Root of the Tudor Rose (33 page)

‘Monmouth, Your Grace? But it is not one of Her Highness's dower properties.'

‘It isn't. You're quite right.'

‘Then, why …?'

‘Because it is right and proper that the King's widow should wish to see the place where her late husband was born,' replied the Bishop. ‘Besides, it will keep my nephew Humphrey's nose out of your business. If Humphrey thinks that the Queen is spending some weeks at Monmouth, he won't question the fact. But we'll be laying a false trail. You will both have gone somewhere else, not far away, where no one would dream of looking for you, a place where the baby can be cared for and left to be brought up in loving family surroundings when the Queen has to return to court.'

They were both looking at him questioningly, waiting. ‘And yes, Master Tudor,' Henry Beaufort added with a twinkle, ‘you'll be pleased to know that your baby will be born in Wales.'

Owen laughed softly. ‘
Diolch i Dduw
,' he said. ‘Thank God for that.'

‘So,' Henry Beaufort continued, pleased with his plans, ‘you've entrusted me with your secret, now I must tell you mine. There are several people who know what I'm about to tell you, but I'd still appreciate it if you kept the information to yourselves. The fact is that I have a daughter, just a little older than you are, Catherine. Her mother was Alice, the Earl of Arundel's niece, and I didn't marry her because … oh, well, it doesn't really matter. It all happened a long time ago and much water has gone under the bridge since then. I wanted the baby named Joan, after my sister, but I understand that she prefers to be known as Jane these days. She is married to a good man, Edward Stradling, who seems to be responsible for almost everything that happens in South Wales.'

‘South Wales?'

‘You can't have everything your own way, Master Tudor,' said Beaufort, though his eyes were still twinkling. ‘You can't have my nephew's widow and a baby and a birthing place for her in North Wales, simply because that's where you come from. Just be grateful that there's a way out of this mess.'

‘Yes, my Lord Uncle,' said Catherine, ‘we're very grateful to you. It does sound like the solution to our problems, even though it is quite a long way to travel.' Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed the older man.

‘It would have been even further to North Wales,' grumbled the Bishop, pretending to sulk but pleased by the sensation of a young woman's soft mouth on his cheek.

It was warm for early September and Catherine was grateful for a cooling breeze off the sea. She lay in a large, comfortable bed in an airy room overlooking the formal gardens which fell away in elegant graded terraces towards a secluded cove on the South Wales coast. For all its luxury, the castle of St Donat's was very much a family home and she was sleeping well, entirely relaxed while she awaited the birth of her baby.

The journey to Bristol had been tiring but, by the time they reached the town, Catherine had made a subtle transition which, to all appearances, altered the nature of her relationship with Owen. Gone were the jewels, the formal gowns, and in their place, she dressed very much more simply, in the manner of a country gentlewoman. It delighted Catherine to realise that no one recognised her; she knew no one whom she met so there was no threat, no risk of anyone discovering their secret. She and Owen, relishing the heady sensation of appearing together in public for the first time, strolled around the bustling port of Bristol, enjoying the colour and the noise, exclaiming at the sights they saw, and listening to the foreign merchants blabbing away in a dozen different languages.

They walked the length of Broad Quay before they found the little ship they had been told to look for, the
Rose of Lundy
, lying at anchor. To the crewmen who were making her ready to sail, Owen and Catherine were simply wealthy passengers who had a few more servants than usual and needed to be ferried to the South Wales coast.

Sir Edward Stradling awaited them on board and greeted them effusively. He was a man some ten or eleven years older than Owen, tall and well-built with dark eyes and greying hair. They were to discover that he had a prodigious energy and was forever bustling about some business or other. For now, he was almost falling over himself to make them welcome and comfortable aboard the
Rose of Lundy
, where he appeared to be quite well known.

‘Oh, yes, I travel on this ship regularly,' he explained, fussing with a warm blanket for Catherine's knees. ‘She's a good little coaster; cuts a fine feather in the Severn Sea when the winds are favourable. We'll have you in Colhuw in no time!'

‘What brings you so frequently to Bristol?' Owen asked.

‘Business. Last year, I was appointed High Sheriff of Somerset and Dorset and I serve as a Justice of the Peace in Somerset from time to time.'

‘Then shouldn't you live in Bristol?' asked Catherine.

‘Oh, no, Your Highness,' said Sir Edward, then bit his tongue and looked around to see if anyone had heard what he'd called her. No one had. He was sworn to secrecy about her identity. ‘I'm so sorry! I forgot!' he whispered and then went on. ‘No, I can't live in Bristol because I am also Chamberlain of South Wales. And I need to get to Devon from time to time. I can see the Devon coast across the channel from my garden and sometimes it looks so close that I feel I could almost reach out and touch it. So you see, St Donat's is really quite a convenient place to live, given a decent ferry which sails regularly on those routes between Wales and the west of England. Besides which, my dear wife Jane is so very happy living where we do.'

‘I look forward to meeting her,' said Catherine. ‘I'm fond of her father. He has been very kind to me.'

‘And, indeed, to me,' Sir Edward Stradling nodded with great enthusiasm. ‘So many appointments are within the gift of my father-in-law and he is most generous. Marrying his daughter was the best day's work I ever did!'

Catherine was quite surprised by that, not by the fact of it but by the way it had been so readily confessed. ‘And you have a son?' she asked.

‘Indeed. Our young Henry. He's two years younger than your son, my Lady, His Highness the King …' Again, his hand flew to cover his mouth as he realised he might have divulged dangerous information.

‘Please don't worry, Sir Edward,' Catherine smiled. ‘There's no one listening.'

They arrived at the little port of Colhuw on the Glamorgan coast towards the end of that afternoon and Catherine was glad of a sturdy, sure-footed Welsh pony to carry her up the steep incline away from the sea. Several carts and horses awaited the party near the ancient collegiate church of St Illtyd to take them the last few miles of their journey west to the castle of St Donat's. By the time they had been made welcome and comfortable, she was ready to sleep and sleep and sleep.

They couldn't have been better cared for. Catherine half-opened her eyes now and looked towards where Lady Jane Stradling, the very picture of patience, sat in the window embrasure, quietly sewing while her royal guest slept. As soon as she realised that Catherine was awake she was on her feet and at the bedside, her sewing abandoned.

‘Your Highness! You're awake!'

‘Yes, and as hungry as a hunter,' said Catherine.

The baby was born two months later, with little trouble, in the big bed in an airy room overlooking the sea; a contented child, who appeared to be solemnly regarding the world through eyes the colour of forget-me-nots.

‘A girl!' said her delighted father, when he was allowed into the bedchamber to see her. ‘Isn't she beautiful? Oh, Catrin, look at those tiny fingers! Aren't they perfect? I've always wanted a daughter.'

‘Yes,' said her equally delighted mother. ‘A girl. Tacinda.'

‘What? Tacinda? Is that to be her name? I rather hoped that, if we had a girl, we might call her Marged. Margaret, after my mother.'

‘No, not Margaret after your mother, nor Isabeau after mine. I'd like her to be Tacinda. I'm sorry, Owen, but I've quite set my heart on it. Do you really mind?'

‘No, of course not, cariad. You're both safe and well and that's all that matters to me. That's much more important than what we call her. But …' he hesitated. ‘But … Tacinda? What sort of name is that? Why have you chosen it?'

Catherine looked down at the child with forget-me-not eyes and blinked back sudden tears. ‘It's the name the midwife gave Jacqueline's daughter. And we owe that poor little baby a lot, Owen. She was the one who brought us together.'

Owen's arms went around them then, the two most important people in his life, his beloved Catrin and their baby daughter. His heart was brimming over with love and pride but it ached at the thought that he would only ever be able to acknowledge them both in private. And if that was going to be difficult for him, how would Catrin ever forget that she had been forced to leave her precious baby in the care of strangers?

Chapter Eighteen

Winter 1425-1426

Waiting to disembark, the Duke and Duchess of Bedford stood on the deck of the
Trinity Royal
, their eyes screwed up against the biting wind, looking down at the flurry of dockside activity which greeted the arrival of the great ship at Dover. The gangplank, slippery as an eel, slid out of place yet again, accompanied by shouts and curses. John ground his teeth in frustration at the delay. He and Anne were both bundled up in warm, fur-lined cloaks and leather gloves but the cold still gnawed at their bones and every hour counted in their attempt to reach the Palace of Westminster before the weather closed in. Of having to be in England, John could at least look forward with pleasure to spending Christmas with his wife in convivial company and to seeing his young nephew, the King. Much to their regret, he and Anne had no children of their own.

To be honest, he would rather have stayed in France which felt more and more like home to him but, with the authority vested in him as first in line to the English throne, he'd had no option but to return in order to intervene in the ridiculous ongoing quarrel between his brother and his uncle. This visit was in response to an urgent message from Henry Beaufort in which the Bishop claimed that Humphrey was behaving erratically, in a way which threatened to endanger the life of the King. There was nothing for it but to respond to Beaufort's request. Not knowing how long he would have to stay in England in order to settle the quarrel, John had brought his wife with him. He'd spent last Christmas without her and could not endure the thought of being parted from her again.

They managed to reach Merton Abbey without any more delay and were pleased to find that Henry Beaufort had ridden out from London to meet them. But any thought of travelling further was frustrated by deep, drifting snow which had begun falling from leaden skies. A journey to Westminster to join the King and his mother would only have been undertaken by the foolhardy so, forced to remain in Merton, the three of them passed the festive season quietly together, though pleasantly enough.

The bad weather and bitter cold persisted for several days, which gave Henry Beaufort ample opportunity to acquaint John with what had been happening over the past three or four months and Bedford was appalled by the stories of Gloucester's rumour-mongering and aggressive behaviour. He heard how things had come to a head in a confrontation on London Bridge at the end of October when uncle and nephew, with their respective guards, had only just been kept apart by the intervention of Archbishop Chichele who managed to convince them that the young King's interests were not best served by such an irresponsible display of bad temper by his uncle and great uncle, the two most powerful princes of the blood in England.

‘So you were both involved in that confrontation?' John asked, not wanting to apportion blame until he was certain where it lay.

‘Indeed we were,' said Beaufort, ‘and I confess I feel ashamed at that. But I'd had enough of Humphrey's behaviour. He'd gone too far this time. He couldn't be allowed to get away with what he did.'

John raised his eyebrows. ‘And what was that?'

‘Well, there were several things, but the main one was that he abducted the King,' Beaufort paused to let the seriousness of the allegation have its effect.

‘Abducted the King? You mean …'

‘He took the boy from his nursery, jammed some sort of makeshift crown on his head, then he and some of his cronies rode with the King through the streets, showing him to the people … waving at them … getting the child to wave. Humphrey is popular with Londoners. They were very ready to cheer him.'

John was appalled. ‘What in God's name did he think he'd achieve by doing that?'

‘Oh, that's easy. He did it to remind them that he's the most important man in England, seen to be responsible for the King and therefore responsible for the country.'

‘It's almost unbelievable.'

‘Not these days. Humphrey's behaviour is unpredictable to say the least.'

‘And where was the King's mother?' John of Bedford wanted to know. ‘Where was Catherine when all this was happening?'

‘In the country,' said Henry Beaufort, without offering any further explanation. ‘Though she has recently returned to court.'

‘Let's call for some more logs for the fire,' said John. ‘We have a great deal of talking to do.'

Since the marriage of her daughter, Joan, to James of Scotland, the Duchess of Clarence had become a very great deal closer to her son, Edmund Beaufort. So she was delighted to welcome him when he arrived at Westminster some ten days before Christmas, to spend the festive season at court. She felt pleased that the somewhat gauche youth appeared to have grown up at last and become rather a dashing young man. It would be a great deal easier to find him a suitable wife, the Duchess reflected, if the girl in question also found him physically attractive.