Root of the Tudor Rose (31 page)

Catherine demanded that a horse be found for her and kept up with the procession every step of the way. If her son was going to fall off that skittish animal, she was going to be there to pick him up and comfort him. Mercifully, he didn't and the royal party arrived safely at the Palace of Kennington. The Keeper, Sir John Waterton, awaited them, ready to greet them formally but Henry was still astride the horse, clinging to the saddle, and Catherine would make small talk with no one until he was safely on the ground, however rude they considered her behaviour. It was only when she had seen him slithering off the skittish mount and into the waiting arms of the Duke of Exeter that she could relax. She ran to Henry and hugged him.

‘Did you see me ride, Maman?' he demanded, his trepidation having quickly evaporated in the excitement of the moment. ‘My uncle of Gloucester says I will be a great horseman one day. But the horse wasn't going very fast.'

‘It was going fast enough, my little soldier!' she said. ‘You were very, very brave.'

‘Your Royal Highnesses,' said Sir John Waterton, bowing extravagantly to Catherine and Henry. ‘You are most warmly welcome here at Kennington. It is a great honour you do us in staying for a few days.'

Despite an aching back, Catherine straightened up and gracefully extended her hand. ‘Thank you, Sir John. I look forward to being here with my son the King who, as you see, is developing great skills as a horseman. He has surprised us all. Now, if he and his governess and his nurse could be shown to his rooms, please, he will need to rest before supper. He has had a tiring day.'

She, too, was exhausted and once Guillemote had helped her out of her outdoor clothes and into a comfortable robe, she sat for a moment in her room and took stock of events. She worried desperately that little Henry was being moulded into a soldier king while he was far too young to know what was happening. He was a quiet, sensitive child and could well grow up to inherit his father's fondness for books, rather than his skills on the battlefield. She also knew that she herself had been relegated to the shadowy fringes of her little boy's life. There was no longer a role for her in the upbringing and education of her firstborn.

Almost unawares, she had started thinking of Henry as her firstborn because she was also sure by now that he would have a brother or a sister within the next six months. When she was at this stage in her first pregnancy, it had been a cause for great celebration, she was carrying the King's child, the much-wanted, long-awaited heir to the thrones of England and France. She had fulfilled the wishes of her royal husband and everyone rejoiced. She was the means by which the great Lancastrian line of kings would continue.

But things were very different this time and one thing was clear: she had no idea how she was going to keep it a secret but nobody at court must ever know about this baby. She was still the Queen, the Dowager Queen, the mother of the King, and yet, like any common kitchen wench, she had been got with child by a servant.

Chapter Seventeen

Summer 1425

Though Catherine had always felt relaxed and comfortable at Windsor, by now she was glad to be away from there because by every action, every instruction he issued, Humphrey made it abundantly clear that she was no longer a person of any importance in her son's life. He had established himself as the authority to whom everyone should defer; his decisions were final. The King's mother was of no consequence and John of Bedford was still in France so Humphrey was the King's sole guardian, the Duke Protector. There would be no argument.

Wary of almost everyone around her these days, Catherine couldn't rid herself of the suspicion that Elizabeth Ryman was spying on her and reporting back to the Duke, so she was pleased to think that she would see a great deal less of her in future.

It also pleased her that she need have nothing more to do with Eleanor Cobham, the woman who had usurped Jacqueline's place at Humphrey's side. Catherine had taken a deep dislike to her and found it difficult to decide whether that was simply because of what had happened to Jacqueline or because there was something in Eleanor's dark, haughty face that defied anyone to question her position in the Duke's life. He was rarely seen these days without Eleanor somewhere near him, hanging on his every word, an expression of adulation in her calculating eyes. She was, beyond question, a beautiful woman, but it was the kind of chiselled beauty which had a hard edge to it. More than once, she had tried to claim friendship with Catherine, calling her ‘my dear', as though they were on intimate terms. It took all Catherine's self-control not to claw the woman's face.

So she was pleased to be in charge of her own small household and she enjoyed the responsibility of making decisions in the day-to-day running of Baynard's Castle. Guillemote was with her, of course, as were Les Trois Jo-jo and her domestic staff. She'd had to leave Anton behind in the King's service, though he did promise to keep her supplied with her favourite cakes and biscuits. She remembered how his culinary genius had been thwarted during the visit to York, four years ago, when news came of the Duke of Clarence's death. She had wanted to celebrate her pregnancy then, something she certainly couldn't do now. The circumstances were very different. This time, she dared not arouse suspicion.

Owen's joy that Catherine was to bear his child was overwhelming but knowing what her pregnancy could mean to them both if it became public knowledge engulfed him in horror. Woe betide them if Gloucester should ever find out. He'd find a reason to pack Catherine off to a nunnery at the very least and Owen himself would probably lose his head.

They locked themselves into Catherine's bedchamber, telling Guillemote that they must not be disturbed under any circumstances. Guillemote, having heard Catherine vomiting in the latrine twice since Sunday, had a shrewd idea why.

‘We can't stay in London, Catrin,' said Owen. ‘We must get as far away from court as we possibly can.'

‘But I like Baynard's Castle, I feel safe here now that we've settled in. And it's only a short river journey to Windsor if I should wish to see Henry …'

‘Cariad, look at me,' Owen took both her hands and pressed them together, covering them with his own. Then he kissed the tips of her fingers, his face very close to hers. Raising his eyebrows, he gave her a quizzical smile. ‘Catrin, your pregnancy is the logical conclusion of what you and I have been doing to pleasure each other, isn't it?' She dropped her gaze and nodded, smiling despite her anxiety. ‘And the logical conclusion of your pregnancy is that you will give birth to a child. Yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you can't do that here in London, can you?'

‘No.'

‘Very well. You cannot take the smallest risk that someone will guess that you're pregnant. Imagine what Humphrey of Gloucester would do if he found out! So I think it's high time you visited some of your dower properties in Wales, don't you?'

‘Wales? But it is such a long way away from here!'

‘Exactly. So, let's make some plans.'

It was a pleasant day, sunny with a light breeze off the Thames, so, with very few pressing duties to attend to, Henry Beaufort took a small mounted guard of half a dozen men with him as he set out to conduct some private business north of the river. During the morning he called on his vintner and they spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour together while the Bishop tasted a number of newly imported wines. Having made his choices, Henry placed his order and concluded his business. Then he took his leave and, climbing the mounting block outside the vintner's premises, thought it odd that the man closed the door behind him rather more quickly than was polite. It was only then that he became aware of a gaggle of wharf men gathering outside the tavern at the sign of The Crane and they were inching threateningly towards him. He was on his horse in an instant and his guards quickly took up their positions around him.

‘Oi, Bishop! Over ‘ere!' Despite himself, Henry looked towards the group of wharf men. There appeared to be about twenty of them, armed with long staves of wood which they began to bang rhythmically on the ground as they moved to form a semicircle, getting closer. The tall man who was shouting with his hands cupped around his mouth was clearly the ring-leader.

The captain of the guard manoeuvred his horse into a more defensive position near the Bishop's black stallion. ‘Leave them to us, my Lord Bishop,' he said, ‘we'll soon see them off.'

Henry held up his hand to silence the man, though his heart was thudding with fear. ‘No, let's hear what they have to say. I need to know what's going on.'

‘You don't scare us, Bishop!' shouted the ringleader. ‘You nor your guards neither. And you'll never get us to work with them foreign bastards. They've got to go. English workers need the jobs.'

‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!' chorused the group, beating the rhythm of their chant on the ground with their staves. ‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!'

‘Wait!' shouted Henry. ‘Wait! Listen to me! I understand your concerns but I assure you that restrictions have been placed on the movements of foreign merchants and those in their employment. The Council has passed the legislation.'

‘Yeah, but it hasn't stopped them, has it? It's all your fault, you two-faced cheat. You say one thing to them and another thing to us. We should have listened to the Duke. He was right.'

‘Out, out, out! Foreign workers out!' The mindless chant continued among those at the back of the group who couldn't quite hear what was going on at the front.

‘Are you a man of God, Bishop?' asked the ringleader, mocking.

‘Of course!'

‘So if we threw you in the dock you'd float, wouldn't you? Your angel wings would ‘elp you to swim. Come on, lads! Let's shove ‘im in the dock. ‘E won't drown. God is on ‘is side!'

Henry was terrified now as one of the wharfmen ducked suddenly forward and grabbed his horse's bridle. The agitated animal started neighing with fear, jerking its head away from the assailant, spittle gathering in the corners of its mouth. The guards flailed from left to right with their short swords and when the captain drew blood the crowd fell back a few paces before one of the thugs turned his long wooden stave and prodded Henry's horse in the rump with the sharpened end. The black stallion reared up, pawing the air in terror and nearly unseating Henry who clung on to its mane, trying to force its head down. The crowd scattered and the horse, seeing a gap between them, darted forward.

Henry was still clinging on as the frightened animal, given its head, cantered past the Vintners' Hall, through the Vintry, and on to Three Cranes Lane, sending startled street traders running for cover and scattering cabbages and parsnips in its wake. Riding furiously at the gallop, one of Henry's guards managed to overtake him and grabbed the loose bridle, heading off the horse until it was forced to stop, rolling its eyes and side-stepping fretfully. Henry slid out of the saddle, trying to hide the uncontrollable trembling in his legs.

‘My Lord Bishop,' said the Captain, riding up alongside, ‘are you hurt?'

Henry, temporarily winded, shook his head.

‘The church of St Michael Queenhithe is no great distance, my Lord. Perhaps you could rest there for a while. You must be feeling badly shaken.'

‘No … thank you … no,' Henry panted, bent double as he tried to catch his breath. He had heard that the new incumbent at St Michael's was a skinny, sanctimonious prig who kept an empty cellar and Henry was badly in need of a drink. No, he would bypass St Michael's.

‘St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe is almost as near,' he said to the captain as he straightened up, his breathing rather less painful now. ‘I know the Rector there. He's a good man. He'll give me a glass of decently strong mead, at least.'

The Reverend Marmaduke de Kyrkeby was already entertaining a guest when Bishop Beaufort was shown into the room. ‘Ah,' said Beaufort as they rose to greet him, ‘de Kyrkeby and Gray. I couldn't have asked for more! I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you. Both of you. Let me sit down. I need a drink. I've just had the most distressing experience.' He sat, heavily, and the other two clerics started fussing around, finding a goblet and filling it.

‘There, my Lord Bishop,' said Marmaduke de Kyrkeby, handing him a generous measure, ‘that will steady your nerves and calm you down. Now, tell William and me exactly what happened.'

The Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe was an inch or two shorter than Bishop Beaufort. His greying hair was thinning on top of his head but still grew in a profusion of curls where his plump neck showed above his collar. William Gray, the newly nominated Bishop of London, might have been his twin brother, with the same receding hairline and was comfortably full in his skin. The three men had always been relaxed and easy together, contemporaries who had struck up a friendship on meeting for the first time in Oxford as undergraduates and had remained friends ever since their student days. Beaufort's royal blood had ensured his rapid rise through minor orders to an early prebendary at Lincoln, quickly followed by the deanery of Wells. William Gray, too, had pursued a successful career in the Church, culminating in his recent nomination as Bishop of London. On the other hand, de Kyrkeby, never an ambitious man, had remained in relatively minor orders throughout his career, settling happily at St Andrew's, where he had served as Rector for many years. It was a fairly wealthy parish and provided sufficient income for his modest needs. His only temptation was a glass of good wine and he gave in to that fairly frequently on the grounds that, since it was his only vice, it was hardly likely to cause The Almighty much offence.

‘A most excellent vintage, my old friend,' Beaufort said, reaching out to accept a second glass. ‘Tell me, Marmaduke, what do you know of your charming new neighbour at Baynard's Castle?'