Root of the Tudor Rose (10 page)

Too excited to do much more than push her food around her platter, the young Queen became aware that her immediate neighbour, too, seemed to have lost his appetite. James of Scotland toyed with his food and looked longingly down the body of the hall to where a group of young noblewomen sat together. Henry Beaufort watched him with some amusement.

‘Don't worry, my boy, she still loves you!' he said and laughed.

‘Does she, Sire? How do you know?'

‘Because she told me so,' Beaufort replied, his eyes twinkling.

Catherine was curious. ‘Who loves you?' she asked, craning her neck to see who the King of Scotland was looking at.

‘My young niece, Joan,' said Henry Beaufort, ‘my late brother's daughter. A charming girl and a credit to the family. Nothing would please me better than to see her married to His Highness. I would be prepared to perform the ceremony personally. I might even be prepared to pay for the wedding!'

‘So many girls are called Joan,' Catherine said, ‘or Joanna. It is very confusing. Which one is she, my Lord? Show me.'

James pointed out a cool beauty in a blue gown, who raised her fair head at that precise moment and caught his glance. She gave him a radiant smile and a little wave of acknowledgement. He waved back.

‘Why don't you ask her to marry you?' Catherine asked.

James looked morose. ‘I already have and she is willing to be my bride,' he said.

‘Then what is stopping you?'

‘The King, my Lady.'

‘My husband? Why so?'

‘Because I am not here in England as his guest, your Highness. I am to all intents and purposes a political prisoner and he will not grant his permission for our marriage.'

‘A prisoner?' Catherine was very surprised at this. James was certainly not treated like a prisoner. In fact, Henry seemed very fond of him.

‘I was seized and abducted when I was a child, my Lady, many years ago, before your husband came to the throne, and I have been at the English court ever since. But it has suited the King's purpose to keep me here. He demands a very high ransom from my people for my return – though I confess that I have no wish to return to Scotland without Joan as my queen.'

‘But Joan is my husband's kinswoman, the Duchess Margaret's daughter.' Catherine frowned as she tried to understand the problem.

‘She is indeed,' agreed Bishop Beaufort on the other side of her. ‘She was the last of the children born to the Lady Margaret when she was married to my late brother John.' The Bishop crossed himself before continuing. ‘Then, after his death, Margaret became the Duchess of Clarence when she married the King's brother Thomas. So, my Lady, young Joan is your niece by marriage.'

‘Yes, of course,' she said with another exaggerated frown of concentration, at which her companions smiled. ‘And the King refuses to allow you to marry my niece, eh? Well, we'll see about that!' Then her frown melted into the sunniest of smiles. ‘I'm sure I can help.' She was confident of being able to swing Henry's opinion and she genuinely did want everyone to be as happy as she was that day.

She chose her moment carefully, waiting until she and Henry were lying in their canopied bed with the heavy curtains drawn around it for warmth in the draughty room. They had made love, not with passion but with the certainty of satisfaction which is the particular prerogative of the happily married. Now they lay side by side, Catherine's head in the crook of Henry's arm, their legs still entwined, their skin still damp from Henry's pleasure. She decided to test her strength.

‘Henry?'

‘Yes, my love.'

‘Are you happy?'

‘Mmmm. Of course. Why do you ask?'

‘Because I would like everybody in the world to be as happy as we are.'

‘Oh, yes? Now is that everybody, my sweet, or do you have anyone particular in mind?'

‘Joan,' said Catherine. ‘She is very lovely and so unhappy.'

‘Joan who? Belknap?'

‘No.'

‘Courcy?'

‘No.'

‘Not the old trout?'

Catherine gave a little squeal of laughter. ‘Oh, Henry! How can you call her that! Poor Troutbeck! No, not Joanna. Joan. Joan Beaufort, your uncle Henry Beaufort's niece. Margaret's daughter. Your kinswoman. My kinswoman, too, by marriage. I am concerned for her.'

Henry raised himself on his elbow and looked at her in the dim light. ‘Ah, but she wants to marry James of Scotland,' he said, ‘and I have expressly forbidden it.'

‘But why, Henry? They are both very much in love and they could be as happy as we are.'

‘Because, well, because … because there was a time when he refused to bear arms under my banner. Insolent young puppy. Needs to be taught a lesson.'

‘But he has a great deal of respect for you, Henry. He said so only this afternoon.'

Henry was quiet for a moment. ‘Did he really?'

‘Yes, he did. Talk to him tomorrow. For my sake. You could make him the happiest man in Christendom.'

‘Next to me.'

‘Next to you, of course.'

Henry paused then, after a moment, he said: ‘Very well, you sweet witch, you have beguiled me yet again. As long as James has come to his senses, I don't really mind him marrying. I'm not against the marriage in principle but he's still very young. It won't hurt them to wait a year or so. Anyway, I will discuss it with him tomorrow since you have asked me so prettily. In the meantime …'

Henry reached for her again and didn't see her little smile of triumph as she slid her body obligingly under his.

Chapter Six

Leicester, Easter 1421

March had turned very cold, just when Catherine thought that spring was coming at last. No sooner were the catkins dancing on the hazel trees to gladden the heart than winter delivered one last stab in the back, riming the reed beds with hoar frost, freezing the cart tracks on muddy roads, and making life well-nigh impossible for travellers. Still, Henry had sent for her and she was glad to go to him, even though it meant an arduous journey from London to Leicester.

It had upset her that he'd wanted to leave Westminster within a few days of her coronation. Why? She didn't understand. Was he in any way displeased with her? Perhaps he was, because he was clearly irritated by having to explain to her that he now needed to make contact with his subjects again as a matter of urgency. He had been away in France too long. The people would forget what he looked like unless he went out to meet them and how else would he persuade them to finance his army?

Catherine had tried to argue that there were plenty of people in London who saw him very regularly but Henry had countered her argument by pointing out that, though it was crowded, London was quite a small place. The real money lay with the big landowners outside London. Those were the people he wanted to talk to. Those were the people whose money he wanted, the people who would send their tenants to swell the ranks of his army.

So he left with a small retinue headed by his confessor, Bishop William Alnwick, a man who had served him well throughout his time in France, a man on whom Henry relied for spiritual guidance and Christian fellowship. Alnwick rode behind the King as they left Westminster heading west towards the town of Bristol. From there they would strike northwards through the Welsh marches, first to Hereford and then on to Shrewsbury.

Catherine felt surprisingly lonely without him. She would like to have a companion of her own age and social status. There was Margaret, of course, but she was old. Nevertheless, Margaret stayed close by Catherine's side and nothing would dissuade her from visiting Leicester and spending Easter there, particularly while her husband Thomas was still in France, looking after his brother's interests. So the women travelled together in some style though Catherine did wonder why Margaret thought they needed a retinue of over a hundred people, including knights, baggage handlers, four choristers, and ten priests as well as Anton, the royal chef.

As the royal party rode through the magnificent Turret Gate of Leicester Castle on the eve of Palm Sunday, Catherine was overjoyed to find Henry waiting for them. Royal protocol precluded an emotional reunion in public but she had no doubt of his pleasure at seeing her again. At every turn she saw him gazing at her with hunger in his eyes and he lost no opportunity of touching her hand, of whispering an endearment or squeezing her thumb as the secret sign of their physical need for each other.

So it came as no surprise that he strode through her dressing-room and into the bedchamber just as Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were unpacking her boxes and coffers and helping her change out of her travel clothes.

‘Out!' he ordered them, clapping his hands loudly and with a broad grin on his face. ‘Go, get out of here at once. I can no longer endure the parting from my wife, no, not for one moment longer. Out!'

He chased them out of the room and they went, squealing with laughter, still clutching combs and mirrors, dropping shoes in their hurry, leaving their mistress clutching her shift to her breasts, her hair un-braided and falling over her shoulders. Henry turned the key in the lock behind them, then leaned back heavily against the door.

‘Catherine, it's only been a few weeks … but …' He looked at her dumbly for a moment, his smile fading, shaking his head in wonder, his need for her draining the colour from his face. She held out her arms to him and he moved towards her.

He buried his head in her shoulder. ‘I have dreamed of this moment, Catherine. I have lived it, re-lived it.' With his face against her neck, the dear familiar scent of lavender almost overwhelmed him.

‘Don't talk, Henry, please. Just let me feel you close to me. Close to me, Henry. Please, Henry, please …' She pulled him towards the bed.

It was with great urgency that he took her and, though she arched her back and responded to him with a desire that matched his own, he wondered afterwards whether he had been just a little brutal, hurting her perhaps.

‘Catherine, I'm sorry. I have never felt so great a need. Did I hurt you?' He was lying on his back still panting slightly, his forearm on his forehead, his passion spent. ‘My sweet love, please forgive me. Soldiers can be rough brutes.'

Lying naked beside him, Catherine breathed a dramatic sigh and smiled an age-old female smile as she looked up at the pattern in the fabric of the canopy above them.

‘My Lord,' she said solemnly, ‘I hope you don't expect me to
walk
in tomorrow's Palm Sunday procession!'

The royal family spent much of Holy Week on their knees in full religious observance of Easter in the little stone church of St Mary-de-Castro.

At Henry's side, Catherine watched the consecration of the holy oils and the commemoration of the Blessed Eucharist and by Easter Sunday she permitted herself the sacrilegious thought that, surely, God was at last satisfied with her devotions. She had said ‘
Attende Domine
' so many times that she felt sure she had persuaded the Almighty to attend to her most fervent prayer and grant that, before too long, she should conceive a child, a male heir to the throne of England.

All too soon Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were packing her clothes yet again because Henry, who always found it difficult to relax, was impatient to move on. The court was to be based next at York while the King and his Queen, with a smaller retinue, made pilgrimages to Beverley and Bridlington. Henry's father had placed him under the patronage of St John of Bridlington when he was a young boy and it pleased him greatly that the date of St John's day of translation, the twenty-fifth of October, was also St Crispin's Day, the very day on which he had won his most celebrated battle at Agincourt six years previously. Though he would vehemently deny that he was at all superstitious, Henry felt he owed a great deal to St Crispin and to the intercession of St John. He was always keen to go to Bridlington.

What Catherine looked forward to most was a few days' rest since, never the best of travellers, she had found the jerky movement of the royal carriage had given her a feeling very akin to seasickness and she was very tired. She awoke in York the following morning to the sound of Henry's squire coming into their bedchamber to rouse his master. She had been sleeping deeply. Henry dropped a kiss on her forehead and followed the squire into his dressing room. Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the great bed, Catherine reached for the little bell she kept by the bedside which would bring Guillemote to her at any time and for any reason. When Guillemote arrived moments later, she heard her mistress being violently sick in the latrine.

‘Dear God, Guillemote,' she said in a weak voice. Guillemote held her forehead as she leaned forward and retched again. ‘I have never felt so ill.'

Guillemote's mind was racing. The oldest of thirteen children, she had often observed that when her own mother vomited before breakfast, there'd be yet another baby later in the year. But she didn't want to raise Catherine's hopes, not just yet.

‘Can it be that you have eaten some English food which has upset you, my Lady? Or I wonder if it could perhaps be the effects of the long journey?'

‘I wish I knew. But until I feel a great deal better, I won't be making any more journeys, not for a few days, anyway.'

‘Come, my Lady. Let me help you back to your bed.' Guillemote was fussing with cloths and rosewater, trying to clean Catherine's mouth. ‘I'll fetch the Lady Margaret. She'll know what to do.'

‘Yes,' Catherine agreed, climbing back into the great bed and pulling the covers up under her chin. ‘Margaret will know what to do.'

Coming back into the bedchamber, Henry was alarmed to see her looking so pale. He took the maid to one side. ‘What is it, Guillemote?' he asked.

‘I don't rightly know, Your Highness. She seems calm enough now but she has been quite ill.'