The Tudor Bride (30 page)

Anne went quite pink at the idea of meeting Catherine. ‘Oh, it would be an honour to meet the qu … I mean the dowager queen,’ she stammered.

I laughed. ‘Yes, it is a dreary title, especially for a young and beautiful woman. But she is a very proud mother to the king.’

‘I can imagine. I pray to have a child soon myself.’ She touched the little reliquary around her neck which I therefore assumed held some charm or amulet to assist fertility.

‘The best thing for that is a husband in your bed,’ I whispered with a wink and her blush deepened. Raising my voice I addressed her sister across the table. ‘Did you have any adventures on the road from London, Mistress Mildy? We are told that all the outlaws have been cleared from the great north highway.’

Mildy pulled a face. ‘We did not get a sight of one,’ she said with obvious regret, ‘even though father had hired guards to protect us.’

‘Or perhaps because your careful father had hired guards,’ Geoffrey amended. ‘Although I am pleased to say there are now hefty fines for landowners if travellers are ambushed from their forests.’

‘It takes all the excitement out of travelling,’ complained Mildy.

‘That is a silly thing to say,’ Anne chastised her. ‘Freedom to travel without fear is one of the signs of a well-ordered kingdom, Thomas says.’

‘It is essential for his job and mine,’ put in Owen Tudor, who had overheard the remark as he returned from informing Catherine of the Vintners’ arrival. ‘I am to take you to her grace as soon as you are refreshed and ready, Master Vintner,’ he told Geoffrey, ‘and Madame Lanière is requested to bring your daughters to her presently.’

I noticed with an inward smile that young Mildy fluttered her eyelashes rather prettily when Owen’s gaze happened to light on her and in truth I could not blame her, for Catherine’s master of the wardrobe was a sight to gladden the eye of any unmarried girl, and probably quite a number of married ones as well. Since he had played his harp for the dying king and then for his queen during the long funeral cortège, Owen had matured from a gauche young soldier with the face of a dark angel, into a handsome man of affairs who, instead of his battered archer’s boiled-leather gambeson and boots, now sported the short fur-trimmed gowns, fine woollen hose and soft, artfully draped hats favoured by up-and-coming court officials. He still preferred to go clean-shaven and now wore his thick chestnut hair brushed to his shoulders, but the hours he continued to spend at the arms practice-ground had preserved his honed muscles and keen eye and even in the lofty halls of royal palaces he walked with the unconscious swagger of the trained warrior. Owen was quite accustomed to fielding the admiring glances of court damsels and frequently returned them with interest, as he did now with Mildy. He was certainly popular with the young ladies, but I had never heard any gossip about him taking advantage of them. It seemed he had a talent to amuse rather than abuse, and I had not heard of him making any long-lasting relationships or fathering any by-blows. He was either principled or careful. During our occasional friendly chats I had not yet managed to discover which.

After settling Anne and Mildy into their gatehouse quarters and then conducting them to Catherine’s solar, I spent the rest of the afternoon checking the castle stores, ensuring there were sufficient supplies of Lenten fish, cheese and vegetables available for the suddenly increased household. It was not until we were gathering for the evening meal in the great hall that I encountered Geoffrey Vintner again. He drew me into a window alcove so that we could speak privately.

‘Queen Catherine has honoured me with a place at the high table tonight,’ he revealed with a smile. ‘It is not as flattering as it seems for there are no noble guests to take precedence, but nevertheless people will doubtless jump to conclusions. So you must be the first to know that I have agreed to act as her treasurer and legal adviser, and I feel certain that I have you to thank for her patronage.’

I beamed with pleasure, but could not resist commenting, ‘Well, I may have made some mention of your smooth tongue and ready wit, but I think Walter probably has more to do with it than I. However, let me be the first to congratulate you and welcome you to the household. It is becoming quite a family affair, one way or another.’

‘I have the feeling that is how Queen Catherine likes it,’ Geoffrey observed. ‘Once I had accepted the appointment, she also told me of the Count of Mortain’s offer of marriage. What is your view of that?’

I frowned. ‘On the surface it looks good – a suitable match in many ways and there is no doubt that she needs the protection marriage would afford.’

Geoffrey’s lively blue eyes crinkled enquiringly. ‘Do I detect a but?’

‘Not on a personal level. Lord Edmund has admired Queen Catherine since he was a young squire and she likes him very well, so I am sure they would live together amicably. The “but” is that I am worried there may be objections from the council of regency. We hear much of the differences between the Gloucester and Beaufort affinities and this marriage proposal will undoubtedly kindle further argument. She would not want to find herself at the centre of a political row, especially if Gloucester does not play fair.’

Geoffrey gave a silent whistle and glanced quickly about for eavesdroppers. ‘Dangerous words, Mette! What makes you think he may not?’

‘Owen and Thomas were telling me about the rumours that have been spreading through London – that the queen mother has been banished from the king’s side because she is wanton and lewd. Of course they are scurrilous and false!’

‘I have heard them but ignored them. And they think they were started by Gloucester?’ Geoffrey’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Why would he do that?’

I shrugged. ‘Because he wants to undermine her influence with the king, or because his mistress wants him to, or simply because he is a bully – who knows? What worries me is what else he will do when he hears about the Beaufort marriage proposal.’

Although Lenten meals were suitably frugal and soon over, there was no lack of evening entertainment at Hertford and Catherine encouraged her household to display any talents they possessed for the enjoyment of others. Professional mumming, acrobatics and comic capering were restricted to special celebrations outside Lent, but music and singing and story-telling were always welcome and, of course, Owen Tudor was frequently prevailed upon to play the harp. On this particular evening, when Catherine had no noble guests, the trestles were removed and the household gathered around the wide hearth below the dais. The flambeaux and candles at the far end of the hall were extinguished or moved so that a pool of light enveloped only the assembled company, at the centre of which Catherine sat, within range of the flickering fire but sheltered from its fiercest heat by the side-drapes of her canopied chair.

She was obviously in a merry mood for she clapped her hands for more wine to be poured and eagerly suggested that Owen should play for them first. ‘Play something rousing, Master Tudor,’ she urged him, ‘something to stir our senses and get us tapping our feet. What about those tunes you learned from the Spanish dancers when you were fighting in Anjou? We have not heard them in a long time.’

Owen went to fetch his harp and a page set a stool for him in the middle of the hall.

‘Oh no, Owen, do not play so far away,’ called Catherine. ‘I love to hear the soundboard buzzing and see the strings vibrating. Come and sit here.’ She indicated a prominent position directly in front of her chair and motioned to everyone to move their stools and benches into a closer circle. I positioned myself in my accustomed place, beside Catherine but set back a little so that the young ladies-in-waiting could arrange themselves around her chair.

‘It is a fetching sight, is it not, the beautiful Queen Catherine surrounded by her damsels.’ The voice in my ear was Geoffrey Vintner’s. He had quietly moved to stand behind me with his back almost against the wall of the fireplace. Anne and Mildy sat on the other side of the circle on a bench with Walter between them.

‘It is a pity she is no longer at the centre of a lively court, as by rights she should be,’ I responded in a low voice. ‘Fate has not dealt kindly with her. But your daughters look well among her retainers.’ I did not know whether Catherine was considering the two girls as possible attendants, but I suspected that Geoffrey Vintner hoped she was. It would certainly do Mildy no harm in the marriage stakes if she was known to be a member of the Queen Mother’s entourage.

At this point Owen stopped tuning his harp and placed his hands over the strings, ready to begin. The buzz of conversation halted and the company lapsed into expectant silence, all eyes on the squire who sat perched on his stool, the foot of the harp cradled on his knees, its curved neck resting on his shoulder. ‘These dances are meant to be played on a gittern,’ Owen said in his distinctive lilting voice, ‘but I have adapted them to the small Welsh harp like this one that I play. I do not think the mad Spanish musician who taught them to me would approve, but he is not here, so – too bad.’ He flashed one of his engaging smiles at the eager faces around him and plucked the first chord.

The tune started gently, on notes that rose and fell through a mellifluous motif, as if a pair of dancers was warming up, each following the other’s moves, matching each flourish of the hand and each step of the foot on an ever-increasing beat until a pattern was established and the real revels could begin. There was a mesmerising, repetitive feel to the dance, the rhythm and pace building gradually, gaining confidence by minutes rather than seconds, so that it was some time before my foot started tapping.

As he played I watched Owen’s expression; concentrated, intent and at the same time relaxed, his lips upturned in a smile of pure pleasure and his eyes unmoving, almost unblinking, never straying to his fingers on the strings, but entirely fixed in a concentrated gaze on Catherine’s face. And hers were fixed on his; not avidly but dreamily, unconsciously, as if she was absorbing the message of the music not through her ears but through his eyes.

I hardly noticed the speed of the rhythm intensifying, but suddenly I found myself swaying to it and all around me people were reacting in their own way, some jigging, some flicking their fingers and those who were seated, tapping their knees. On his stool, Owen’s body began to pulse forwards and backwards as his hands moved more and more energetically across the harpstrings and as the pace increased, so too did the beat, pounded out by his thumb on the short base string, faster and faster, forcing the player to rock forwards and backwards as he plucked out the tune on the longer strings.

Suddenly there was a loud crack and one leg of Owen’s stool gave way, catapulting him onto his knees and almost into Catherine’s lap. Yet the music never ceased. Somehow the harp went with him, wedged between his knees and his shoulder and he kept on playing, his eyes still fixed on Catherine’s face. And because he continued to smile, she smiled back and began to laugh and soon everyone was smiling and laughing and clapping and tapping and the tune kept going faster and faster and higher and higher until it simply had nowhere to go and it ended with a plunging ripple down the strings to a loud, crashing, bass-chord finale.

Owen slumped sideways as if felled by the music and the harp toppled slowly over with him, causing Thomas to leap from his bench to rescue it. The broken stool lay upturned, its carved wooden leg splintered.

Catherine rose to bend over Owen. ‘Are you all right, Master Tudor?’ Her hand dropped automatically to the squire’s shoulder. ‘You never stopped playing! I do not know how you managed that. Are you sure you are not hurt?’

Owen suddenly seemed to realise where he was and scrambled hurriedly to his feet, his face turned away, eyes lowered in confusion. ‘No, Madame – your grace – not at all. The stool gave way but somehow I could not stop. I am sorry. I hope my fall did not spoil your enjoyment of the music.’ He was flustered now, his hand straying automatically to the shoulder where her hand had briefly lain.

Catherine straightened and stepped back, her composure also somewhat ruffled. ‘Not at all, Master Tudor. Your playing was, as always, superb. Thank you.’

She returned to her chair and began to applaud, encouraging the rest of us to follow suit. Owen bowed and smiled in response, took his harp from Thomas with a nod of thanks and carried it to where light from a flambeau allowed him to inspect it for damage. The offending stool was removed from the scene and people settled back into their chosen places. Catherine called for another volunteer to entertain the company and during the discussion that ensued, Geoffrey came up behind me again, bending to murmur in my ear.

‘Well, that was interesting, was it not? Have you been aware of vibrations between those two? And I do not mean the music.’

I turned enough to let him hear my muttered reply. ‘I have not. And I do not believe they have either.’

I had once or twice considered the possibility that Owen had a secret crush on Catherine; that this might be the reason for his apparent lack of interest in finding a wife or even taking a mistress, but now I began to wonder if the boot could be on the other foot. Could Catherine’s decision to marry Lord Edmund be a way of curing herself of amorous thoughts about someone else who would unquestionably be, as we French would put it, a
mésalliance
?

Catherine and Owen rode out together as usual the next morning and I made a point of going too. Was it coincidence, I asked myself, that their conversation about whether to increase the sheep flock at one of her Essex manors was conducted in a more stilted manner than usual and that she did not invite him to gallop with her down her favourite grassy woodland ride? Was she reacting against feelings aroused the previous evening? Then, chastising myself for indulging in idle speculation, I kicked Genevieve into a canter and put the idea firmly out of my head. If there were any unspoken feelings between the queen and Owen, surely it was all on his side. Catherine had made up her mind to marry Edmund Beaufort.