Owen (8 page)

The preparations have barely been completed when there is a fanfare of trumpeters and the clatter of many hooves on the cobbles as the young king rides through the gates of Wallingford. Ahead of him ride Sir Richard’s entourage of knights and the esquires of the body he has recruited to provide more training for the king. Harry follows, with the earl at his side, followed by fifty men of the royal guard resplendent in full livery. It has only been four months, yet Catherine hardly recognises her son. Sir Richard has dressed him as a young knight for his triumphal entrance and he seems to have a new confidence, although he is still not eight years old.

Harry dismounts expertly, despite the long sword he wears, and proudly marches to where Catherine waits. ‘Good day, Mother.’ He bows, from the waist as he has been taught.

Catherine smiles. ‘Welcome to Wallingford Castle.’

Harry hugs his mother. He notices Sir Richard frowning behind him, clearly displeased at how easily the young king has forgotten how he must behave.

Catherine looks up at the earl. ‘And welcome to you also, Sir Richard.’

The earl dismounts, removes his hat and bows to Catherine. ‘I am at your service, my lady.’

That evening Queen Catherine hosts a welcome banquet in the great hall, her son the guest of honour. The queen makes a grand entrance with Harry at her side, his armour replaced with a tunic of burgundy velvet. She wears a new dress of azure silk, made for the occasion, with a tall, conical hat in the English fashion. Catherine blushes when I privately tell her I have never seen her look more beautiful.

Sir Richard proposes a toast. ‘To the King of England... and King of France!’

Catherine leans across to the earl and lowers her voice.
 
‘King of France?’

A crease of annoyance furrows the earl’s brow. ‘Henry’s father would have been crowned King of France long ago, my lady. We must arrange young Henry’s coronation and then he must travel to France.’

‘Is it safe for him in France?’

‘Of course.’ Sir Richard looks surprised Catherine would even ask such a question. ‘You understand the dowager queen does not attend the coronation of her husband's successor, my lady?’ There is a condescending tone to his voice.

‘I understand quite well, Sir Richard.’ She smiles at him, yet her eyes are cold.

‘It is important that the king understands the country. I would be grateful, my lady, if you will help him practice his formal French in preparation for the visit.’

After they have eaten, the trestle tables are cleared from the centre of the great hall for dancing. The musicians are a great success and a good quantity of wine and ale is drunk. The young king looks tired from his long ride and Catherine bids him goodnight, announcing that she is also ready to retire for the night. I follow her at a discreet distance until we are alone.

‘I was standing behind you and heard the earl’s words.’

Catherine pulls off her uncomfortable headdress. ‘I suspect the earl is acting on orders from my brother-in-law, Duke John of Bedford.’ She shakes her plaited hair loose. ‘He has always been obsessed with securing the French crown. He persuaded my father... to grant it to my husband and now he wants my son to claim it.’

‘What of your brother, Charles?’

‘I had a message from him. He wanted to let me know he is to be crowned King of France on the seventeenth of July.’

‘That’s barely a month away.’

‘Sir Richard knows full well—he puts me in an impossible position.’ Her neck flushes red at the knowledge of her powerlessness.

‘Life is a balance of holding on and letting go. You must let him go.’ I place my hands on the queen’s shoulders. ‘And I will stay here with you.’

Catherine puts both arms around me and pulls me close, resting her head on my chest. ‘I am glad to have at least one friend who cares what becomes of me.’

I embrace her. We have both drunk more than a little wine and I feel the warmth of her body pressing against mine. I meant it when I told her I’d never seen her looking more beautiful. The fresh country air and sunshine have turned her pale skin to gold and, until now, she has seemed happier.

Sounds of music and dancing drift through the castle. We hear the crash of something breaking, followed by laughter. It seems the celebrations will continue long into the night. I should return to the great hall to oversee the servants of the queen’s household. I have trained them well, although by tradition they are allowed to use up whatever has been left after the banquet. If that includes drink there is no telling what they might get up to.

I reluctantly pull away. ‘I must go, before they find the keys to your wine cellar.’

Catherine holds on to me. ‘Don’t leave.’ It is a command, not a request.

She takes my hand and leads me into her private bedchamber, pausing to slide the iron bolt on the inside of the door across. I have secretly longed for this moment and designed the layout of the queen’s apartments to provide her with the greatest privacy, as far away from the guest lodgings as possible.

‘What about your handmaiden?’ Catherine has yet to find anyone as good as Juliette. The latest of her maids is a local girl, one of the staff at Wallingford Castle when we arrived. She is in awe of the queen and rarely speaks unless she has to.

‘She can enjoy the dancing. I told her she would not be needed until the morning.’

‘So... who will help you undress, my lady?’

Catherine smiles mischievously. ‘I rather hoped it would be you, Owen Tudor.’

She pulls off her stiff, uncomfortable headdress, flinging it to the floor, and looks at me with a challenge in her eyes. I say nothing but carefully liberate her tightly coiled hair. It cascades over her shoulders in blonde waves, making her look young and innocent, less like a queen, more like the woman I long for and love so deeply.

I take her in my arms and kiss her, feeling her respond with surprising passion, her hands caressing my back, softly at first, then pulling me close to kiss more deeply. Ours is the kiss only lovers know, and we are as one as we forget the world.

It takes only a moment to loosen the bindings of her dress and I follow her example, casting each of her expensive garments carelessly to the floor until she stands before me, beautiful and naked. Her pale skin turns to gold in the flickering candlelight and she looks almost too perfect to be real.

I lead her to the bed and she lays back to watch as I take off my boots and undress, enjoying the way her eyes devour every inch of my body before I lay at her side. We look into each other’s faces for a moment and our special, unspoken communication means there is no need to talk. We kiss again, more slowly this time, more sensually. My mouth moves to her soft breast and I gasp as I feel her delicate fingers stroking me.

‘I need you, Owen Tudor,’ she whispers.

We have become lovers, after all those years of denial and longing, Catherine of Valois, the most beautiful woman in England and France, is mine.
 

* * *

I wake with a start, confused for a moment by the unfamiliar surroundings, before I remember I am in the servant’s lodgings at Westminster Palace. I have been dreaming again of that first night in the queen’s apartments. I remember every moment of her passion, her complete abandonment to me. There had been no shyness, no awkward moments. It felt as if we were always meant to be together, that we were always lovers.

With an effort, my thoughts return to the reason I am in London. Plans for Harry’s coronation as King of England after his eighth birthday have been brought forward, following news of Charles VII of Valois' coronation as the French king in Reims Cathedral in July. Henry Beaufort makes a rare visit to Wallingford Castle to announce the chosen date of the sixth of November. He dresses in scarlet robes and hat, having secured his long-held wish to become a cardinal, yet his time in France has aged him.

Duke Humphrey visits soon afterwards, demanding to know every detail of what the bishop said. I am happy enough to oblige, although it seems they would both do well to forget their political differences. I also note that Duke Humphrey asks me to reveal nothing about who else has visited the queen, as if she has ceased to be of importance to him.

I rub my eyes and study the small patch of autumnal sky I can see from the high, cobweb-encrusted window. It looks like it will be a dry morning, a good omen, as there were heavy rain showers on the journey to Windsor Castle, where I stayed overnight before continuing to London.

I wonder how Catherine is. She had no involvement in the planning of her son’s coronation ceremony, yet tells me that suits her, as long as they do not expect too much of Harry. We have always known the ceremony will be in Westminster Abbey, and Catherine has secured me a good vantage-point as a royal usher, helping the great and the good of England to find their places in the crowded aisles.

It means I am present at the dress rehearsal in the Abbey the previous evening and have time to visit the magnificent tomb of King Henry V. I stand before it in silence for a moment, marvelling at the craftsmanship of the effigy in the king’s likeness, and wonder what the late king would have to say about his wife now being her servant’s lover. The thought seems irreverent in the hallowed cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

On the great day I dress in my fine livery and share bread and cheese in the servants’ kitchen. There is a buzz of anticipation, with many people coming and going and shouting orders. I spare a thought for the young king, who has spent the eve of his coronation in the Tower of London, where, in keeping with tradition, he has created more than thirty new knights.

I am kept busy in the crowded aisles of the abbey, as some guests complain they are too far away while others try to use their rank to demand a better seat. Then a distant cheer from the waiting crowd is followed by a shrill fanfare of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the king’s procession. Harry has travelled through the city from the Tower, riding a white horse and led by the Earl of Warwick as his guardian and governor.

The trumpeters sound again and then the choir sing the
Te Deum
, the surreal, unearthly sound reverberating around the towering abbey and making the hairs stand up on my arms. The formal ceremony in the abbey is mercifully short. Cardinal Henry Beaufort has altered the traditional coronation ceremony to include French practices, as his intention is to show this is only the first part of a fuller coronation, which must be completed in France.

I feel proud of the young king, who looks small, surrounded by bishops who seem taller and grander in their high-pointed ceremonial mitres. Henry Beaufort sits to the king’s right and Duke Humphrey to his left. I fix the scene in my mind so I can describe it to Catherine on my return. Archbishop Henry Chichele, who crowned Catherine and presided over Harry’s christening, anoints the young king with miraculous holy oil from the golden eagle and ampulla. Harry looks serious as the heavy gold crown of St Edward the Confessor is placed firmly on his head.

After the ceremony, a splendid feast is held in Westminster Hall. The first course is venison and ham painted with gold, beef and mutton, cygnets and herons, with a great pike served in the mouth of a golden lion. The second course of whole pigs, roasted and glazed, is followed by the grand birds, crane and bittern, partridges and peacocks.

Next a whole antelope is served, with a golden crown around his neck on a chain of solid gold. The final course is of smaller birds, egrets, curlews, snipes and larks. Carp and crabs are served with a cold meat pie in the shape of a shield representing the royal arms in red and gold. The centrepiece this time is a figurine of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ in her arms.

The sun is a blindingly dark orange, low on the horizon, as I return to my lodgings. I am pleased for Harry that this ordeal at least is over. The weather has remained fine and the coronation has attracted the largest crowds seen in London for years. I share a room with soldiers who had been holding back the crowds. One of them tells me he saw a woman crushed to death and a number of cut-purses had their ears cut off as punishment.

It is a relief to be back at Wallingford Castle after the extravagances of the coronation, yet Catherine confides to me that she has been unable to sleep, fearing for the safety of her son when he travels to Paris. Her brother Charles has a new champion in France in the unlikely form of a young woman named Joan, who has somehow become a heroine of the people.

The woman they call the Maid of Orleans has rallied the French army. It seems she hears the voice of God and has ended the English siege of the strategically important city of Orleans. Catherine’s brother-in-law John, Duke of Bedford, finds his position as Regent of France threatened—and the uneasy truce with Duke Philip of Burgundy is wavering.

I do my best to reassure Catherine, but in my heart I know she is right to be concerned, as the timing could hardly be worse. Her brother Charles has now been crowned, so there is a real risk that making a great show of crowning Harry King of France could lead to war. Paris is no longer safe for the English and the young king is an obvious target for the French.

An opportunity to raise these concerns comes when Catherine is invited to visit Duke Humphrey’s London mansion. I contrive to accompany the duke on his early morning ride along the Thames embankment, where the air is cold enough to show the hot breath of our horses. I see my chance to mention our reservations about the second coronation once we are out of earshot of the guards.

The duke is candid. ‘My brother believes the claim to the French crown can be strengthened by this coronation.’ He frowns at the thought. ‘It must go ahead though, even if the siege of Paris is imminent. To turn back now would be disastrous, so I’ve persuaded parliament that strong military intervention is the only answer. We’ve started recruiting five thousand additional men to support those already there.’

‘I worry for the young king, my lord.’

‘The nobility of England are vying with each other to support the king. You need to understand, Tudor, the prospect of the coronation in France is an opportunity for people like Cardinal Beaufort to grow even richer.’ His tone becomes patronising as he warms to his theme. ‘Soldiers have to be paid, and men like Beaufort rub their hands together at the prospect of even more loans to the crown.’

‘What of the queen’s brother Charles, my lord?’

‘What of him? He was lucky at Orleans. You’ve served in France, Tudor. The French are a fickle lot. My brother will show them it takes more than a young woman dressed in a man’s armour to stop him.’

Duke Humphrey urges his horse into a brisk trot and I must do the same to keep up. Sometimes it is easy to see the resemblance of the duke to his elder brother, King Henry V. They have the same contempt for the French, even when it is obvious they have met their match. I only saw Duke John of Bedford from a distance and never spoke to him, yet I can imagine the duke will stop at nothing to see Harry crowned in France, regardless of the cost.

Late that evening I wait until we are alone in the duke’s well-appointed guest apartments and repeat every word he has said to Catherine. She listens with a mother’s concern for her son.

 
‘I don’t trust Duke Humphrey—or his brother John!’

‘Why not?’ The sudden hardness in Catherine’s tone surprises me. Her French accent has returned, as it does when she is annoyed.

‘Duke John of Bedford is the heir apparent. If anything were to happen to Harry...’ Her words tail off, as she contemplates the thought of her son being put in danger.

I take her protectively into my arms. ‘I told you, the duke promised five thousand men to protect your son. You mustn’t worry, they will keep him safe.’

‘I still don’t want him to go. Does he have to be drawn into a fight... against my own brother?’

‘I am afraid it seems you have no choice.’

Catherine crosses to the window, with its splendid view of the River Thames, still bustling with boats despite the late hour. ‘I am tired of being treated like I have no mind of my own, with no opinions, as if I am of no consequence.’ She turns to face me. ‘I do have a choice—and I don’t think even Duke Humphrey cares what I do any more. Did he ask you if I have had any visitors?’

‘No. He seemed more interested in talking about himself.’

‘You see?’ Catherine holds both of my hands in hers and looks into my eyes. ‘He thinks he has made it impossible for me to marry. What if I marry someone who has no lands for him to confiscate?’

I feel a cold sense of foreboding. ‘What do you mean?’

Catherine laughs at my innocence. ‘If I were to marry you, what could they do?’

‘Well, they could have me hanged at Tyburn. Publicly flogged?’

‘Not while I still have breath left in me they won’t!’

There is new fire in her eyes and I realise she is serious. ‘Would you marry me?’ I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.

‘Are you asking me, Owen Tudor?’

I take her hand. ‘I love you, Catherine, as deeply as a man can love a woman.’ I kiss her softly on the lips and pull her closer so I can look into her beautiful blue eyes. ‘I will always love you, until the end of my days, as God is my witness. Will you be my wife, Catherine?’

‘I will.’ She hugs me so hard the old wound to my rib begins to hurt, and then whispers in my ear, as if we are likely to be overheard. ‘I love you, Owen. We must marry in secret, so by the time they find out it will be too late.’

‘
We cannot stay in Wallingford.’ My head is buzzing as I start thinking about the practical consequences. ‘It will be best if we find somewhere safe, as I dare not think what will happen when word gets out.’

‘Find us somewhere,’ she smiles, ‘if anyone can do it, you can.’

‘What do you think Duke Humphrey will say when he learns what we’ve done?’

Catherine laughs, her eyes shining with happiness. ‘Duke Humphrey and the cardinal—and all those who would have me locked away and forgotten—can say whatever they wish!’

Everything changes from that moment and all the things which were so important become irrelevant. The only person I dare to take into my confidence is Nathaniel. The former clerk is now responsible for the finances of the queen’s household and the two of us have become close friends over the years. I need Nathaniel’s help if our plan is to have any chance of success and arrange to meet in my study at Wallingford.

I see he knows me well enough to guess I am about to say something important. Once again I worry I am putting Nathaniel in danger by involving him, but this time I have no choice.

I take a deep breath. ‘Catherine has agreed to marry me.’ Even as I say the words the idea sounds absurdly reckless.

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I must congratulate you... although I don’t see how they will ever allow such a thing.’

‘That is why I’m telling you first. They will never allow it, so it has to be done in secret—and kept secret until it’s too late for them to stop us.’

Nathaniel sits back in his chair and strokes his new beard which makes him look older. Eventually he speaks. ‘We need to find someone prepared to conduct the service.’

‘It doesn’t have to be a priest, although I know Catherine will want the marriage to be blessed, even if it has to be done in secret.’

Nathaniel agrees. ‘It will help if they have influence at the Council of Westminster, someone whose word will not be questioned.’

‘Such as a bishop?’ I see the sense of Nathaniel’s suggestion.

‘A bishop would be ideal, if you can find one who does not feel obliged to inform Cardinal Beaufort.’

‘Bishop Philip Morgan of Ely is a Welshman, wealthy enough not to need Cardinal Beaufort’s support—and influential enough not to worry about upsetting Duke Humphrey. I could ask Catherine to write to him, requesting his help.’ I have never spoken to Bishop Morgan but he has known Catherine since before she came to England and would not betray her trust.

‘I’ll be happy to deliver the letter to the bishop in person, if that would help?’

‘I think it best if nothing is written down about this, at least for now. Will you travel to see the bishop and see if you can persuade him to visit the queen here?’

‘You are right. It is a risk to even tell Bishop Morgan what you are planning—yet I don’t see we have any choice.’

I feel a sense of foreboding again. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Nathaniel?’

‘You believe it is your destiny to marry Queen Catherine?’

‘I’ve always believed some things are meant to happen—and if this marriage is, then nothing we do will stop it.’

Bishop Morgan arrives the following week and has a private meeting with Catherine. A large man with a florid face and a deep Welsh accent, he suffers with poor eyesight and has learned to become a skilled listener. This proved invaluable in his diplomatic work, as the bishop served as Chancellor of Normandy and supported the peace negotiations.

Catherine confides to me later that Bishop Morgan tried his best to persuade her to see sense. He warned that the consequences could be serious for her and worse for me, yet realises she is determined and has offered his full support. The marriage will, he says, teach humility to those who are too quick to dismiss the mother of the king.

That evening the three of us meet in the queen’s apartments to discuss the arrangements. Catherine introduces me to the bishop, who is greatly interested in my Welsh ancestry.

‘I served as rector of Aberedowy as a young man.’ The bishop has a wistful look in his eye. ‘If I hadn’t gone into the church I could have been with your father, Tudor, fighting the English.’

‘My father was steward to the Bishop of Bangor. I remember little of that, as I was only seven when I came to London.’

The bishop smiles. ‘And now you wish to marry Queen Catherine. Can you confirm to me that you are free to do so?’

‘I can, Bishop Morgan, and I am grateful that you agreed to travel here.’

The bishop turns to Catherine. ‘There are many who would not agree, my lady, although I see no obstacle to this marriage—and I am happy to officiate at your wedding. We can hold it in the chapel here in Wallingford. It seems as good a place as any.’

‘Thank you, Bishop. There is one person we trust to be a witness, yet we still need to find a second. The problem is... we suspect the Constable of Wallingford, Thomas Chaucer, might be an agent for Cardinal Beaufort—and we can’t be sure who else to trust.’

The bishop looks unsurprised. ‘I will ask my good friend William Grey, the Bishop of London, to act as our second witness. It may be helpful if the validity of the marriage is ever challenged.’

‘Do you think it will be challenged, Bishop?’ I am concerned at how quickly our plan could unravel.

‘Of course—although you must understand that it is consummation which truly seals a legally binding marriage. Let us imagine you were to have another child, soon after you are married.’ He pauses to allow us to think about what he is saying. ‘There would be little point in their challenging that, would there?’ There is a twinkle in his eye when he sees our reaction.

Catherine brightens as she understands his point. ‘Any children of my marriage will be members of the royal family.’

I have always wished for a son and can see the logic of what the bishop is saying. Even Duke Humphrey will hesitate to accuse the king’s mother of having a child outside a legal marriage, particularly with his somewhat questionable past in that regard.

The bishop continues. ‘You will find William Grey is both discreet and sympathetic. He has little time for Cardinal Beaufort’s politics or the way he conducts himself as Bishop of Winchester. William may even agree that you can stay at his palace until all this blows over. He lives in London now and his country residence would be the perfect place to escape the attention of those in Westminster.’

Catherine is interested. ‘Where is his country palace, Bishop?’

‘It’s a manor house in a village called Much Hadam, in Hertfordshire.’ He gives me a knowing look. ‘Out of sight is out of mind, Tudor, remember that. They will have their hands full with this coronation in France and will be too busy to go searching for the mother of the king.’

After some discussion we decide the service will be held at midnight in the castle chapel. I am relieved to learn that Thomas Chaucer has been called away on business in London, and doubt anyone will wonder who is burning church candles at such a late hour. Nathaniel has agreed to act as a witness and also to keep a watch on the door to prevent the ceremony being interrupted.