Crown in Candlelight (59 page)

‘This is the new fashion?’ she said in amazement.

‘Everyone wears it. Taylor told me. It’s not pretty to my mind, but perfect for the purpose.’

She studied her reflection. She said, for the fourth time that day: ‘Why are you going to Southampton? Who is in Southampton?’

Friends, he answered. He thought: the monk who tended my wound may still be there, and John Page. They will know of a priest to do my bidding.

‘Oh, it feels tight!’ she said, and wriggled out of the gown. She said: ‘Have you enough money?’ and became very intent on choosing stockings from a pile on the bed.

‘Thank you, yes.’ A little constraint grew between them. Already her gift of the fine bay horse had hurt and delighted him. She saved the moment quickly.

‘I know. You have a woman in Southampton! Ha! She’s welcome to you. At last I shall have some peace.’

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The secret’s out. I’m tired of you,
cariad
. You are so fat!’

‘Who made me fat?’ she cried. He dropped to his knees, and before she could protest, he whipped up her shift and began kissing her belly. I did, he said. I did, my little girl. This is where my new son lies. The kisses moved downwards. And this, the soft gateway of his kingdom … A convulsion moved in her, as if a tiny planet had shifted on its axis. She put her hands in his hair. She whispered: ‘Ah …
mon amour
. Do you remember when we made this child? We had a lot of wine. Your kinsmen called on us. You sang for me. You made me drunk …’

He rose from his knees. He began to kiss her throat and breast. He said, ‘Everyone was drunk. Howell ap Llewellyn misplaced his harp. A most wonderful evening. A more wonderful night …’

She slipped her hands under his shirt. She began to caress him as wantonly and skilfully as he had once caressed her. He tried to take her hands. Her long lips were smiling wickedly.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No,
cariad
. There’s danger in it. I want this child. What will we call him?’

‘Owen,’ she said. ‘My little Owen.’

He was weakening. He took her shift off, and held her naked body hard against him. She kissed his eyes, his neck, his mouth. He could feel their hearts racing, exactly in time.

‘Bolt the door,’ she whispered. ‘Guillemot …’

‘We shall be late,’ he whispered. He did as she said.

He tried to be careful. She was very reckless today, she swung him into rapture. He felt that part of his soul had flowed into her. Sometimes it made him want to weep. This was one of those times.

‘That was very foolish,’ he said softly. ‘Forgive me, my love.’

Her closed eyelids were moist. She lay smiling. There was a delicate map of blue veins on her breasts. He touched where the child lay. He had felt it move, petulantly. She was so beautiful. Still the dream, the unfathomable, unbelievable, beloved dream. Oh, Cathryn, my dearest dream.

‘Don’t go to Westminster,’ he said. She sat up, and kissed him.

‘I feel well,’ she said. ‘I feel wonderful.’

Her skin felt cold. ‘Let me dress you,’ he said. ‘I love to dress you. The times I’ve dressed you, and undressed you. My little girl.’

She sat while he drew the fine woollen stockings on her legs and bound a garter about each thigh. What pretty garters, Madame, he said—who bought them for you, a lover? Yes, a lover, she said. From Hadham Market. He kissed the flesh above each garter. The strange little convulsion moved deep inside her again. I’ve never felt like this, she thought. As if a universe were whirling about within me. Lie still, little Owen. We are for Westminster. She watched the deft strong musician’s hands, felt the corns left by the harp on each fingertip a little rough on her skin. He lifted kirtle and petticoat over her head and drew them down. Then the dress, which seemed less tight now. It was still a monstrosity. It made her look as fat as Bet, at the tavern …

‘We never found it,’ she said.

‘What, my love?’

‘The tavern, at Staines.’

‘I think you set us on the wrong road,’ he said.

She had wanted him to see the tavern at Staines, where the baby Henry had been so happy. She wanted him to see Bet. She had wanted, belatedly, to reward Bet herself. But the tavern was no more. They had looked for it for a day; there was no trace of it. It had disappeared, like a mythical halt on some faery wayside. Only the memory remained, an everlasting warmth.

‘We’ll try and find it again,’ he said.

She sat before the mirror: He combed her hair, expertly, with no tugging or tweaking. His brilliant eyes were veiled over his task, the shirt was open at his strong throat. She watched him, sick with love. The pleasurable convulsion moved within her again, almost a pain. When every hair was free as silk, he made the two long braids, anchoring them about her head with butterfly pins. He placed her great wired headdress with its pinnacles of starched linen on her hair. He looked up and winked at her in the mirror. He bent and kissed between her neck and shoulder.

‘Dame Alphonse used to tell me not to look in the mirror. She said I’d see the Devil. She didn’t know I was worried because I was so ugly.’

He didn’t laugh. He said simply: ‘You’re lovely, Cathryn. The loveliest woman I ever saw in my life.’ He found it suddenly difficult to speak. He said: ‘I must get dressed. We’ll both be late.’

She left him. She went smiling, and glowing, below to the courtyard, stopping on the way at a small chamber where she unlocked the coffer of her Privy Purse. Huw had given up chasing Guillemot, who had gone inside to find her duties done. Huw knelt respectfully as Katherine approached, his eyes popping at sight of the new gown. Masking the boy and herself from the window, she gave him a leather bag. Owen would be furious. Let him be.

‘There is two hundred livres sterling here, Huw,’ she said. ‘For unforeseen contingencies during whatever folly you two are about. Guard it for your master.’

‘For my lord,’ he said, his small dark face violently serious.

‘For mine,’ she said, turning away.

Her carriage was ready to take her to the Parliament. Winter was on its way. The lovely winter nights by the fire, with the lute and the loving, and the new baby. She breathed deeply. Even the fog tasted sweet, promising. The servants who were to accompany her were standing ready. Guillemot came running out, red-faced. Then Owen, in his tawny velvet cloak and cap. He drew Katherine aside. The carriage swung from side to side as the horses shifted their feet.

‘Farewell then,
fy merch fach
,’ he said. ‘Farewell, my little girl. My humblest duty to the King’s Grace.’

‘Can’t we ride a little way together?’

‘Better not. I must ride fast. Too fast for your comfort. It will not be long …’ He frowned, he looked closely at her. ‘You’re not troubled? There’s nothing to fear. The gown is a sure shield.’

‘Dreadful gown!’ she said. ‘And I’m not afraid. I don’t think I shall ever be afraid again.’

‘Well, long live the French squabbles,’ he said merrily, ‘if they keep Gloucester away!’

He mounted the bay. Huw sprang on the pony and took the reins of the spare horse. The keen bay reared and snorted. Owen turned, and raised his hand.

‘Adieu, Madame. Adieu, until we meet again!’

The bay’s hooves struck a flash from the stones. The horses moved forward swiftly through the gate. Fog swallowed them and their riders. The strange little feeling moved deep in Katherine again. Not a pain. More like the sensation of an hour ago, when she had cried and twisted and trembled, cleft by love. The maids were holding Edmund and Jasper, ready to say their farewells, just inside the hall; Owen had kissed them before he left. She had forgotten the ruby ring. The King would be disappointed if she wasn’t wearing it. She mounted once more to the little room where she kept her coffers. The ruby, usually a loose fit, was snug today. Her fingers were swollen; something that hadn’t happened with any of her other children. The Welsh gold ring was painfully tight; it worried her. Any further swelling and it would have to be cut off. She tugged at it, removed it with difficulty. She locked it carefully away; her most precious piece. She recalled the night it had been placed on her finger. The night they both still talked about with joy and wonder, even in face of the thousand subsequent nights of equal joy. She recalled splitting Humphrey’s eyebrow open with it. No need to fear Humphrey today. Yes, she thought. I think I have at last ceased to fear. I can strike back; I feel so well, so fine. Long live the French squabbles, if they keep Humphrey away!

She made good time to Westminster, arriving at evening when she heard Compline with the King in St Stephen’s Chapel. Henry seemed pleased to be with her again, but now there was a certain detachment about him. He seemed at times lost within himself and when praying his whole body trembled frighteningly. His eyes flickered over the low neckline of her gown with the shrewd look of a little old priest. Yet he was sweet and courteous, although when she thanked him privately for the recommendation of Barking Abbey he merely nodded and didn’t ask after his half-brothers. However, when it was time for bed, he thawed suddenly and spoke of them with eagerness, all the time looking over his shoulder as if for a judgement. She lay wakeful for a long time. She followed Owen in her mind on the Southampton road. It would take him four days, barring accidents. Supposing his proposed mischief there took two days—she would be back home to welcome him. She summoned his face clearly into her mind to hold as the last thing before she slept.
Don’t love so much, Princess
, said old Dame Alphonse in the dream,
it is unfitting …Be quiet, old nun
, said Owen, laughing.
What do nuns know of love?
The white dog gambolled round them, its coat bloody … horrible. Katherine came up out of the dream quickly. The child was moving restively, as if it too disliked the dream. She lay awake until dawn, whispering softly to the child. Little Owen.

It was just as she had been told about the new fashion. Everyone was wearing it; everyone looked
enceinte
. During the service in the Abbey, all through the bidding prayers and invocations, the interminable plainsong of the monks, her spirits rose. She wanted to laugh. How many secrets like hers were concealed beneath the monstrous houpelande? The merry mood persisted even throughout the opening ceremony, with Henry’s cold shaking hand in hers and the stiff hauteur of the royal arms bristling above their heads behind the great gold cross. Covertly she studied the assembly. There were many unfamiliar faces. Faces missing too. Philippa of York had been dead for five years, likewise the Countess of Huntingdon. Anne of Bedford was dead. Margaret of Clarence looked dowdy and faded. She peered through the press of knights and councillors, abbots and bishops and commoners. They were all girding themselves to petition the little King with a myriad private controversies. She saw how closely Suffolk guarded him, and was glad. Better Beaufort’s man than Gloucester’s. Then she saw Eleanor Cobham in the gallery of ladies, dark-clad as usual. She had made no attempt to follow the new fashion and looked her insignificant self Well, no need to speak to her. Even if she descended with her counterfeit love. Did she miss her husband? It was hard to imagine anyone missing Humphrey.

Eleanor looked at her. She neither bowed nor gave any sign of recognition. She only looked, for about half a minute, a look of almost childlike opacity; it filtered through Katherine and out the other side. Katherine looked back.
Maudite
Cobham. Burning my poor little Guillemot’s arm.

Katherine had been standing for a long time. Her back was aching a little. She shifted her feet for comfort. The child rolled about in sympathy. When the time came to withdraw her feeling of lightheartedness had vanished. Soon she would find somewhere quiet, send for her women, rest. But first there was St Edward’s Chapel to visit. An eerie, inevitable duty, totally without sadness. Her only emotion a vague affection for something in another life. There was no quietness in the Chapel; it was full, people praying or gossiping while the chanting of the monks mingled with the chipping of a solitary mason, improving the frieze of the H-shaped canopy. As she approached Harry’s lucent silver effigy she noticed the mason’s face: Like one of his own gargoyles, an evil, leering little face. Her backache increased. She lit a candle for Harry. She prayed, sincere and brief. With half her mind she heard a commotion outside the door, and someone calling: ‘Better late than never!’ Men laughing.

Margaret of Clarence approached. She kissed her on the cheek. She said what Katherine had been thinking.

‘There are so few old friends left, Katherine. You should visit more often. You look so well, so handsome. I used to quarrel with Philippa, but how I miss her! Have you news of James of Scotland? I hear he’s in great trouble with his nobles. There have been two assassination attempts lately. At Perth, I believe.’

The strange little convulsive feeling inside Katherine sprang up again. It decided to become a pain. It gripped and worried her casually, then joined itself to the ache in her back.

‘I wrote to James,’ she said steadily. ‘I’ve had no reply. That was in June.’

‘How pale the light makes everyone look in here!’ said the Duchess. ‘I’m always pale. I’ve lost what beauty I had, and that was little—but you! How’s it done?’ She laughed; there was an edge of malice to her compliment this time.

Katherine did not answer. The girdle was unbearably tight beneath her breasts. She itched to tear at it. Owen would be halfway to Southampton by now. The bay was a good horse. He knew how to nurse a horse along. But he should not have girdled her so tight … But that was yesterday! she thought dizzily. Guillemot gowned me this morning. Foolish Guillemot, who loves me so. The pain roamed idly seeking a nerve to feed on. It curved down along her spine, inwards to her loins. Regular, like the drone of James of Scotland’s bagpipers. A slow grinding beat that renewed itself at shorter intervals. It will pass. I’ve felt so well, so carefree, all these months. And it did pass, as if commanded. She straightened her back, sighing with relief. For a moment I thought I was … no, that wasn’t how I remember the miscarriages … it was more like …