Root of the Tudor Rose (32 page)

The Rector's eyes twinkled. ‘Her Grace, the lovely Queen Catherine? William and I were just talking about her. I know very little, I fear. I should have called upon her before now to pay my respects and bid her welcome to this lovely part of London. How very remiss of me!'

‘I have never had the pleasure of meeting her,' said Bishop William Gray, ‘but I'm told she is delightful and very easy on the eye.'

‘She is,' agreed Henry Beaufort. ‘I'm pleased to say that I have come to know her quite well. Indeed, I'm delighted to say that though I am merely her uncle by marriage, she has the grace to call me by that name. And she is, I assure you, as charming as everyone says she is. Would you like to meet her?'

‘Very much!'

‘Let's go now, then,' said Beaufort, impetuously. ‘Baynard's Castle is such a very short walk from here. Leave your wine, both of you. It's a decent vintage, so it won't hurt it to mature for another hour or so.'

Beaufort had recovered now, after his frightening experience in the Vintry, though there was still a worm of worry at the back of his mind. That thug had said something about listening to ‘the Duke'. He can only have meant Humphrey of Gloucester. The debonair, handsome Humphrey was popular with Londoners and Beaufort had been warned that he was stirring up trouble.

Guillemote was busy folding some of Catherine's gowns and putting them carefully into coffers. She was frowning, deeply troubled by recent developments. Catherine and Owen had taken her into their confidence and told her of the coming baby. They would go to Wales, they said, where Owen had friends. But Guillemote wasn't at all sure where that was, nor was she sure what clothes the Queen would need when she got there.

Owen had already made lists of what needed to be packed in the way of jewellery and tableware. Now it was Guillemote's turn to pack her mistress's gowns, undergarments, and shoes, just as she would have done for any journey to any one of the crown's residences outside London. Except that there wasn't a lot of point in packing too many of Catherine's gowns, well, not the ones that couldn't be let out as her waistline spread. Perhaps the seamstress, Molly Betts, would have to be let into the secret.

Catherine was with Owen in her private solar, his arm across the back of her chair, her head on his shoulder as they discussed their problem for the hundredth time. Owen was deeply worried about arranging the journey to Wales, though he hadn't said so. Perhaps Ludlow would be a better place. But, wherever they went, they'd have to leave soon. Catherine, twitchy as a cat, nearly leapt out of her seat when there was a quiet knock at the door.

‘Just a moment,' she called, patting her hair into place.

‘Your Highness, you have visitors,' said the castellan as Catherine opened the door a crack, screening Owen from possible prying eyes. ‘His Grace the Bishop of Winchester is here with two of his colleagues and has asked if they can see you. That is if it's convenient.'

‘Bishop Beaufort! Yes, yes, of course. Tell His Grace that I will join them shortly.'

‘Very well, Ma'am.'

Waiting in the Great Hall with the Reverend Marmaduke de Kyrkeby and Bishop William Gray, Henry Beaufort had noticed the coffers and boxes stacked against the wall.

‘Is someone on the move?' he asked when the castellan returned. ‘Can't be the Queen moving out, she's only just moved in.'

‘I understand that Her Highness intends visiting some of her dower properties, my Lord Bishop,' said the castellan, as he showed them into a large, comfortable room overlooking the river. ‘Those coffers will be loaded in preparation for her journey when we have more details of her itinerary and a date for her departure.'

Henry Beaufort frowned. There was too much going on these days that he didn't know about. He certainly hadn't heard about Catherine's plans to visit her dower properties, though he did remember Walter Hungerford telling him some time ago at a meeting of the Council that she had expressed a desire to do so. He wondered where she was intending to go. Wallingford, perhaps? Hertford again? Leicester?

‘Wales,' she answered firmly when he asked her a little later.

‘Wales?'

Marmaduke de Kyrkeby put his hand over his mouth to hide a smile when he saw his old friend Henry Beaufort's face. He looked astounded.

‘Yes, Wales, my Lord Uncle. I have two dower properties there, one on the Isle of Anglesey and one in somewhere called Flintshire.'

‘Yes, of course. I was aware of that. But nobody has ever actually visited them. They're in North Wales, after all.'

‘Then there's all the more reason to go there,' said Catherine. She looked at her late husband's uncle, then across at his two friends sitting side by side, the Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe and the Bishop of London. She had been pleased to meet them both and delighted that Henry Beaufort had made the spontaneous gesture of bringing them to see her. He had always been kind. Catching her eye, he gave her a quizzical glance.

‘Why have you decided to do this now, my dear?' he asked gently.

‘It's … well … it's as good a time as any, my Lord Uncle. You know, travelling is always more pleasant in the summer months. I shall return before the winter sets in, certainly in time for Christmas.'

‘But you don't have to go there at all. You could visit your other dower lands nearer home. You wouldn't be so far away from your son.' He was testing the water, probing her decision to journey such a distance with no obvious necessity to do so. There was something here that was not quite right. There had to be an explanation for this apparently sudden decision, this reckless scheme.

‘Now tell me, my dear, the real reason why you're doing this.'

Catherine broke down. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She sobbed for the unknown fate which awaited her and her unborn child. She sobbed that in her nightmares there were men shouting and horses going too fast as they carted Owen from Newgate to Tyburn, where he would pay the ultimate price of his love for her. The tears had been stopped up for too long, now they flowed like a stream.

At first, none of the clerical gentlemen knew what to do. They looked at one another helplessly and questioningly over Catherine's bowed head while her shoulders shook. Tentatively, Bishop Beaufort reached forward to put a comforting hand on her arm but she pulled back as though he'd burned her with a hot poker.

‘Catherine, what is it? Tell me, please tell me. I'm sure there must be something I can do to help.'

‘No, no, there isn't,' Catherine gasped between shuddering breaths. ‘Really, there isn't.'

There was a tentative knock at the door and, when it opened, Guillemote's head came around it. ‘Excuse me, my Lord Bishop,' she said. ‘Forgive me, but I thought I heard crying. I wondered …'

She didn't finish the sentence. Henry Beaufort crossed the room in three strides and grabbed her arm, dragging her back towards Catherine. ‘Why is your royal mistress so upset?' he demanded, shaking her in his anxiety. ‘Do you know anything about this?' Guillemote's glance darted from one to the other like a frightened animal. She didn't know what to say.

Catherine was knuckling the tears from her eyes. ‘It's all right, Guillemote, don't worry. Look, I need to speak to my royal uncle alone. Would you be kind enough to show the Rector and the Bishop into the library and find some refreshment for them, please. They might like a goblet of the Saint-Pourçain …

‘That would be most acceptable, if it's not too much trouble,' said the Rector, beaming.

Catherine smiled shakily. ‘It's no trouble at all. And I believe there are still some honey cakes left.' Marmaduke de Kyrkeby and William Gray followed Guillemote out of the room and Henry Beaufort turned to Catherine, all concern. ‘Now, my dear, please tell me what is troubling you.'

Catherine took a deep breath. If she told him about the baby, the secret would be out. There could be no going back. Could she trust him? Would he keep a secret? She had no idea but her instinct was to confide in him.

‘I am with child, my Lord Uncle,' she said quietly. There was a long pause while he took in what she had said. Through the open window, she could hear the waters of the Thames slapping gently against the side of a boat and a moorhen's rattling call in the reeds at the river's edge echoed in the quiet room. Still Henry Beaufort didn't speak. When he did, his voice was low and quiet.

‘You are with child?' She nodded dumbly. ‘But your husband the King … is … dead. So who …?' He didn't finish the sentence.

‘Does it matter?' She turned to look at him, pleading.

‘Yes, it does matter. Very much, I'm afraid. Is he at court?'

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.'

‘What do you mean by that? He's not a commoner, is he?'

‘No, no. Not at all. He is high born. He is a noble man of ancient lineage. The blood of princes runs in his veins.'

Henry Beaufort went cold. ‘Not Humphrey of Gloucester, surely!' He couldn't endure the thought that his bombastic, arrogant nephew had lain with the widow of his own dead brother; sullied her, impregnated her. ‘Not Humphrey!'

‘No, not Humphrey, Uncle. Never Humphrey. Never.'

‘Thank God! Who, then? Not Edmund? Not my nephew Beaufort?'

‘No, no, not Edmund. He's very young. I couldn't think of him like that.'

‘Then tell me, Catherine, in God's name, tell me. Who else has the blood of princes in his veins? Who has done you this wrong?'

She hesitated again. Getting up, she walked over to the window and looked out onto the calm waters of the Thames, thinking, trying to come to a decision. She had told him so much already that she needed to tell him everything but she must make him understand. She turned to face him.

‘It wasn't wrong, my Lord Uncle. I went to him readily with my heart full of love. And he to me. We are deeply in love and we have been, these many months. We are both very happy and we cherish the wonderful secret of our child.'

‘Catherine, I beg of you. Please tell me, who is the father of this child?'

She took a deep breath. ‘Owen Tudor, my Lord Uncle.' Beaufort looked at her, shaking his head, not recognising the name. ‘Who?' he asked again.

‘Master Owen Tudor. He is my Clerk of the Wardrobe and serves me well.'

‘So it appears!' Bishop Beaufort slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands. He remembered the name now, and recalled that Walter Hungerford had mentioned it admiringly, though he couldn't quite remember why. After a long moment, he looked up at her. ‘Catherine,' he said, ‘Owen Tudor is a servant.'

‘As it happens, yes, but …'

‘Queens do not lie with their servants.'

‘Perhaps not. But he's not a common servant. His grandmother was the daughter of a Welsh prince and his is an old and honourable family, the noblest in Gwynedd. That's in Wales,' she added lamely.

He rose and took a few steps towards her, looking into her face. ‘And that impresses
you
, Your Royal Highness? A princess of the royal blood of France? You, the daughter of a king? The widow of a king? The mother of a king? That impresses
you
?'

‘Everything about him impresses me, my Lord Uncle. He has made me very happy. He is my best friend at court, my only friend. You see, I am denied access to my son. I'm allowed no part in his upbringing and yet I cannot bring myself to leave him and return to France. The English are very cold towards me. I am made to feel that I am not wanted here. The only time I am ever really happy is when I'm with Owen. He makes me laugh, he helps me forget my worries. He looks after me, cares for me. I would be very lonely without him.' She looked up at Henry Beaufort, her eyes anxious and tearful. ‘But now that I am to have his child, Uncle, I'm very frightened of what will happen.'

Beaufort put his arms around his nephew's widow then, his heart full of compassion, letting her cry quietly against his shoulder. Suddenly feeling very old, he remembered standing like this, over a quarter of a century ago, with his arms around another tearful young woman who had just told him about her pregnancy. Perhaps he should have married Alice, despite her quarrelsome family, but he'd chosen the church instead. He knew that Alice would never have loved him in the way that his own mother had loved his father.

He smiled at the sudden memory of his mother: she had been a Katherine, too, the Lady Katherine Swynford, mistress of the great John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. With no hope of ever being his wife, she had given the Duke a lifetime of devotion. Then, as a widower in old age, John of Gaunt had scandalised everyone by marrying his Katherine, and their four bastard children were declared legitimate and given the surname Beaufort. Henry himself was the second of them and his childhood memories of his parents' devotion to each other still informed his concept of love. Perhaps, he thought, it was only the very luckiest people who experienced that kind of love once in a lifetime. He looked down at the top of Catherine's head: she was still standing, though quieter now, within the shielding circle of his arms. Who was he to deny her the right to such a love?

Confiding in Henry Beaufort, however difficult, had been the right thing to do. He promised to return to Baynard's Castle the next day, having persuaded Catherine not to do anything until he'd had a chance to think things over. He really didn't see the necessity for her to travel all the way to North Wales, a dangerous and uncomfortable journey at the best of times. No, her secret could be just as well kept a lot nearer home.

‘Monmouth,' he said as they sat around a table in Catherine's private solar. By now they'd been joined by Owen Tudor and, despite himself, Beaufort could see what his nephew's widow admired in the young man. He was very personable, well-spoken and intelligent, and he clearly adored Catherine. He was rather tall, too, and looked capable of taking care of her, but what pleased Beaufort most of all was that he seemed honest and trustworthy. Owen's dark eyes and sensuous mouth impressed the Bishop not one jot but he nevertheless acknowledged that Owen Tudor was a handsome man. Women liked that sort of thing, he knew.