Root of the Tudor Rose (37 page)

She felt quite faint. This hard, male-dominated regime would be immensely difficult for Henry, she knew, and there would certainly be no place for his mother in the new scheme of things.

‘I … I don't think he'll be happy, my Lord.'

‘Oh, you think not? Madam, of course he'll be happy. He's the King and that is the shape of his future from Monday onwards.' Then he smiled one of his rare, remote smiles and lightened his tone. ‘But today is Saturday and we will celebrate with a small birthday party for His Highness so that he can get to know the boys who will share his lessons in the schoolroom. Nobly born boys, of course, every one of them.'

Catherine smiled in return but immediately regretted dropping her guard when Humphrey turned to her suddenly. ‘Of course, you can have access to Henry at any time, you know. You have only to ask me … I could make life a lot less painful for you. You just need to return those feelings which you must know I could so easily have for you if things were different.'

He had his hands on her shoulders now and his face was close to hers, too close, his lips a shade too red. She could smell his breath, a faint whiff of wine, barely disguised by tincture of myrrh. Her utter revulsion almost paralysed her as he bent his head to kiss her. Then, fury lending her strength, she shook him off, leaped to her feet, turned, and slapped him as hard as she could. He reeled back and his hand flew to his cheek.

‘Don't you dare! Don't you ever, ever, dare to do that again!'

‘But, Catherine …' he began.

‘May I remind you, my Lord, that you address me as
Your Royal Highness
!' She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her eyes ablaze. ‘And as for you, Your Grace,' she snarled, ‘if you ever lay a hand on me again, I'll … I'll …' She didn't finish the sentence, partly because she could think of no threat severe enough and partly because her blind fury was subsiding. She swallowed hard but it was quite some time before she felt in control of herself again. Humphrey remained silent, rubbing his cheek.

‘Very well, then,' she said at last. ‘You were talking about arrangements for the King's future welfare. Well, it all seems to have been arranged, doesn't it? I dare say it's all been thought out very carefully.'

‘It has,' Humphrey sounded subdued. ‘And it is all for the King's ultimate benefit.'

He seemed to be expecting her to say more. She couldn't. After several moments she took a deep breath. ‘Now, if there's nothing more, I wish to see the King.'

‘Of course, Your Highness.'

She didn't really know what to expect but she found that the nursery had been colourfully decorated and there was already a party atmosphere. Some boys of Henry's age were playing a guessing game in the corner of the room and a big trestle table nearby was laden with jellies, cakes, and biscuits, including Henry's favourite honey cakes and gingerbread men. She saw him before he saw her, across the room and in solemn conversation with young Thomas Roos. Her heart contracted painfully.

‘Your Highness!' she called. ‘Henry!' He turned towards her.

‘Mother,' he said. He had never called her that before. She had always been his ‘Maman'. He was clearly learning his lessons and learning fast.

‘
Joyeux anniversaire, Henri
!
'
She could easily have wished him a happy birthday in English but she wanted to keep one special thread of their relationship unsullied. Mother and son looked at each other uncertainly, neither quite knowing what to say next.

‘How are you, my Lady?' Henry blurted out, at exactly the same instant as his mother said: ‘How is your kitten, Henry?'

‘Doucette? Oh, she's not a kitten any longer, Mother. And she has been sent back to the stables to live with the other cats. My uncle Humphrey of Gloucester says I am to have a dog for my birthday. A setter. They are very good hunting dogs, Uncle Humphrey says.

‘Really? And what will you call your dog?'

He looked uncertain. ‘I think I shall call him Gelert. It's a Welsh name and one of the gentlemen-at-arms once told me a story about a dog with that name. He said it was a prince's dog and I was the Prince of Wales before I became King, so it's a good name for my dog. But Uncle Humphrey says I should give him an English name. So I don't know what to do. My head hurts sometimes, when I have to decide really important things.'

Catherine wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears and scream. If she heard ‘Uncle Humphrey says' just once more, she was sure she would lose control.

How she got through the remainder of the afternoon, she would never know. What she did know was that heading downriver towards Baynard's Castle, towards Owen and home, was the best feeling she'd had in a day of huge emotional swings. Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift to the rhythm of the oars, thoughts of curling up with Owen in front of a cosy fire in her bedchamber. She might ask him to tell her the story of the dog … what was it … Gelert? She loved listening to him telling her stories of the old Welsh myths and legends as he lay on the hearth, his head pillowed in her lap while she twirled tendrils of his dark hair around her fingers.

It was wiser not to tell Owen about Humphrey's outburst, she decided: he would be too angry and, since he was powerless to do anything about it, there was nothing to be gained by it. But she would tell him all about the party and he would make her laugh and then he would pick her up in his arms and set her down gently on the deep goose-feather mattress. Then, when they had made love, they would find peace and sweet, restful sleep. She longed for the moment so much that she could almost smell the wood smoke spiralling upwards into the chimney.

‘My Lady, wake up! Wake up, Your Highness! Look, look, smoke! There's smoke coming from the castle! It's on fire!'

Suddenly the smell of smoke was very real. She opened her eyes to see the outline of the Dominican Priory of the Black Friars thrown into relief by the eerie, red light which came from the building beyond it and lit up the whole river ahead of them. Her ladies were on their feet now and shrieking hysterically, in danger of capsizing the boat and the barge men were shouting at them to sit down or they'd all be in the water. The choking, acrid smell of smoke was everywhere and sparks cracked up into the black December night from the huge bonfire which had been Catherine's home. Ignoring the oarsmen, she was on her feet and in the prow of the boat, screaming.

‘No! No! For God's sake …! No!'

She didn't care who heard her. Dear God, she couldn't bear it if she had lost Owen in the inferno which was Baynard's Castle.

The wooden structure of the Castle's own wharf had already collapsed and its charred remains were floating in the choppy water. Rowing furiously, the oarsmen took the boat further downriver and managed to tie up at Paul's Wharf, safely out of the range of flying sparks.

‘Your Highness! Stop! Stop, my Lady! Stop!' Joanna Belknap shouted at Catherine as she scrambled off the barge, missed her footing on the wharf, and slid in the mud of the river bank, soaking her feet and the hem of her gown. Hardly aware of it, she clawed her way up onto the path in the direction of Baynard's Castle. Her heart was pounding in her ears and the one thought in her mind was that she had to get to Owen. He must be in there, somewhere. She must find him.

‘I wouldn't, my Lady, if I were you!' said a firm voice as a hand caught her arm and swung her round to a stop.

‘Let me go! Let me go, immediately. I must get to my home. I must …' with a wild look in her eyes, she was beating her fists on the man's chest.

‘You must do nothing that will endanger your life, my Lady. If you attempt to go any further, I will not be answerable for your safety.' She looked distractedly at the man who held her arm in such a firm grip and tried to pull away from him again.

‘Please, please, you must let me go.'

‘Your Highness, don't! The place is an inferno. No one will come out of there alive. The fire has been raging these several hours but I think most of your staff are safe.'

‘Most of my staff …? What do you mean by that?'

‘Everyone who was able to escape has already done so and made for Chertsey House. Please, allow me to escort you there. It is in chaos, of course, but things are slowly being brought under control.'

She saw that he wore a heavy cross about his neck, though in every other respect he looked like a wharf labourer. His round face was streaked with soot and what little hair he had was plastered down with sweat. He must be from the Benedictine Order of Chertsey Abbey in Surrey, whose London lodging was Chertsey House.

‘Father Abbot … I'm sorry … I didn't realise …'

‘Please, my Lady,' he said. ‘Try not to distress yourself. I know this has come as a great shock to you.' He turned to Joanna Troutbeck who was labouring along the path, panting with the effort. ‘Do try to persuade Her Highness to come with me,' he said.

‘Yes, my Lady. That is a very good suggestion. Let's all go there. Come with us.' Catherine turned to see two bargemen helping her other ladies through the mud.

‘Oh, Troutbeck, what will I do? What if … what if Owen …? I can't bear it.' Meekly, with Troutbeck and the Abbot on either side of her, she allowed herself to be led back towards Chertsey House which, with its door wide open, was throwing a welcoming beam of candle light across a tiled floor and onto the path. A great babble of raised voices came from within.

Fearful of what she might find, she tried to remember what the Abbot had said. He thought most of her staff were safe? Most of her staff? Why not all her staff? What of Owen? What if he was … it didn't bear thinking about.

‘Cariad.'

Relief flowed through her and she thought her legs might give way. She turned and there he was, close behind her, calling her by the special name that only the two of them knew, in a voice so low that no one else could hear it.

‘Owen! I thought … I thought … oh, God, I thought you were dead.'

He took a step back and made a formal little bow. ‘Thank you, your Highness, but no, I am quite safe.' Dear God! Of course, he was still being cautious. Who knew who was watching them? Even in this life and death situation, they were still sovereign and servant. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck but she had to pretend that she was merely concerned for his safety as a member of her staff, nothing else.

‘Master Tudor, I'm … I'm so pleased that you're safe. So pleased. And what of the other members of my staff, are they, too …?

She saw the look on his face and knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

‘Who?' she asked. ‘Who is dead?' She could see that he didn't trust himself to speak.

‘Tell me, Owen, Tell me! Who is dead?'

‘Guillemote, my Lady. I'm so sorry.'

‘Guillemote? No, don't be absurd. She simply had a sore throat this morning and I said she should stay in bed. You are mistaken. She's not dead. She can't be dead.'

‘Yes, Ma'am. I'm afraid she is. She is the only one … everyone else appears to be safe.'

‘No, no, you're wrong. You must be wrong. Why do you lie to me about Guillemote?'

Owen risked being seen with his face disrespectfully close to the Queen's. ‘Catrin, believe me, I wouldn't lie to you about something … someone so important to you. I tell you, Guillemote died in the fire. I did my best but … but it wasn't possible to save her. Guillemote is dead, Catrin. Guillemote is dead. You must believe me.'

‘Dead,' she repeated, dazed but still unbelieving. ‘Dead? But why is Guillemote dead?'

‘Because she tried to retrieve something,' he said. ‘Something … I'm sorry, my Lady … she appears to have gone back to get … to get something from your room.'

‘Oh God,' Catherine had begun wailing. ‘Oh God, not Guillemote. Not my Guillemote! Not my darling, darling Guillemote! What will I do without her?
Non
!
Sans elle je ne vis pas
!
'

She and Guillemote had known each other all their adult lives. Their relationship transcended that of a queen and her servant. They were friends, the dearest of friends. She lifted agonised eyes to Owen.

‘What did she go back for?' she asked in a small voice. ‘In God's name, what made her go back?'

‘This,' he said and held out his hand. In his palm lay the little tortoiseshell box in which Catherine always kept her wedding ring.

Chapter Twenty

Summer 1429

The requiem mass was attended by all the friends who had loved the little French woman, had benefited from her advice over the years, and had occasionally felt the sharp edge of her tongue. Anton was inconsolable and wept copiously and noisily throughout the funeral. Catherine's grief was almost unbearable. She knew she had been inclined to take Guillemote for granted and hadn't realised what a close, devoted friend she had always been, through all the years they had known each other. After the funeral, she wrote a long letter to Queen Isabeau, asking her to break the news to Guillemote's parents and urging her to tell them of their daughter's bravery and unswerving loyalty to her mistress.

The fire which had killed Guillemote had completely gutted Baynard's Castle, forcing Catherine and her small household to move back to Windsor. True, she now lived in the same building as Henry, but she was no nearer her son for that. He spent his days in the schoolroom and in the chapel, or honing his skills at archery, swordsmanship, and horsemanship. When she wished to see him she had to make a special request to the Earl of Warwick. Money for her keep was deducted from her allowance and she felt as shunned as a leper.

Apart from her cherished wedding ring, almost all Catherine's clothes and jewellery had gone in the fire, but at least that gave her an excuse for seeing Owen under the pretence of having to discuss the replacement of items from her wardrobe. So, in private, he comforted her and told her the whole story of Guillemote's last hours. Remembering that she hadn't accompanied Catherine to Windsor, he had looked for her among the large group of Baynard's Castle servants who had congregated in the churchyard in front of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, well away from the fire. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, he reasoned, if she'd been feeling ill when the fire broke out, she was trapped somewhere near where she slept. He slipped away from the group and risked going back into the Castle to look for her. He knew that she shared a dormitory with Madge and Molly not far from Catherine's bedchamber, so he worked out the best route back into the building towards the place where he was most likely to find her, if she was still alive. Then he saw her, at the top of the service stairs. Her thin nightgown was ablaze and she was stumbling, retching and coughing in the choking atmosphere. He tore at the fabric of his sleeve and held it over his mouth, reaching out as far as he could with his other hand in an attempt to pull her towards him. Guillemote reached out, too, but their hands never met and she threw the little tortoiseshell box towards him just as the wooden staircase collapsed beneath her and she had fallen, screaming, into the flames below. There were tears in his eyes as he recalled the tragedy. He put his arms around Catherine and held her very close while she wept for her dead friend.