Root of the Tudor Rose (41 page)

‘No,' said Catherine shortly. ‘Most of the court has removed to France for the King's French coronation. And in any case – forgive me for saying so, Your Grace – no one cares where I am as long as I don't get under anyone's feet. I will not be missed.'

Great Hadham was less than two days' journey from London, some thirty miles to the north east, beyond Epping Forest, at a sufficient distance from London to discourage casual visitors but close enough for Owen to attend the Royal Wardrobe if he was required to. The house, on a bend in the River Ash, was modest but comfortable and Catherine and Owen were both delighted with it. Bishop Gray accompanied them on the journey there, anxious to see them settled in comfortably.

It seemed a good place for a child to grow up and, determined not to be forced to abandon yet another baby, Catherine and Owen planned their strategy carefully. From now on, the family would base themselves at Great Hadham and, from time to time, Catherine would put in a token appearance at court. In her absence, the child could be safely left in the care of the Bishop's staff and two reliable nurses.

News from France filtered through sporadically. Henry's coronation was repeatedly postponed and the cost of maintaining the royal retinue, as well as an army of over a thousand men-at-arms and nearly six thousand archers, was spiralling almost out of control. Then news came that Joan of Arc had been taken prisoner by the forces of Philip of Burgundy who promptly sold her to the English. Not knowing what to do with her and wary of her reputation, her English jailers chained her up in a cage like an animal. The Dauphin did not lift a finger to help her.

‘I can't understand that,' said Owen. ‘Your brother Charles owes that girl everything. Why does he just sit back and let her be punished?'

‘Well, think about it, Owen. If Charles really is being accepted as King of France, he doesn't want his people to think that he owes his throne to Joan of Arc's diabolical skills.'

‘And what happens when young Henry is crowned King of France?'

‘God alone knows. I have no idea. And until this baby is born, I have no option but to lie low and wait to see where the future lies, whether my son or my brother is eventually recognised as King of France. And as for La Pucelle, well, it seems she is a witch and a heretic. She can't be sent to a convent because no convent will ever accept her. There's only one alternative, and that's burning.'

‘Oh, Catrin,' Owen shook his head. ‘She's probably just a poor, misguided young woman.' What Catherine had predicted was probably exactly what would happen but clearly she didn't associate the fate of the Maid of Orléans with what had happened so tragically to her own maid. Owen would never forget the terror on Guillemote's face as the wooden staircase collapsed. Being burned to death was an obscenity, whether it happened by accident or design.

They made excited plans as they whiled away the chilly spring evenings at Great Hadham, lounging on the hearth in front of the fire discussing whether to name the coming baby after their parents.

‘I'm not sure I like the name Isabeau for a little girl,' said Owen. ‘I'd much prefer Marged.'

‘But if we named her after your mother, we'd use the English version of the name and call her Margaret, wouldn't we?'

‘What if she's a boy?'

‘Well, we've already had one of each, so she could be … or he could be. I don't know. My father was Charles but the most common name in the Valois family has always been Louis.'

‘If we're going for family names,' said Owen, ‘we could call him Ednyfed. Or perhaps Caradog. Lovely old Welsh names.'

‘But the poor child is going to live in England so he won't thank us for giving him a name like Cad … Crad … what did you say?'

‘Caradog. Caractacus in English.'

‘Well, we are certainly not going to call him Caractacus!' Catherine laughed. ‘Listen, Owen, I've been thinking. We have every reason to be grateful to young Edmund Beaufort, haven't we? After all, we've spent years putting Humphrey off the scent by letting him think that Edmund is nursing a grand passion for me.'

‘Well, he certainly was at one time.' Owen was punctuating his sentences with little kisses on the soft skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Perhaps he still is. And you have to admit that he has excellent taste in women!'

Catherine made as though to push him away. ‘No, seriously, my love, we owe him a favour, don't you think? So, all right, if the baby is a girl we'll call her Margaret but if it's a boy, why don't we name him Edmund? It's a perfectly good name and the reason for giving him that name will be our secret.'

Owen smiled, kissing her nose this time. ‘Why not?' he said. ‘You're right, cariad, it's an excellent name.'

Edmund Tudor first saw the light of day three months later. He was the bonniest of babies and both his parents doted on him from the moment of his birth. Catherine was never happier than when she had him in her arms and Owen was never happier than when he had his arms around both of them.

At last, thank God, this was the baby they would keep: and they would keep him at all costs.

They spent the remainder of the year at Great Hadham, contentedly learning to live as a family, and it was the most profound pleasure Catherine had ever known. She and Owen delighted more than ever in each other's company and now there was another dimension to their happiness. They both doted on their baby son. Catherine even began to let herself dare hope that they might send for their daughter, Tacinda, but Owen had to point out to her that, if they did, the little girl would be confused and bewildered. She didn't know them, she had never known them. For her sake, it was far better she should remain with the Stradling family in St Donat's.

All too soon, it was time for Catherine to return to Windsor. She couldn't absent herself for too long, it would only arouse suspicion. She would return for a few weeks, just to make her presence felt and dispel any possible gossip.

With the King and so many courtiers in France, life in Windsor was as dull as ditchwater so when word came that Cardinal Beaufort was in England and intending to visit the castle, the whole place went into a frenzy of preparation. Floors were swept, tapestries cleaned, and mouth-watering smells wafted from the kitchen.

Almost as soon as he arrived, Cardinal Beaufort went in search of Catherine, delighted to learn that she, too, was in Windsor. It always gave him immense pleasure to see her and he was glad to find her looking so happy. He was not a bit surprised to learn that she'd had another baby and chuckled when she told him why he'd been named Edmund after his nephew.

‘A brother for little Tacinda,' he said, smiling broadly.

‘Yes,' said Catherine, ‘and a little half-brother for the King, too, though I don't know whether they'll ever meet.' She said nothing about the child she'd had to leave in the care of Abbot Harweden at Westminster because she didn't know whether the Cardinal was aware of the nature of the ‘illness' which had kept her away from her son's English coronation and she saw no reason to tell him. Besides, the memory was still too raw and painful for discussion. She changed the subject.

‘Tell me, what news of my son, the King? And why have you returned to England, my Lord Uncle?'

‘His Highness is well, my Lady, and sends you his most respectful greetings. He is still in Rouen but there is no prospect of a French coronation at the moment. As for me, well, I am back in England with my begging bowl, to raise yet more money. I have to persuade the Council to provide sufficient funds for another army. We need some two and a half thousand men to recapture Rheims. It has been in French hands since your brother's coronation. But first we have to resolve the problem of the heretic girl.'

‘La Pucelle?'

‘Yes, the Maid. Joan of Arc. She remains in prison and I'm afraid she's become something of a heroine to the French, a symbol of national pride, and it would be madness to put her to death without a very good reason. Still, until that is done, I see no prospect of crowning your son. I confess I don't look forward to it but I'm afraid she will burn.'

Owen kept quiet on the subject of Joan of Arc because he didn't want to worry Catherine more than he had to. She was deeply concerned about the situation in France. Owen could accept that Joan was a simple peasant with a deep faith and an absolute belief in what her ‘voices' told her, though Catherine, torn between her love for her son and a lingering loyalty to her family in France, was not so sure. Well, blood was thicker than water, thought Owen, but perhaps the saints really did talk to Joan. Who had the right to say they didn't? He knew of people not unlike her in Wales, people who lived in harmony with the rhythms of Nature. Was this girl any more than that? And if her convictions were religious, then it was only another way of looking at things.

Above all, he understood Joan's patriotism, the strength of her desire to see a French king on the throne of France and the English invaders retreat from her beloved homeland. Every Welshman understood that, particularly a kinsman of Owain Glyndŵr.

At the head of an army only half the size of the one he'd requested, Henry Beaufort returned to France in time to see Joan of Arc accused of heresy. He presided at her trial in Rouen and found the proceedings deeply interesting from the standpoint of theological argument. The Maid couldn't be guided by heavenly voices, her accusers reasoned, because it was a well-known fact that the saints spoke only to priests and then only in Latin, certainly not in the rough patois of Domrémy, Joan's home village. Yet this simple country girl seemed possessed of a powerful intellect. When asked if she presumed herself to be in God's grace, she answered that if she was not, then she prayed that God would put her there and that if she was, then she prayed that God would so keep her. It was the most elegant of replies and astounded her accusers but it didn't stop them from lying to her. They promised that she could attend confession if she would agree to wear women's clothing but, when she did, they refused to let her go to church. Sick and exhausted by months of imprisonment, Joan's last small gesture of disobedience was to put on men's clothing once more and, for this, she was accused of immodesty and defiance of the teachings of the church. She was sentenced to die at the stake on the thirtieth of May.

Beaufort's mind was in turmoil. He had genuinely admired the way in which the nineteen-year-old Maid had conducted herself at her trial, with her simple grace and quiet conviction that she was being given divine guidance. Now, watching her slight body being lashed to the stake in the market square at Rouen, he felt a different, very powerful emotion. With half-closed eyes he saw the huge bonfire being lit and resisted the urge to stuff his fingers in his ears so as not to hear the crackle of dry wood as the flames took hold. It was difficult to ignore the baying of the huge crowd that had gathered to watch the burning. He tried not to look directly at Joan as she stood with a cross held between her outstretched hands, her lips moving in prayer. He knew he would never forget the sight of her and he would remember the stench of burning human flesh for the rest of his life.

Six months after Joan's death, Henry Beaufort held the crown of France above the head of his great-nephew in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. It was the sixteenth of December, just ten days after the King's tenth birthday. Beaufort should have felt elation, pride, supreme happiness; this was the ultimate achievement, this was the crown of France which he was placing on Henry's head, the height of his late father's ambition. And yet all Beaufort felt was a hollow emptiness. He was getting very old now, nearer sixty than fifty, and he realised that England had been at war with France throughout his lifetime and that this, this very crown which he now held in his hands, was what all the fighting had been about. All he could think of was the appalling waste, the lives lost, the bodies maimed, the families ruined, the children left fatherless and a brave young woman burned at the stake. Henry looked up as the crown was placed on his head and was surprised to see tears in the Cardinal's eyes. The boy assumed that they were tears of joy.

Huge crowds of people thronged the streets of Paris, singing and dancing; wine ran in the fountains and there were pageants and
tableaux vivants
everywhere. The Duke of Bedford with the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury were at the head of the large delegation of English aristocrats who had come to France with Henry in preparation for this great day and all the lords of the royal house of France were represented, with the exception of the Duke of Burgundy. He nowhere to be seen and neither was Catherine's brother, Charles.

The obese, ageing Queen Isabeau sat in the royal palace of St Pol, stroking a lapdog and waving as the coronation procession passed her window, trying to catch the eye of her grandson who was the embodiment of the union with England which she had worked so hard to bring about. She wondered why his mother was not with him.

Entirely unaware of what was happening in Paris, Catherine had no desire to be anywhere other than Great Hadham. She was happy here, comfortable, relaxed and, above all, secure. Here she could be with her husband and her baby son and had almost convinced herself that this would be where her little family would spend the rest of their lives. They had few visitors but, occasionally, trusted friends would come to see them, friends like Bishop William Gray who was travelling from London to Lincoln and broke his journey to call on them. He strode into the hall to be greeted by Owen, who had seen him arrive.

‘Your Grace. I find it very strange to be welcoming you into your own house!'

‘My own house no longer, Master Tudor. That is why I'm here. I have something to tell you. Is Her Highness at home? And is she well?'

‘Well enough, if a little tired. She has gone to fetch baby Edmund so that she can show him off to you.'