Root of the Tudor Rose (26 page)

Unaware of this, Catherine asked for several of her formal gowns to be brought to Windsor from the Great Wardrobe near St Paul's where they were normally stored so that she could decide what to wear. Owen made sure that these were delivered promptly and displayed neatly for the Queen's inspection but Guillemote had kept the new clothes to one side with some idea of producing them at the right moment, as though in a jongleur's conjuring trick.

Finding it difficult to make a decision, Catherine finally picked up the white embroidered silk she had worn for her coronation and held it against herself. ‘This will do quite well for the wedding, won't it? It's hardly worn.' She looked at Guillemote. ‘What do you think?' she asked. ‘Shall I wear this?'

‘It might need a little alteration here and there, my Lady. Your coronation was three years ago and you've had a child since then. You've probably put on a little weight. Besides, white always makes you look pale.'

‘Then I've nothing to wear!' wailed Catherine. ‘There's nothing else I like half as much. Guillemote, what am I to do? Is there time to have this altered?'

‘Wait, my Lady, wait. I have a little surprise for you!' Excitedly, Guillemote disappeared into the room next to the garderobe where the conspirators were waiting. She almost snatched the new gown out of Madge Wilkin's hands and took it to show to Catherine.

‘Ma'am, I think you might like this,' she said, curtseying.

Owen ached to see Catherine's face. He hadn't realised how much he wanted to please her until this moment. Then he heard a great shriek of joy.

‘Oh, Guillemote! It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen! Look at this silk! It's exactly the right colour. And the cloth of gold panels in the skirt … that looks so lovely. Who made it? Give it to me. Let me try it on. Oh, I do hope it fits!'

‘Molly and Madge made it, my Lady, and I promise you it will fit because they took their pattern from a gown you were wearing only last week.'

‘But the colour, Guillemote! It's wonderful. Who found this beautiful silk?'

‘Ah, that was the new Clerk of the Wardrobe, Ma'am. Master Tudor.'

‘Master Tudor?' Catherine paused, her eyebrows raised, blushing with pleasure. ‘But how did he know what to buy?'

‘He made it his business to know, Ma'am. He was anxious to please you.'

‘He has pleased me very much,' said Catherine, holding the gown to her cheek. ‘Very much indeed. I am delighted.'

Listening in the next room, Owen turned away from the two jubilant seamstresses to hide the extent of his own elation.

‘Yes,' he whispered to himself, clenching his fists. ‘Yes, oh yes, oh yes!'

Catherine turned several heads as she arrived at church for the wedding of King James of Scotland to Joan Beaufort. The bride's mother looked up in surprise from the paternoster beads which she had been fingering nervously and the Duchess Jacqueline's eyebrows almost reached her hairline at the sight of Catherine. Duke Humphrey stared at her for rather longer than was polite. Catherine merely inclined her head towards the high altar, crossed herself, and muttered a silent prayer. Then all eyes turned towards the side door of the church as the bride entered, looking very nervous and pale on the arm of her brother, Edmund.

The ceremony was conducted by Bishop Henry Beaufort, beaming with avuncular pride as the bridal couple made their vows. Naturally the wedding feast was held in the great hall of the palace of Winchester, the Bishop's London home in Southwark but one of Catherine's many gifts to the bridal couple was a second celebration a few days later, this time in the King's name, at the palace of Westminster. The royal chef, Anton, rose to the occasion and had been at his most imaginative and extravagant. The seventy guests feasted on beef, mutton, capons, chickens, boars' heads, and waterfowl, beautifully presented and accompanied by a plentiful supply of the finest wines of France. Minstrels and jongleurs played and danced for the guests while jesters took turns at amusing them with sly stories of innocent brides and inexperienced bridegrooms.

The royal dais remained undisturbed when the floor was cleared for dancing but other tables and benches were pushed against the walls. The King and new Queen of Scotland, hand in hand, led the guests on to the floor as the minstrels in the gallery struck the first chords of the Pavane, the simple processional dance which could involve every single guest.

Catherine took the opportunity to slip away to the nursery where the King had been having a late afternoon nap. He smiled sleepily at her and she kissed the soft fair hair on top of his head. Now she watched as Joan Astley fed him and dressed him again in his best crimson velvet and set on his head the little crimson cap which incorporated a small crown. After carrying him down the long corridor, Joan then set him down on his feet for Catherine to lead him into the great hall. He was walking very confidently now, but still wanted her to hold his hand.

The floor was crowded with dancers when a bugler's fanfare from the minstrels' gallery brought the proceedings to an abrupt halt. The little King entered the room with his mother to a burst of affectionate applause as the dancers stood to one side to allow them to pass. The bride dropped a deep curtsey to Henry, the groom bowed low, and the other dancers followed their example.

Catherine led Henry to the centre of the dais where a very distinctive chair had been set out for him. Fashioned like a small throne with a restraint across the front of it for safety, it was high, substantially higher than any other chair in the room, ensuring that the supreme monarch, though not yet three years old, would sit head and shoulders above all the wedding guests. Catherine couldn't quite reach it so she accepted the Earl of Warwick's offer to lift the child into the chair, watching anxiously in case her son, wriggling and kicking in protest, should give the Earl another black eye.

Some of the more senior palace servants, including Owen and Gilbert, had been invited to join the dancing, and Owen stared about him at the enormous display of wealth in the room. Here were kings, queens, princes, princesses, dukes, and duchesses, all trying to outdo each other in their finery. Now that the short February afternoon was drawing to a close and lighted candles were being brought into the room, there was a sparkle everywhere, in jewellery, in candlelight, and in the wine. Owen took two large goblets from a trestle table behind him and offered one to Gilbert.

‘Drink a toast, my friend,' he said loudly over the music. ‘You won't see a sight like this too often in your lifetime.'

Gilbert nodded. ‘Impressive, isn't it?' he agreed. ‘All that jewellery. All those fine clothes. Mind you, I think you have the most interesting shoes.'

‘Why do you always notice people's shoes?'

‘Well, yours are about the longest and most pointed in the whole room. How on earth do you avoid people treading on them?'

‘With great difficulty,' said Owen, grimacing. He was already beginning to regret having worn his fashionable new shoes for the occasion. Never mind, he wasn't going to go and change them now. He'd just have to be careful.

Sitting on the royal dais, Edmund Beaufort had drunk at least half a jugful of wine. Now he sat with his hand cupping his chin, staring morosely at Catherine as she moved among the wedding guests. Edmund had never seen her looking so beautiful. Her hair and skin against that sage green were so very lovely and it did seem to bring out the startling colour of her eyes. He despaired of ever becoming close to her. He had dreamed about her several times recently and awakened with a start, sweating and wet. He blushed silently.

Humphrey of Gloucester was watching him. Ah, so that was the lie of the land, was it? The Beaufort boy was staring at Catherine like a love-sick calf and not caring who saw him. No wonder. That burgundy wine was strong enough to fell a grown man, let alone an inexperienced boy of seventeen who hadn't even developed a proper beard. What Catherine needed, thought Humphrey, was an older man to pleasure her, a man of the world. It wasn't difficult to imagine how she would look if she took off that green and gold gown but how welcoming she would be to a lover? What would she be prepared to do to please a man? Really, he thought, it was all most unfortunate. He could have had Catherine for himself except that when he'd first lusted after her she had been married to his brother, and now that she was a widow and free to re-marry, he was saddled with a wife of his own. He cast a sidelong glance at Jacqueline. Full of concern for the coming baby, she wasn't exactly ardent towards him these days – so she could hardly chastise him for his thoughts and he was a red-blooded man, after all. Could that explain why he found Catherine so alluring today? Or could it be that she really was attracted to Edmund Beaufort and wanted to attract him to her in return? Surely not. Still, Humphrey felt he should keep an eye on the situation.

The King was safely restrained in his high throne, the object of much cooing and calling from the peers and peeresses of the realm who crowded around him, vying for his attention. So Catherine had left him in the care of the Earl of Warwick and gone to sit on a low bench with some of her ladies, well below the royal dais. Several of the wedding guests had relaxed their customary formality and were mingling with the more senior members of the household.

The liberal provision of wine meant that, little by little, the palace staff lost some of their inhibitions and began to enjoy the dancing. Amid much laughter and merriment, Owen and Gilbert found that they danced exceptionally well with the seamstresses Molly and Madge, except that Madge kept treading on the pointed toes of Owen's shoes. It didn't seem to matter. Well not, that was, until they came to the Galliard.

Owen loved to dance the Galliard. Most of the other dancers moved away once they recognised the first few notes, knowing that it was a dance best performed by the more experienced among them. Against the rhythm of a triple beat, the pattern of steps included five athletic leaps into the air for the male dancers, who would attempt to jump as high as they could, each time changing the way they landed back on their feet.

Standing with Molly and Madge, Gilbert watched from the sidelines. He certainly wasn't going to attempt a dance like that, even though both women were urging him to. ‘Go on, Gilbert. You can do it. If Owen can, then surely you can!'

Owen was enjoying himself. By now, many of the other dancers were standing to one side and watching him, clapping to the rhythm of the music.

So nearly all eyes were on him when he fell.

Gilbert had been right. Owen had tripped himself up over the ridiculously long pointed toes of his shoes. He tried to save himself but failed utterly and hit the floor with a painful thud in front of the bench where the Queen sat. Her ladies screeched in horror, jumping to their feet. The music stopped as everyone turned, aware of an accident, to see what had happened.

What they saw was Owen lying full length on the floor with his head in the Queen's lap.

He remained lying there for a long moment, looking up at her: in this light her eyes were the colour of Ogwen Valley slate. Aware that he was staring at her, Catherine feigned a little scream and her hands flew to her neck in a gesture of horror but her overwhelming feeling was that his face was just as pleasing when viewed upside down.

In trying to break his fall, Owen had twisted his wrist quite painfully and when he'd got to his feet and bowed apologetically to the Queen, he allowed himself to be led away by Molly Betts who said she had a small supply of precious mandrake root made up into an ointment. She applied it skilfully to Owen's wrist, chattering as she did so.

‘Her Highness didn't seem to mind very much, did she? You could swear she liked having your head in her lap like that.'

‘Oh, I don't think so, Molly.'

‘But you're wrong, Owen. She could have made much more of a fuss than she did. She could have had you put in the stocks for making such an exhibition of yourself.'

‘Molly, I was not making an exhibition … I was … I was merely dancing.'

‘Hmm,' said Molly, giving him a quizzical look.

In the Great Hall, dancing had begun again after the diversion of Owen's fall but the Countess of Westmorland was so scandalised that she felt she had to say something to the Queen. ‘Your Highness, that coarse fellow took advantage of your good nature. You should have had him thrown out of the room.'

‘Oh, I don't think so,' said Catherine mildly. ‘It was merely an accident. Master Tudor wasn't trying to hurt me in any way. Besides, I wouldn't want to make a scene and spoil the day for the bride and groom.'

‘But Ma'am, he is a servant!'

‘I am aware of that, my dear Countess. But even servants have accidents. They can't always be blamed for it.'

‘Ma'am, you cannot allow yourself to show favour to a man like that. You are the Queen. Of course, you are French and perhaps you don't quite understand. So let me explain. You see, not only is he a mere servant but … but …'

‘But what?'

‘He isn't English.'

‘Neither am I.'

‘But Ma'am, he's … he's …' the Countess could scarcely bring herself to say the word, ‘he … he's
Welsh
.'

‘Indeed he is.' Catherine paused then rose from the low bench where she had been sitting and turned to face the Countess. ‘So, let me understand you clearly,
Madame
. I must not forgive the fact that this poor man had an accident because he is Welsh. Is that it? Or because he's a servant? Or because he's a Welsh servant?'

‘Your Highness, please let me explain, I beg you. You are probably not aware … but the … the Welsh are not like us. They are rough, barbarous people, barely on the edge of polite society. We English have been forced to build strong castles, at great expense, to subdue them. And they speak the most outlandish tongue that no decent person could possibly understand. Your own husband, the late King, was constantly troubled by them. Really, I wonder you tolerate having one of them in your household!'