aside, bowing extravagantly from the waist, as Catherine came back into the room, her mouth set in a determined line after a mildly unpleasant encounter with Elizabeth Ryman.

Owen, his eyes averted, saw the passing swish of a long white gown and was aware of the faint perfume of lavender. He sneaked a look after she had passed but was rewarded with nothing more than the sight of the straight back of a slim young woman with fair hair coiled about her head. She wasn't as tall as Owen had imagined her but she certainly carried herself well, he thought. So that was Queen Catherine.

The Dukes of Gloucester and Bedford were enjoying the rare opportunity of spending an informal evening together in the Palace of Westminster, intending to pass the night there before travelling back to Windsor in daylight the next day.

For Gloucester, it was an opportunity to talk to his brother privately about his concerns regarding Catherine. For Bedford, home in England for the coming Christmas holiday, it was an opportunity to talk to Gloucester about his concerns regarding Philip of Burgundy; he was quite certain in his own mind that having Philip remain loyal to the English crown was of crucial importance in maintaining a peaceful relationship with France.

The two brothers had enjoyed an excellent supper and there was ample wine left in the decanter, glowing ruby red in the candle light. Humphrey held it poised above two goblets.

‘Will you join me?'

John nodded, smiling. His brother's well-known liking for Burgundy wine gave him a golden opportunity to introduce the subject he wanted to discuss.

‘You know, it would be a pity to have to give up drinking this excellent wine,' he said, reaching out to take the goblet Humphrey was offering him.

‘Why should we?'

‘Well, I'm deeply perturbed about Philip of Burgundy,' John said. ‘I understand that he turned down an invitation to join the Order of the Garter earlier this year.'

‘He did. Not many people would do that!'

‘Exactly,' said John, ‘it's rather an insult to the English sovereign to decline it. But, worse than that, he didn't come to London for Henry's funeral. It wouldn't have been much trouble for him. I thought that was very disloyal. He could have combined it with a visit to his new sovereign, our young nephew. I hope he's not beginning to think that loyalty to the Dauphin Charles is advantageous.'

‘Let's hope not. Did he give a reason for his absence?'

‘No, not that I'm aware of.'

‘He's certainly making life difficult for my poor Jacqueline,' said Humphrey. John stiffened. The thorny subject of Humphrey's relationship with Jacqueline had been introduced into the conversation rather earlier than he had intended.

‘In what way?'

‘Well, he absolutely refuses to entertain any suggestion that her marriage to that ugly little pansy the Duke of Brabant should be annulled.'

‘You can't expect him to, not with so much of his own inheritance at stake. But Burgundy's dangerous, Humphrey. And if you ever tried to marry Jacqueline, things could get very ugly indeed.'

‘Thanks for the warning, brother,' said Humphrey. ‘But I'll handle it my way. Relax. Don't worry.'

‘Just think before you do anything rash.' John was frowning. ‘Really, we do not want to annoy Philip of Burgundy. It could be disastrous for young Henry's future.'

‘Talking of which,' said Gloucester, eager to change the subject, ‘I wanted to talk to you about the Queen. Do you think she'll want to go back to France, now that Henry has died?'

‘Why should she?'

‘Isabelle did.'

‘Catherine's sister?' John raised his eyebrows and Humphrey nodded.

‘Well, she was a child bride if anyone was,' John said. ‘Can't have been more than seven when she was married to Richard and she was widowed at eleven, so there was nothing to keep her here. Catherine is twenty-one now and she has young Henry. She'll want to stay if only for his sake. She dotes on the child.'

‘But what if she wants to marry again?'

John wasn't surprised that Humphrey had broached the subject of Catherine's future but he thought it a little premature; she was still grieving piteously. He thought she'd be unlikely to rush into a second marriage.

‘No doubt she will in time,' he said, ‘but while we're still in mourning for Henry she is hardly likely to start behaving like an alley cat. Dear God, Humphrey, she is the Queen!'

‘Yes, but she's also a damned attractive widow. She won't grieve for ever. And I do remember Henry boasting that she was panting for him as soon as their bedroom door was closed. Rather more than was proper for a princess, he said. Like mother like daughter, no doubt. Queen Isabeau was the most aristocratic slut in Europe, according to some. A whore with a crown. Anyway, Henry said Catherine gave as good as she got and, knowing Henry, she probably got it rather often.'

‘Humphrey!' John was appalled. His brother was always inclined to talk smuttily in private but it was difficult to believe that he was talking about the young woman whom John had come to admire so much in the last dreadful months.

Humphrey had the bit between his teeth. ‘Well, think about it. She's young, she's healthy, and I have it on her own husband's own authority that she enjoys bed sports. She'll find it difficult to restrain herself. Could be disastrous if she takes an unsuitable lover.'

‘You don't know Catherine,' John said, remembering the nightmare journey through France to Calais with Henry's coffin. ‘I have spent a great deal of time in her company in recent months and I found her to be devoted to Henry while he was alive, as she is now devoted to his son. Be assured, Humphrey, she won't behave with any impropriety at all. It is the last thing I'd expect of her.'

Humphrey shrugged and poured himself more wine. ‘Time will tell,' he said. ‘Only time will tell.'

Anton's honey cakes had all but disappeared, the adults had made short work of his delicious little savoury pasties, and four wine jugs stood empty on the table. Catherine was holding the one-year-old King of France and England splay-legged on her left hip while she fed him a gingerbread man. He held on to the sweet biscuit with both hands, not eating it but staring wide-eyed at all the people who were milling around his normally quiet nursery, playing guessing games, talking and laughing. A small see-saw had been set up in the corner of the room for the very youngest children and a side table was covered with a chequered cloth for board games. Edmund Beaufort was demolishing his third helping of dates in spiced wine when Catherine sensed him at her elbow.

‘My Lady,' he said, ‘you were so wise to bring a royal chef back from France with you. These dates are sublime!'

Catherine smiled. ‘Good,' she said, ‘I'm glad you're enjoying them.' She had an idea that the sixteen-year-old had probably been at the wine jugs but at least he wasn't making an exhibition of himself; not yet. He was at that amusing stage of tipsiness quickly reached by young men who think that they can hold their drink.

‘Don't have any more of those spiced dates, Edmund,' she whispered, ‘or you'll have to explain yourself to your mother!'

‘She's not here,' Edmund whispered back dramatically, ‘and when the cat's away, the mice can play! The nice, spicy mice can eat as many dates as they like!'

Catherine smiled. ‘All right, my little mouse. But don't say I didn't warn you!'

Mouse? Her little mouse? Edmund flushed a dark red and he was aware of a pleasurable sensation in his loins. He remembered that, in his schoolroom, the very mention of the word ‘mouse' had set the other boys sniggering behind their hands. Perhaps Catherine was trying to hint at something. He felt very confused.

Edmund's mother, Margaret, had been invited to the party, of course, but wouldn't countenance such a thing on the Sabbath, though she was the only one who had declined the invitation. ‘It'll end in tears,' she predicted ominously. But everyone else had accepted with alacrity and now the crowded nursery was becoming overheated.

Jacqueline jumped up onto a bench and clapped her hands, calling for attention. ‘Come, everyone, we're going to play hide-and-seek. Now I want the adults to go and hide first. Then, after a count of ten, the children have to go and find them. Then we'll do it the other way round.'

‘Where can we hide?' called the Countess of Westmorland. ‘Anywhere?'

‘No, not just anywhere. Hiders must find hiding places here in the nursery or in the great hall or the inner ward but don't stay out there too long and get cold. And don't go near the kitchen, whatever you do, or you'll upset Anton! When you hear me ringing this bell, you must all come back here because it means that there will be some children who haven't found any grown-ups. Now, grown-ups – off you go to find a hiding place! I'm going to count down from ten before the seekers come to find you. Come on, children, help me to count. We're going backwards, remember! You'll need to concentrate!'

There was an undignified scramble as the adults ran off to find hiding places. Catherine stood watching them with an indulgent smile on her face and little Henry still saucer-eyed astride her hip.

‘Ten … nine … eight … Wait! Wait! Aren't you playing hide-and-seek, Catherine?' Jacqueline asked.

‘No. I must stay here with the King. He's too young to play!'

‘We'll look after the King, Ma'am,' said Joan Astley. ‘Why don't you go and enjoy yourself for once. I'll put him in his high cradle, where he can sit up and see everything that's going on.'

‘Yes, go on, Catherine,' said Jacqueline. ‘You go and hide. Go on. We'll start counting again. Ready children? Ten … nine … eight … seven …'

Catherine managed to squeeze herself into a narrow cupboard at the far end of the main hall, near the dais. It was where the domestic servants kept spare linen for the royal table and there was just enough room for someone as slim as Catherine to get inside. She crouched in the dark, feeling a little foolish, her heart thumping after the effort of getting away from her young pursuers before Jacqueline had reached ‘… three … two … one! Ready or not, they're coming!'

She heard someone approaching, an adult by the sound of the footsteps, rather than a child. Someone else looking for somewhere to hide. Bad luck, she thought, she had found this good hiding place first. The cupboard door opened and Edmund Beaufort was surprised to find the Dowager Queen of England doubled up and crouching inside it.