Root of the Tudor Rose (23 page)

Owen Tudor and Gilbert Wilkins were watching the display and joined in the enthusiastic applause as the Falconer finally hooded his birds. They were thoroughly enjoying themselves. On the dancing green, some young people were whirling around in an impromptu dance to the accompaniment of a pipe and tabor. Owen would like to have joined in and cursed the fact that he had left his crwth in the dormitory, but he applauded the minstrels and the dancers before he and Gilbert moved on towards the crowd gathered around the mummers' wagon.

‘Huh!' Owen said dismissively, stopping to watch from a few yards away. ‘The English don't know anything about dragons!'

‘That one looks a bit fierce from what I can see,' said Gilbert. ‘Except for its feet. I didn't know that dragons wore shoes, did you?'

Owen wasn't listening. ‘I should write a mummers' play about the Welsh dragon,' he mused. ‘I should write about the way the red dragon of Wales killed the white dragon of the Saxons and the ancient prophecy which says that he still sleeps under Dinas Emrys, waiting for the call to slay the English. And when the call comes and that battle is won, a Welshman will sit upon the throne of England.'

‘A Welshman on the throne of England?' Gilbert snorted his derision. ‘Pigs might fly, my friend! Mind you, the Welsh enjoy a bit of fisticuffs, from what I've heard.'

‘Not unless we're roused. We're very peaceable in the main. We'd rather be writing poetry than fighting.'

‘Then why do you do it?'

‘I told you. We only react when other people attack us.'

‘People like us English, you mean?'

‘No, not you personally, Gilbert. You're a very peaceful soul. I'm talking about greedy English landowners who aren't satisfied with what they've got and covet what rightly belongs to us. They lie to us, too. We have to protect ourselves.'

‘Surely an Englishman wouldn't lie?'

Owen gave his friend an incredulous look. ‘What? You think an Englishman wouldn't lie? Well, you ask my cousin Maredydd about his father's neighbour, Baron Reginald Grey, the sly bastard! He was the biggest liar of all. He was asked to pass on a message from the King, asking Maredydd's father to fight with the King's army in Scotland. Henry IV that was, of course, when he came to the throne –'

‘But Maredydd's father was Welsh,' Gilbert interrupted. ‘Would he have fought for the English King?'

‘Owain Glyndŵr? Yes, of course he would, in a just cause. He was a very fair-minded man; a lawyer, trained in London at the Inns of Court. But Grey withheld the information, so the message never reached him. And then Glyndŵr was accused of treason! That's when all the bad blood and resentment led to the insurrection: it was like bursting a boil.'

‘Resentment?' asked Gilbert. ‘Why?'

‘Because the English have been aggressive towards us for centuries, trying to get the upper hand, insulting us, attacking us, and passing laws to deprive us of our rights. And we've never regained those rights, either.'

Gilbert picked his teeth thoughtfully with a sliver of wood. Owen was a good friend but a bit misguided. A Welshman on the throne of England? A
Welshman
? Never! He hadn't given very much thought to the relationship between England and Wales until he met this fiery Welshman who seemed to care about it with such passion. The Scots could be awkward, too, from what he'd heard. He was rather glad that he was English and didn't have to prove anything – except superiority to the French, of course.

The mummers' play came to an end and, grinning broadly, the players walked hand in hand to the front of their wagon to acknowledge the applause of the crowd. St George posed in triumph with his foot on the neck of the dragon which lay prone at his feet, two pairs of green shoes sticking out from under it. The mummers bowed low to the young King, the Queen, and the other members of the royal party.

As she applauded the performance, a sudden thought struck Catherine and made her laugh out loud. Queen Isabeau would surely love to have a dragon as a pet. From what she'd heard recently, her mother had now added a leopard and a monkey to her collection of exotic animals which already included a positive menagerie of dogs, cats, and birds. Catherine had a mental picture of her mother leading a big green woolly dragon around the gardens at St Pol. She wouldn't need St George to protect her from the beast, it certainly wouldn't have the temerity to eat Isabeau!

Rising from her seat and handing young Henry to Joan Astley to be carried, she inclined her head to the mummers, smiled, and raised her hand in acknowledgement of their entertainment before beginning the short walk back to the castle with her ladies. Standing to one side as the Queen came towards them, Owen and Gilbert bowed low.

‘Good afternoon, Your Highness,' said Owen as they straightened up again. The Queen looked in his direction and her face lit up with pleasure.

‘Good afternoon, Master Tudor,' she said. ‘I trust you are well?'

‘Indeed, Ma'am, thank you.'

Gilbert stared at Owen, open-mouthed in astonishment. The Queen knew him by name!

Chapter Thirteen

England, Summer 1423

In Catherine's later memories of that summer in Windsor, the golden days stretched out behind her, long and lovely, each one bringing her new strength to face her life as a widow. When she wasn't with the baby, she was rediscovering the pleasures of music, playing her harp and learning new songs. The songs were sadder now, songs of yearning, of love and loneliness and she sang them with feeling, remembering how she and Henry had found such pleasure in singing together.

Now the remaining Henry in her life was growing to be a happy, healthy child, curious about the world around him and learning new lessons every day. Earlier in the year, the Council had appointed Richard Beauchamp, the highly respected Earl of Warwick, to be the young King's guardian with particular responsibility for his education. Catherine felt quite happy about this but, remembering John of Bedford's advice, she spent as much time with her little boy as she possibly could, taking great delight in looking after him, feeding him, playing with him, teaching him, and watching him grow. The King was eighteen months old now and, as long as he held onto his mother's hand, he could walk quite well.

Edmund Beaufort watched the two of them for a long time. They were on their own, unattended by either guards or nursemaids. Mother and toddler walked slowly hand-in-hand in the sunshine, safe in the inner ward of the castle, she anxiously watching in case he should fall, he trying his baby best to walk like an adult and looking to her for approval. Edmund's heart was close to melting. He had never quite got over the gawky embarrassment of the episode with the Queen in the cupboard six months ago, on the occasion of the King's first birthday. He still flushed a dull red when he remembered it but nothing had ever been said since. The trouble was that what he had blurted out at that time was the truth. He might be five years her junior but he was not a child and he had some very un-childlike feelings towards his sovereign lady.

Catherine caught sight of him. ‘Edmund!' she called. ‘You're back from France. How lovely to see you. Come, let's find somewhere to sit in the shade and talk. You seem to have been gone a long time.'

‘Just eight weeks or so, Your Highness. We arrived back in Windsor quite late last night. It's good to see you again. You're looking well.'

‘I am, thank you. And look at the King! See how well he walks! Hasn't he grown since you last saw him?' She bent down to pick up the baby and swung him up astride her hip. ‘We've run away from his nurses, Edmund. We don't have time on our own very often, do we, Henry?' The child was sucking his thumb and regarding Edmund solemnly as he and the Queen settled themselves on a sunlit bench against the wall. ‘Now tell me, Edmund,' she said, ‘what news of the Duke of Bedford and his new Duchess?'

Edmund, with his sister Joan and their mother, had been in Paris to attend the wedding of John of Bedford to Anne of Burgundy, a hastily arranged affair but an alliance which seemed to have placated the bride's brother. There was no more talk of the challenge to a duel with Humphrey and everyone breathed a little more easily.

‘The Duke and Duchess are well, my Lady, and everyone was delighted at the marriage,' said Edmund. ‘My mother remarked that she had never seen so many smiling faces in one place.'

‘When was the wedding?'

‘On the thirteenth of May at Troyes, in the church of St Jean-au-Marché.

Catherine smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I'm so pleased. That is where Henry's father and I were married almost exactly three years before them. I do hope they'll be happy. I'm sure they will; Anne is delightful and I've become very fond of John since he's been my brother-in-law.'

‘Ah, that reminds me. I almost forgot. The Duke particularly wanted to be remembered to you, Your Highness, and he asked me to tell you that you were right. Just that. He didn't say what you were right about but he asked me to be sure to tell you. I'm glad I remembered.'

‘I'm glad you remembered, too,' said Catherine. She knew what John meant, that he had found his new bride to be an amusing, witty, and pleasant companion, just as Catherine had described her. She sincerely hoped they would be very happy.

It seemed to be the season for weddings. In early September, the Duchess of Clarence was telling Catherine delightedly about the plans for the wedding of her daughter, Joan.

‘And since she is to become Queen of Scotland, she will have the finest wedding money can buy,' said Margaret emphatically. ‘Her uncle Henry Beaufort will pay for it. And willingly.'

‘Well, he can certainly afford it and he does seem to be fond of them both.'

‘I've asked him to conduct the ceremony as well,' said Margaret. ‘I trust we will be graced with your presence among the guests?'

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. After all, I was instrumental in getting the King's agreement to the match.'

Margaret smiled at her. ‘They are both very grateful to you, my dear. In fact, the whole family is delighted that you were able to help.'

‘Believe me, my Lady, it was a pleasure. A very great pleasure indeed,' said Catherine, recalling the night of her coronation and hiding a rueful smile.

Then towards the end of October, the Earl of Warwick requested an audience with her. She liked Richard Beauchamp; his wife, Elizabeth, had died not long after Catherine herself was widowed and she had always felt that his sympathy and condolences were very genuine. Today, his face was wreathed in smiles as he bent to kiss her hand.

‘Your Highness,' he greeted her, ‘I wanted you to be among the first to know of my great good fortune. I am to be married again!'

‘Married? Then I am delighted for you, my Lord!' She was quite surprised at the news since she hadn't heard the castle gossip about the determined widow who had made a beeline for the good-natured Earl the moment he was out of mourning for his late wife. ‘Who is the lady who will have the privilege of becoming the new Countess of Warwick?'

‘The Lady Isabella, the widow of my cousin, the Earl of Worcester, Ma'am. She's a fine woman, a very fine woman. I'm greatly honoured that she has agreed to be my wife.'

‘Indeed. And I've no doubt that she, too, appreciates the honour that you have done her in asking for her hand in marriage.'

‘Well, we aren't in the first flush of youth, my Lady,' said the Earl who was still just on the right side of forty. ‘At our age, companionship is just as important as any other feelings we might have for each other. That and, of course, the consolidation of our lands and properties.'

Catherine nodded. ‘Of course. Does she bring a large dowry?'

‘Property, Ma'am,' said the Earl, matter-of-factly. ‘A considerable amount of land in the West of England as well as the lordship of Glamorgan which is, of course, a very large area.'

‘Indeed? And where is that?'

‘In Wales, my Lady, in the south of that country, along the coast.'

‘Ah. And is that anywhere near Monmouth, where my late husband was born?'

‘Not far, Ma'am, no, not far at all. It's a pleasant four or five days' ride from Monmouth Castle. But you must remember that you, too, have property in Wales. It was part of your dower settlement.' The Earl, a member of the Council, was quite familiar with the provisions which had been made for Catherine. ‘You have your dower palaces and manor houses of course,' he went on, ‘but you also have dower lands in Anglesey and Flintshire as well as in Leicester and Knaresborough.'

‘I know Leicester, of course, but the others? Are those in Wales?'

‘Not Knaresborough, Ma'am. That's in Yorkshire, not too far from York, which you are already familiar with. But Flintshire is in the north of Wales, on the English border and Anglesey is a large island just off the North Wales coast.'

‘You'll pardon a Frenchwoman's lack of knowledge, my Lord. This is still something of a foreign country to me.'

‘Of course, Ma'am, perfectly understandable. But you should travel to see these places and familiarise yourself with them. After all, they are yours and they are fully staffed, ready and waiting for your visit.'

‘Yes, of course. I should. Perhaps next spring, when the weather improves.'

Joan Astley was dressing His Highness the King for the State Opening of Parliament. He had quite a vocabulary of words by now, though to Catherine's great disappointment the first word he ever said was ‘Joanie'. Now the King was yelling ‘No, no, no!' at the top of his voice as Joan tried to button him into a crimson velvet gown. Having succeeded, she turned her attention to the little cap he was to wear on his head. The ingenious design incorporated a miniature crown in its turned-up brim. ‘Who is Joanie's little kinglet, then?' she whispered in his ear as she contrived to give him one last small hug without creasing the crimson velvet.