Root of the Tudor Rose (36 page)

‘And the child is the result of your … er … friendship with Master Tudor, Ma'am?'

‘She is. And it has broken my heart to leave her. I think of her every minute of the day and pray for her often.'

‘Then with your permission, my Lady, I, too, will include the little one in my daily prayers.'

‘I would be so grateful if you would. You see, I'm forced to trust her welfare to others, though I take great comfort in the fact that she is in the care of Cardinal Beaufort's daughter.'

‘He did well to suggest it. D'you know, I remember his daughter being born. It was something of a cross for him to bear at the time and he was mightily torn between the child's need for a father and his own need for the holy mother church. These are not decisions lightly made, any more than your decisions have been easy. Of course, had you been able to marry the child's father, things would have been very different for you.'

‘I can't marry Owen, Rector,' said Catherine. ‘It would cause uproar. Besides, we have only a very small oratory here at the Castle and the chaplain knows nothing about our relationship, so even if it were possible …'

‘Quite so. Quite so,' the Rector nodded. ‘But would you be happier about your situation if you and Master Tudor could marry?'

‘Of course. It's the one thing I want above all others. But it's impossible.'

‘No, not impossible. Your late husband the King is dead and you are therefore free to marry again. You can marry whomsoever you choose and, indeed, wherever you choose. You could undertake a clandestine marriage in a barn if you wish, it's just as binding as any. It is your commitment to each other that's important.'

‘But the church is important to me, too. I wouldn't want to be married anywhere else but it would be difficult to do that in secret.'

‘A clandestine marriage is for anyone who has a good enough reason not to make it public and you, my Lady, have every reason not to make it public. But that doesn't stop you being married in church. The Church only requires that a couple should be married by a parish priest in the presence of three witnesses. And I, my Lady, am a parish priest.'

Catherine's eyes were shining. ‘So, are you saying, Rector, that if you were to perform the ceremony, Owen and I would be married in the eyes of the Church?'

‘That is exactly what I'm saying, my dear Lady, and it would give me great pleasure to arrange it. Perhaps that's the outcome Cardinal Beaufort hoped for. No one else needs to be involved, other than your witnesses. Tell me, do you have three trustworthy friends who would be prepared to witness the ceremony?'

‘We have. Oh, yes, we have several very loyal friends. And nothing would make me happier than to be married to Owen in the eyes of God.'

‘Then you shall be, my Lady, as soon as you wish.'

The boot was on the other foot. This time, it was Maredydd who stood to one side with the ring in his safekeeping while his cousin Owen made his marriage vows. They had assembled behind the locked doors of the little church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, a small group headed by Catherine and Owen with the Rector, Marmaduke de Kyrkeby. To one side, beaming with pleasure, stood the Bishop of London, William Gray. Behind him Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were in attendance. Having made Catherine's new gown for the occasion, Molly Betts and Madge Wilkin were there, too, as was Maredydd's new wife, Emma. Owen had relented at last, allowing Maredydd to let her into the secret and she had been elated at the news. It was just like marrying into the Royal Family, she said excitedly, having the Dowager Queen of England as her husband's cousin-in-law! Emma was still keen on maintaining her excellent connections, however convoluted.

The service was a simple one. The Rector took Catherine's right hand and placed it in Owen's left hand then her left hand in his right, hand-fasting them together by binding them symbolically with a narrow length of rich gold brocade. Then came the vows, and when Catherine, in her pretty Parisian accent, swore to honour him as her husband for the rest of her days, Owen looked at her in wonder, hardly able to believe his ears. Marmaduke de Kyrkeby unwound the length of gold brocade and turned to Maredydd for the ring.

The Rector guided Owen's hand as he first placed the ring lightly on the tip of Catherine's thumb, saying ‘with this ring I thee wed.'

Then over the tip of her index finger, ‘… in the name of the Father …'

Then half way down her middle finger, ‘… and of the Son …'

And finally, fully onto her ring finger, ‘… and of the Holy Spirit.'

Close to tears, Catherine resisted the urge to add ‘… and
Jolie
cwt bach!'

There the ring remained. Catherine and Owen were man and wife.

She wouldn't able to wear the ring, except in private, but she was delighted to be able to show it off at the modest reception in Baynard's Castle after the ceremony. Guillemote had been allowed to tell Anton, swearing him to secrecy, and the little French chef had excelled himself in the preparation of food for the occasion, so pleased was he to hear the news. He joined the guests at Catherine's invitation. ‘It is very different from your first wedding, Your ‘Ighness,' he said. ‘I remember it well.'

‘Ah, yes, but the food is even better, since there are fewer guests to cater for.'

‘It ‘as been my privilege to prepare it for you, my Lady.'

He had been very surprised, he told Catherine, when Guillemote had confided in him, because even the scullions in the royal kitchens were placing bets on whether she would marry Edmund Beaufort. Owen, he thought privately, was a much better-looking man.

‘I will tell all my staff that the rumours are not true, my Lady, and that you are not in love with Edmund Beaufort.'

‘No, Anton, don't do that,' Owen said quickly. ‘It suits our purpose very well for people to think that the Queen and Edmund Beaufort are close. It deflects attention away from us.'

‘
Mais oui
! Yes. Yes, of course! So, I will say nothing. Nothing!' Anton beamed, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Your secret is safe with Anton. I will tell no one. And please, let me wish you both every ‘appiness.' He bowed deeply as they smiled and turned away to talk to Maredydd and Emma.

Guillemote tapped Anton on the shoulder. The two had remained friends ever since coming over from France together in the royal entourage which accompanied Catherine nearly eight years ago, after her first marriage. For Guillemote, gossiping with Anton was like slipping her feet into an old, comfortable pair of shoes.

‘The Queen knows, does she, about what ‘as been going on in Parliament?' Anton asked when they'd been chatting together for several minutes.

‘And exactly what
has
been going on in Parliament, Anton? And why should it worry my mistress?'

‘Well,' he confided, ‘I only ‘eard about this the other day, when the scullions were blabbing in the kitchen about the Queen and young Edmund Beaufort. They were saying that the Duke of Gloucester ‘as been busy getting a new law through Parliament, forbidding any widow of the King to re-marry without special permission. Everyone thought it must be because of Beaufort.'

‘Ah, so the Duke at it again, is he? I know he's already tried it once, in Leicester, but the Commons rejected it. Now he's trying to get it through a second time.'

‘But this time, ‘e seems to ‘ave succeeded,' said Anton. ‘One of my apprentices told me last week. He was quite certain. And it is more than ‘is job is worth to tell me a lie! I would dismiss ‘im from my kitchen!' Anton paused dramatically and looked around him before whispering in Guillemote's ear. ‘The Duke of Gloucester doesn't know anything about the Queen and Master Tudor, does ‘e?'

‘No. Of course he doesn't. Everybody who knows about it has been sworn to secrecy and no one would ever let the Queen down.'

‘
Mon Dieu
, I ‘ope not. I ‘eard that anyone who would dare to marry a dowager queen without the reigning monarch's consent could lose ‘is ‘ead!'

‘The reigning monarch's consent?' Guillemote laughed out loud. ‘Ridiculous! The reigning monarch is only six years old! He won't be seven until next month. I don't think that's much of a threat to Owen Tudor, do you?'

Anton gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I'm not so sure,' he said. ‘Small children will usually do what they're told and the one who tells King ‘Enry what to do is his uncle of Gloucester. And I would not trust ‘im further than I could throw a pig by the soapy tail.'

Guillemote woke with a raging sore throat on the morning of the King's birthday and sneezed violently several times. The problem with living in England, she reflected, was that it was always so damp. She never had these wretched colds when she lived in France, where she remembered that even the weeks before Christmas seemed pleasantly balmy compared with the icy December winds which were howling in from the North Sea this morning, straight up the River Thames and into the dormitory she shared with Molly Betts and Madge Wilkin in Baynard's Castle. She sneezed again.

‘
Gesundheit
!' Molly had learned the word from her association with a corn-trader from Cologne.

‘Oh, Molly,' Madge groaned, ‘don't quote your lewd foreign friends from Queenhithe here, please. Go and tell Her Highness that Guillemote isn't well enough to go to Windsor today while I make her an infusion of lemon balm.'

‘Merci
, Madge,' Guillemote croaked. She would be sad to miss the occasion of the young King's birthday, such a significant one too, but she was better off staying where she was, trying to keep warm.

The Queen agreed that a small boy's birthday party was really no place for Guillemote that afternoon. ‘Not that he's a small boy any more,' she said to Owen, as she got ready to leave for Windsor. ‘He's seven years old today, no longer an infant. Now officially a child. He'll be jousting next!'

Owen smiled. He watched as she removed her wedding ring and placed it carefully in the small tortoiseshell box on her dressing table where she always kept it when she wasn't able to wear it. Then he helped her into a warm, hooded, coney-lined cloak for the river journey to Windsor. He'd like to be going with her but that wasn't possible. He would have to content himself with seeing her off from the wharf at Baynard's Castle and watching until the barge carrying the Queen and her ladies had rounded the bend in the river.

As the familiar curved tower of Windsor Castle came into view, Catherine remembered the King's first birthday. Strange, she thought, but that was the day when she had first met Owen, too, and so much had happened since. Who would ever have thought that the young man she had found playing finger games with her baby would become the father of her second child. And she remembered Jacqueline, trying to make the party go with a swing and only succeeding in angering Humphrey of Gloucester. Poor Jacqueline. She had received several letters from her, begging for news of Humphrey, and had done her best to answer them without mentioning Eleanor Cobham.

‘Your Majesty,' Humphrey rose from his chair to greet her when she arrived at Windsor, pressing her hand warmly to his lips, as he always did. She wanted to snatch it away.

‘I trust you are well,' he said. ‘This is an important day for all of us.'

‘Birthdays are always important,' she agreed. ‘Everyone loves a birthday.'

‘Indeed,' he replied, leading her to a comfortable, cushioned bench in the window embrasure. ‘But, of course, it is a particularly important milestone for the King. That's the main reason why I wanted to see you privately beforehand. I wanted to make you aware of some decisions made by the Council at a meeting which took place only last week.'

He sat down next to her. ‘You realise, of course, my Lady, that having reached his seventh birthday, His Highness must no longer be treated as an infant. So he will have no further need of the women who have been charged with his welfare up until now. The Council has decided to dispense with their services.'

‘You mean Dame Alice is to be dismissed? But Henry is very fond of her …'

‘Dame Alice and Mrs. Ryman, who has done a remarkably good job, incidentally, for which she will be amply rewarded. His nurse goes, too. What's her name, er …'

‘Joan Astley, my Lord. Is Joan to be dismissed?'

‘She is. It is all for the best, I assure you. You'll see. We cannot have the King being brought up as a little ninny, can we? He will share his studies in the schoolroom with other boys and he will have men around him at all times to teach him by example.'

Catherine hesitated. ‘And I? Where do I stand in all this?'

‘Well, naturally, my Lady, nothing can alter the fact that you are his mother. But I think you ought to try not to influence him unduly.'

‘But he is my son.'

‘Of course, and as I said, nothing can alter that fact. But he is the King and he must be trained for kingship. To that end, the Earl of Warwick, while remaining his legal guardian, will also assume overall responsibility for his education. He was always the right man for the job, loyal, knowledgeable, and wise. Comes from good English stock. Though, having said that, his command of French is excellent. That will be a useful advantage when the King is crowned and takes over the throne of France.' Catherine swallowed hard but didn't rise to the bait. She could have taught her son to speak French like a native, had she been allowed to.

‘But what of his personal needs? Who will make sure that he's clean? Comfortable? Properly fed?'

‘His Highness will have four knights of the body and four esquires of the body. Good men, all of them, as they should be for what we're paying them, but the Council deems it money well spent. His health will be the personal responsibility of Master John Somerset and the Frenchman, Anton, will remain in charge of the royal kitchens. The plans are all in place and, from Monday onwards, no one …' and here he looked pointedly at Catherine, ‘… no one will be allowed to question them.'