Root of the Tudor Rose (28 page)

She felt more uneasy than usual about Humphrey. He had not once sent a message to enquire about Jacqueline during the whole time she had been in childbed and now it was as though he was enquiring after the health of someone he barely knew. ‘Come, my Lady,' he said, ‘why don't you join us for a little while? You must be tired. The music will soothe you. Look, we have some marchpane and we can call for more wine.'

‘Thank you, no.' Catherine felt physically sick at the thought of marchpane and was barely able to trust herself to speak. ‘I must … I must … get back.'

He bowed again, extravagantly, and Catherine turned on her heel. The sooner she was out of that room, the better. She was angry, angry, angry. Angry with Humphrey for his attitude and his superficial friends; angry with a God who allowed a much-wanted baby to die, strangled in her mother's womb; angry with herself for being so close to losing control.

By the time she reached her own rooms, the tears were coursing freely down her cheeks but she didn't much care who saw them. Guillemote put an arm around her shoulders to steady her and helped her towards a chair.

‘The baby died, Guillemote. The baby died. Oh dear God, why do babies die when so much love awaits them if they live? Why, Guillemote? Why? And poor Jacqueline. So much pain!'

‘There, my Lady, sit for a moment while you compose yourself and I will find you a clean gown. And why not let me wash your hair? You know how it always calms you.'

Catherine sat meekly in her shift, while Guillemote washed her hair in her favourite soap of Marseilles, rinsing it several times with infusions of rosemary leaves until the water ran clear. It dried quickly in the warmth of the July day and Catherine began to relax under her maid's practised hands.

‘How is the Duchess by now, Your Highness?'

‘She was sleeping when I left her, Guillemote. She will need to sleep for several hours to regain some of her strength. Though it will take her a very great deal longer than that to get over losing her baby.'

‘No doubt the Duke will visit her when she wakes. That will make her feel better.'

‘I expect he will, though he seemed rather preoccupied with his friends when I saw him. Tell me, Guillemote, do you know who they are? His friends?'

‘Oh, his usual clique I expect, Ma'am. You know, people like John Robessart, Sir John Kirkby, some of his Italian friends, too, I shouldn't wonder. They like their wine and their music.'

‘There was a woman there, too, a woman with a high-pitched laugh … dark hair … a crimson gown … I had never seen her before.'

Guillemote paused uncertainly and then said: ‘That would be Eleanor Cobham, Ma'am.'

‘Eleanor Cobham? I don't know the name. Who is she?'

‘She's one of the Duchess of Gloucester's ladies, I believe.'

‘Then what was she doing with the Duke?'

‘I wouldn't like to say, Ma'am, but there has been gossip.'

‘Not about her and the Duke?'

‘I'm afraid so, Ma'am. There, now. I have finished dressing your hair. Take a look in your mirror, my Lady. Are you pleased with it? Yes? Well, now let me help you into your robe de chambre while I go to the wardrobe. Shall I bring out the new yellow gown for you to wear?'

Guillemote was babbling, trying to divert Catherine's attention and discourage her from asking any more questions about Eleanor Cobham. Gossip among the castle servants was rife. The Cobham woman was quite brazenly flaunting her friendship with the Duke. No one knew if he had bedded her yet but even if he hadn't, it would only be a matter time before he did. Or so the gossip went. Catherine was bound to hear it eventually.

Leaving her mistress sitting at her dressing table, trying to come to terms with what she had just heard and with everything else that had happened that afternoon, Guillemote went in search of the yellow gown. She knocked at the door of Owen Tudor's small office next to the big wardrobe room. He was sitting at his table, working on a new duty rota for the laundresses. He looked up and smiled as Guillemote came into the room.

‘
Bonjour
, Guillemote. How are you? What can I do for you?'

‘The Queen's new yellow gown, please, Master Tudor. It's stored in Cupboard Three, I believe?'

‘It is. And you may take it with pleasure as soon as I have entered it into the Wardrobe Acquisitions ledger. It's brand new so I don't want to lose track of it. And what, pray, is that grubby garment you've got there?'

‘It needs to be laundered. Her Highness was wearing it while she attended the Duchess of Gloucester at her lying-in. It's a bit the worse for wear.'

‘Has the Duchess had her baby?'

‘Aye, a dead one. And a girl at that.'

Owen rose from the table, concern in his face. ‘That's dreadful news! I'm so sorry to hear it. How is Her Grace?'

‘Exhausted, from what the Queen said.'

‘And how has the Queen taken it?'

‘Rather badly, Master Tudor. She's very upset. I think perhaps she'll never stop weeping.' Guillemote looked up at him, her brown eyes narrowing, wise as a monkey, an idea forming in her mind. As casually as she could, she said: ‘I … er … I need to run another errand before I return to the Queen. I wonder whether you'd be kind enough to take the yellow gown to her and tell her I have been delayed? I shouldn't be long.'

Unaware of the maid's subterfuge, all Owen could think of was that he would see Catherine. He took the yellow gown and draped it over his arm. Guillemote watched him as he walked quickly up the corridor. She would take her time going back.

Owen stopped outside the Queen's private rooms and knocked at the main door. There was no sound from within. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and put his head around it. There was no one there. He entered the antechamber, closing the door behind him, and looked around for somewhere to leave the gown where the Queen would be sure to see it. The place was as quiet as the grave.

‘
C'est toi,
Guillemote
?
Is that you?' Coming from an adjacent room, the voice was muffled but Owen was in no doubt whose voice it was. Panic seized him and rooted his feet to the spot. He realised that he was quite, quite alone with the Queen.

Catherine was puzzled. She thought she'd heard a sound but, surely, Guillemote would have answered her call. She went to the door of her bedchamber and opened it to see Owen standing in the middle of the outer room, her yellow gown over his arm. Emotion overwhelmed her. Here, above all others, was the one person she most wanted to see.

‘Master Tudor! Owen!'

‘Your Highness, I … I … Guillemote asked me to bring your gown. But if you're alone … I could always come back …'

‘No, please. Come in. I'm pleased to see you. I'm very, very pleased to see you. I need you. That is … I need … I need to talk to you … to …'

She held out her hand and he reached out to take it. The yellow gown fell to the floor.

Afterwards, they couldn't remember who had made the first move. All they knew, all they cared about was their tremendous need, each for the other. They clung together, half laughing, half crying, muttering endearments in French, in Welsh, snatching shallow breaths and little kisses, not quite knowing what was happening and yet certain that what was about to happen was inevitable.

Catherine's robe de chambre fell from her shoulders and she stood before Owen clad only in her shift. He held her at arm's length and looked at her for a long moment, his eyes drinking in every detail of her, the way her head was set on her long neck, the creamy pale skin of her shoulders, the breasts high and proud against the fabric of her shift. She could hardly bear it. ‘Don't,' she whispered. ‘Don't stare at me like that. Please, just … take me. I've waited too long. Come, my love, please.'

She pulled him towards her bedchamber. Stumbling, awkward, he tore at his clothes, his doublet, his undershirt. Lifting her arms, Catherine drew her shift up over her head and Owen caught his breath at the beauty of her body. He cursed the inconveniences of buttons and laces, of hose and shoes.

At last, he measured his naked length against hers, savouring the sensation of her skin against his, the smell of her hair, rosemary and lavender. He was rigid with desire for her and she, her eyes closed, was moving her head slowly from side to side, moaning softly from somewhere deep in her throat. Feeling his hand on the smooth skin of her thighs, pressing them apart, she moved willingly under him, her hands clasped behind his head, her body arching to receive him. Then they became one, moving together in a primeval rhythm which seemed to last for an eternity yet was only a brief moment in time. They had ceased to be queen and commoner, mistress and servant; they had become man and woman, Adam and Eve.

Owen and Catherine. It was all that mattered.

Guillemote found the yellow gown and Catherine's robe de chambre on the floor when she returned an hour or so later. She picked them up and folded them carefully. There was no sound from beyond the closed doors of the Queen's bedchamber.

Chapter Sixteen

Winter 1424 - Spring 1425

Every time she looked at Owen, Catherine was overwhelmed by the realisation that her desire for this beautiful man was equally matched by his for her. Torn between the enormity of what had happened to them and the need to guard their secret, they were at great pains to behave normally in public, to all outward appearances still mistress and servant. But on chilly autumn nights, as logs crackled in the small grate in Catherine's bedchamber and with the door firmly locked, Owen loved to lie on a goatskin near the hearth with his head in her lap, gazing into the flames and listening, fascinated, to stories of her childhood and her life in the convent. He felt he almost knew the gossiping Sisters Consolata and Madeleine and he felt genuinely grateful to Sister Supplice for having been so loving and protective towards Catherine, the little girl who'd been first neglected and then exploited by her own family.

How different from his own upbringing. He told her tales of his early childhood on the island of Anglesey, growing up as a member of what had once been the most powerful family in North Wales, Tuduriaid Penmynydd, the Tudors of Penmynydd. He explained to her why their loyalty to their kinsman Owain Glyndŵr had cost them their authority, their lands, and, for some, their very lives in the face of incessant English military aggression. Then he amused her with stories of the itinerant Welsh bards, the praise they would lavish on their wealthy patrons, the extraordinary beauty of their love poems, and the subtlety of their poetic insults to each other. He sang to her the songs of his homeland in a language foreign to her ear but delightful in his singing. He painted word pictures for her of his native island, the sunlit strand of the Menai Strait against the majesty of mountains in the distance, across the water.

The beauty of natural things had always been something Owen took for granted but now he was full of wonder, he looked at everything through new eyes. He greeted every sunrise with a glad heart and the joyful certainty that the coming day would bring him some proper purpose to be in the Queen's presence, even if only for a few moments. His life now revolved entirely around her. They both delighted in the little things they learned about each other and, at every opportunity, they made love joyously and generously. Everything was perfect, except that they dared not speak their love aloud.

Delighted that her royal mistress had found a measure of happiness at last, Guillemote did everything she could to ensure that Catherine and Owen were able to spend time together undisturbed and she guarded their precious secret as jealously as they did themselves. Guillemote had no way of knowing whether this
affaire de coeur
was really only a passing fancy on Catherine's part; she was, after all, her mother's daughter and Queen Isabeau had been well known for her amorous dalliances. But there was a new lightness in Catherine's step, a note of laughter and gladness in her voice, and Guillemote vowed to guard that for as long as it lasted. So this new love was at the very centre of all their lives, a beautiful, fragile thing, stoutly defended from the outside world.

Now it was Catherine's turn to keep a secret from her cousin. Jacqueline had remained very ill, confined to bed for many weeks, lying pallid and listless against the pillows, her eyes dull with sadness. Catherine almost despaired of ever seeing her once-playful cousin laugh again. Yet she did recover slowly and eventually she was able to walk a little in the garden, leaning heavily on Catherine's arm while they talked of the future. Soon, Jacqueline said, Humphrey would have persuaded Parliament to provide financial backing for his attempts to pull an army together. Soon, she claimed, Humphrey's troops would march on Holland to defeat those who had deceived her and soon, she added, Humphrey would have every right to call himself the Count of Holland, Zeeland, and Hainault.

Catherine said nothing but prayed that Humphrey would fail to raise the money to enable him to carry out his ill-advised, insane plans. She was also desperately anxious that Jacqueline wouldn't overhear any gossip about her husband and Eleanor Cobham before the whole affair blew over, as it surely must. She wouldn't have Jacqueline hurt for all the world. She had suffered enough.

By October, Humphrey, as Warden of the Cinque Ports, had managed to assemble a fleet of some forty ships and Jacqueline had taken her leave of Catherine and travelled to Dover to join her husband as he prepared to sail for Holland with a scratch army. When news of Humphrey's intentions reached John of Bedford, he hurriedly made the crossing from France, hoping to persuade his brother to change his mind but, stubborn as well as reckless, Humphrey would have none of it.

So John of Bedford was forced to stay on in England through the turn of the year, in order to take the reins of government and to chair the Council during Humphrey's absence. He did both with great efficiency and in an unusually calm atmosphere.