Owen (19 page)

I make my way into the towering cathedral that dominates the city of Rouen and my troubled mind is calmed by the atmosphere of silent reverence. Finding a deserted side chapel, I light a candle in Catherine’s memory. I say a prayer of gratitude that she blessed my life with her love, and know what I must do.

* * *

The captain of our ship makes us wait in Rouen for a week before he is satisfied the winds and tides are good enough for the return voyage. Even then, the skies are darkening as we cast off from the quay. An unseasonably chill wind tugs at the flapping sails as we make our way back down the River Seine towards Honfleur and the English Channel.

With a final wave to the crowds who have come to see her off, Margaret retires to her cabin, followed by Lady Alice and her French servants. I prefer to remain on deck, watching as the historic city of Rouen, dominated by the cathedral of Notre Dame, recedes into the distance. Juliette stands at my side, unusually silent, as if she senses something has changed between us.

I must be direct with her. ‘I am sorry, Juliette. You know I still think of Catherine, every day?’

‘Has enough time not passed now, Owen?’ She puts her hand on my arm, no longer concerned about what anyone might think. ‘How long are you going to mourn Catherine?’

‘She is not gone, Juliette, she lives... in my thoughts and prayers.’

‘I understand—young Margaret reminds you of her?’ There is bitterness in her voice now.

‘Margaret is nothing like Catherine, but meeting her has made me think... you deserve better.’

‘I made my choice years ago, Owen, and knew the consequences.’

Not for the first time I wonder if she would have left me for another if she had been capable of having children. Juliette is still beautiful and I’ve seen how other men look at her. When I think of all the years we were apart I find it hard to believe she was patiently waiting for me to one day return. I could marry her easily enough, but would be living a lie. It will hurt us both to part when we reach England, yet it is the only way I can set her free.

As we leave the shelter of the estuary at Honfleur and head out into the English Channel I hear a shout from a sailor who has climbed high up the mast. At first I can’t understand what the man is saying and then see him shout again and point to the far horizon.

Juliette looks concerned. ‘Is he saying there is a storm ahead?’

I glance up at the darkening sky and recall a sailor’s saying: Mare's tails and mackerel scales make lofty ships take in their sails. The rhyme may be no use to me, as there are no oddly shaped clouds, but I sense the approaching storm in my bones and see the waves are already crested with white spray. ‘This weather could mean we have to return to Honfleur.’

‘There are worse places to be stranded than Honfleur.’

‘It is always better to be in a safe harbour wishing you were at sea than at sea wishing you were safely in a harbour.’

Juliette holds out her hand, palm upwards. ‘I knew it. Rain is coming.’

A stiff breeze nearly takes my hat as I lead her towards the cabins. We barely make it to shelter before the rain starts hammering on the deck, soaking the sailors who are unable to join us in the lee of the cabin. We watch as the visibility reduces to almost nothing and the captain shouts for his crew to reef the mainsail.

A flash of lightning illuminates the deck, followed by a crash of thunder, close enough to startle Juliette. She takes my hand and I am comforted by the feel of her warmth, although this is only going to make it more difficult when we arrive back at Windsor Castle.

‘Don’t worry, Juliette. It will soon pass.’ My lie sounds hollow.

As if to prove me wrong a second crash of thunder makes us both flinch as it booms overhead. A heavy wave swamps the deck, washing away several heavy barrels. A sailor saves himself by clinging to the wet ropes as the ship lurches to starboard in the increasing swell. The barrels float off to sea and are soon out of sight. If any of the crew fall overboard they won’t stand a chance in these conditions.

Sir William emerges, holding a handkerchief over his face. He sees us huddled together in the shelter of the cabin entrance. A flicker of understanding shows in his eyes before he dashes past them to the rail and leans over the side, his body heaving. The rain continues in torrents and Sir William’s clothes are soaked before he returns. He runs a wet hand over his face and turns to Juliette.

‘Go below, if you will, and see what you can do to help my wife.’

Juliette is used to men like Sir William and hurries down the narrow passage leading to the cabins. I am surprised a veteran of so many Channel crossings is such a poor sailor. Sir William has lost his hat and his hair is plastered to his face like wet seaweed. He clutches at the door-frame to steady himself as the ship heels again, its timbers creaking with the strain. He has to shout to be heard over the noise.

‘Find the captain, Tudor. Tell him we must turn back before this storm grows worse.’

I peer out and see how the waves are crashing over the bows and seem to be growing larger as we head further out to sea. The decision to turn back or continue is entirely one for the captain and I know he will not thank me for offering Sir William’s advice.

‘The wind is behind us, my lord, I think the captain is a capable man.’

‘The storm is worsening. I’ve crossed the English Channel many times and never seen it as bad as this.’

Another wave swamps the deck as we watch and this time cold seawater puddles at our feet. I taste the salty spray on my lips and see the grimace of concern on Sir William’s face. I pull my hat tighter onto my head and rush out into the storm. The wooden steps to the upper deck are wet and slippery and hold tight to the handrail as the wind buffets my body.

The captain shouts commands at the top of his voice as the crew battles against the squall and I must tug at his arm to catch his attention. ‘Sir Walter wishes to know if we can turn back, Captain.’ I shout over the storm.

‘By God! Tell him we are in the middle of the Channel!’ The captain curses then turns his attention to the helmsmen, who are battling to keep our little ship on course.

Another flash of lightning is followed by a clap of thunder and I nearly fall down the steep steps, barely able to stagger back into the cabin. Sir William is still waiting there and looks at me for news.

I wipe the water from my face with my sleeve. ‘The captain says it is too late to turn back, my lord.’

The ship lurches again as yet another wave batters us broadside and the rain intensifies so I cannot understand his shouted curse of reply. I do hear a crack and the sound of splintering wood as one of the spars breaks, causing the sail to flap wildly as the crewmen fail to bring it under control.

I shout at the top of my voice to be heard over the storm. ‘Is Lady Alice seasick?’

‘Not my wife. It’s Lady Margaret.’ Sir William glances back towards the cabin. ‘She is hysterical with fear and...’ He looks at me as if unwilling to share the truth. ‘She is ill, with the pox.’

I am shocked at this news. She seemed well enough when I saw her last but the French pox could finish Margaret if she is in a weakened state. Now I understand why Sir William is so keen to return to Honfleur. It is not the best way for a new queen to arrive for her wedding and coronation.

‘What are we to do, my lord?’

‘She is being tended by her physician, Master Francis. He is a good man—but cannot work miracles.’ Sir William looks stoical. ‘Pray to God, Tudor, pray and hope.’

The sea calms a little but the thunderstorm continues even as we reach the shelter of the Solent. Our little ship heads into Portsmouth with rain lashing the deck and sails torn and ragged by the powerful gusts of wind. It seems a long time since we left the coast of France and a lot has happened since I last saw the wharf of Portchester Castle.

The quayside is lined with crowds of people waiting to welcome our arrival, despite the bad weather. I say a silent prayer of thanks as the mooring ropes are secured and realise I haven’t seen Juliette for most of the voyage. I watch with growing concern as Sir William appears, carrying Lady Margaret in his arms. She is pale and listless. Lady Alice, followed by Juliette and the other maidservants, all look as if they have suffered on the voyage.

I follow behind their procession through the crowds into the rush-strewn streets of Portchester. The wet air is filled with cheering and cries of goodwill as our little group makes progress through the town. Lady Margaret sees nothing of the welcome. She is unconscious before we reach the convent where she will spend her first night and prepare for continuing her journey to meet the king.

Lady Margaret is young and strong and recovers from her illness, diagnosed by the king’s physician as the small-pox. She is soon married and her coronation in Westminster Abbey, where Catherine became queen twenty-four years earlier, is the grandest ever seen. As she makes her way through the city from Southwark she is greeted by pageants, representing peace and the hope the long conflict with the French will now come to an end.

The bells of every church in London compete with the hooves of over a hundred horses, clattering on cobbled streets, almost drowning the cheers of the waiting crowds. A fanfare of trumpets announces the arrival of King Henry’s new wife, riding in a gilded coach drawn by a team of white horses. Her long hair is worn loose as a sign of virtue and she looks like a queen, but I know she is a nervous girl, playing her role as instructed.

As she comes closer I see her face is set in a fixed smile. Margaret steps from her coach and is escorted by royal guards, expensively dressed noblewomen and senior clergymen, and is flanked by a dour Duke Humphrey and a self-satisfied Cardinal Beaufort. She turns her head in my direction as she passes and our eyes meet for the briefest moment. I see a flash of recognition and realise she is missing no detail of her coronation day. Margaret of Anjou holds my gaze for less than a second and is gone.

I follow the long procession through the high arched doorway into the Abbey. We watch as she makes her grand procession up the nave, escorted by her father, Rene, Duke of Anjou and self-proclaimed King of Naples. Someone behind me asks why King Henry isn’t there and another tells him that, by tradition, the king is not supposed to attend his queen’s coronation. I suspect he is watching from a private vantage-point and scan the vaulted galleries of the Abbey, realising there are many places for him to hide.

As Margaret reaches the altar she kneels in prayer then prostrates herself to show her humility. The Archbishop of Canterbury, John Stafford, leads her behind red velvet curtains for the anointing and places St Edward’s crown on her head, the same crown used since the coronation of William the Conqueror four hundred years earlier. The new queen makes her slow procession back past the watching nobles and I recognise Sir William de la Pole, looking pleased with himself, as well he might.

The coronation is followed by three days of extravagant feasting and tournaments. I watch and wait to see where the new queen will wish to live. I expect Margaret to choose Windsor Castle but she prefers the Palace of Westminster and persuades Henry to have an apartment in the Tower of London refurbished for her personal use, at great expense. When not in London, Queen Margaret’s unsurprising choice of residence is Cardinal Beaufort’s well-appointed mansion in Waltham Forest.

This means Juliette does not return to Windsor, as she attends the queen while I remain in Windsor to be close to my sons. Their tutors prove well chosen, as Edmund and Jasper continue to do well with their studies and are now quite fluent in Latin and French. They amuse me with their sword fights and impress me with their new-found prowess at the tiltyard, yet I feel restless with my easy, undemanding life.

The voyage to Rouen has reminded me of the world of adventure outside Windsor’s high walls and I recall my plan to try my luck across the Channel in Calais. I seek the advice of
Sir William de la Pole, who recommends me for an appointment in Normandy as Captain of
Regnéville, an outpost on the coast around fifty miles
 south of the port of Cherbourg and close to the island of Jersey. I am to be the king’s representative in the region, responsible for keeping the harbour safe for English merchant ships.

The position is an important one and well paid, with allowances from the Treasury to strengthen the existing garrison. Nathaniel is easily persuaded to accompany me and we sail from Portsmouth to Normandy before winter sets in. The crossing is uneventful but no one greets us when we land and there is no sign of the garrison.

I confront our ship’s captain. ‘Are you certain this is the right place, Captain?’

‘What did you expect, Master Tudor, a civic reception?’

We look across the harbour at the old castle, taken from the French by Duke Humphrey in 1418, which is to become my new home. Black crows fly like ghosts of bad omen from one of the high windows, but apart from that there is no other sign of life. The only other vessel in the harbour is a battered fishing boat, rotting at its moorings as a decaying memory of better times.

‘I was told there is a garrison here.
Regnéville
is supposed to be a busy port?’

‘I remember when it was one of the
most active harbours on the Cotentin Peninsula.’ The captain looks interested. ‘Do you think you can make it safe again?’

‘Safe?’

‘Did they not tell you?’ The captain gives a humourless laugh. ‘The local French and their neighbouring Bretons are vying with each other to recover land they see as stolen by the English.’ He points at the derelict castle. ‘
Regnéville is one of the most vulnerable of the remaining English outposts.’

I feel a dawning sense of apprehension as we make our way to the castle, b
uilt at the head of the river valley, with a high tower overlooking the harbour. I count five horses grazing on the coarse turf. Fat chickens scratch in the dirt and a tethered goat offers us a mournful bleat in welcome. The castle has an air of neglect, with a wooden drawbridge leading over a stagnant green moat to the gatehouse, wide and high enough to take a horse and cart.

Unchallenged, we continue through an open courtyard littered with old barrels and bales of hay. A pile of fresh manure is heaped next to a thatched, lean-to stable, built against the thick stone walls. The iron-studded door leading to the accommodation swings open to reveal several men playing cards and drinking beer. It seems more like a tavern inside than a garrison.

One of the older men stands as he sees us. ‘Who might you be?’ The man scratches his head as he approaches, his eyes taking in my fine sword.

‘I am the new captain, Owen Tudor, and this is my first officer.’ I gesture towards Nathaniel. ‘What would you have done if we’d been French soldiers?’

The man looks puzzled. ‘We weren’t told you were coming, sir.’

‘That much is evident.’ I glance behind him at the mess and clutter. ‘What is your name?’

‘Hue Spencer, acting commander of the castle and the King’s Bailiff of Cotentin.’

‘Are there any more men than this?’

The others gather in a curious group and I see they are unshaven and ill-disciplined but look like time-served soldiers. Several have battle scars and some wear well-used swords at their belts. I heard the English army in Normandy has struggled to remain organised since the death of Duke John of Bedford and proof of this stands before me.

The bailiff glances back at the soldiers. ‘There used to be more, sir. After the last captain left I’ve had no money to pay them.’

I feel some sympathy for the men. ‘I will see you are all paid from now on—and receive any back pay due to you.’ I turn to Nathaniel. ‘Take all their names, please. We will write to the Marquess of Suffolk and explain what we’ve found here.’

Three armed soldiers ride behind us as we make our first patrol to assess the challenges ahead. The land is flat and featureless, making the castle stand out starkly on the skyline, an inviting target for anyone who wishes to try their luck. The sandy beach curves away into the far distance, wild and barren. Our arrival startles whirring sandpipers, which sweep into the air with their rapid, shrill cries of weet, weet, weet.

Small fishing boats bob in the shallow, sheltered bay but there are no signs of any people this early in the morning. I feel a refreshing sea breeze in my face as I scan the horizon. In the misty distance I can make out the dark outline of Jersey, where we stopped on our way to Normandy.

‘It reminds me a little of when I was a boy in Beaumaris, although the Irish Sea is not so blue—and the wind is colder in Wales!’

Nathaniel looks along the seafront and frowns. ‘I don’t see how we can keep the French out with so few men.’

‘Do you think Sir William de la Pole knew this when he sent me out here?’

‘It seems he has not done us a great favour.’ Nathaniel points to the fishing boats. The French can land an army by sea—and you can be certain that they know they can take back this castle whenever they choose.’

‘Well, it’s up to us to make sure they don’t, Nathaniel.’ I
look out across the sea to where England lies somewhere in the far distance. ‘There are a lot of men who fought here in Normandy who are now without work. You could return to London and speak to your merchant friends, see if we can make this place into a trading port again.’

‘It might be possible to defend a smaller area, around the harbour and the castle?’

‘We will make of it what we can,’ I look back to the castle. ‘And we’ll start by making that place fit to live in!’

We continue to ride in a wide circle, arriving back at the castle, which already
echoes with the sounds of hammering and the smell of newly sawn wood. Two soldiers have stripped to the waist and are busy with shovels, filling in potholes to improve the road to the harbour. It is evident we will never be able to do the necessary work on our own but the local villagers have long since been driven out. Apart from the furtive fishermen who cast their nets for langoustines in the shallow bay, the French stay away.

‘We need a blacksmith, to fire up that forge again, as well as a team of stonemasons.’ I look at the pile of stones which still lay where they have fallen from the castle.

The bailiff Hue Spencer explains in his matter-of-fact way. ‘We keep the Frenchies out, Captain Tudor. It’s the best way—they are not to be trusted.’

‘Where are the nearest locals who could help?’

‘That would be the town of Coutances, sir. A short enough ride.’ He points east, to the distant spires. ‘You can see the cathedral.’

‘Have you been to the town?’

‘For supplies—or if we need a physician.’ The bailiff looks as if he is planning to spit on the ground then sees my frown. ‘We don’t have much to do with the French.’
 

 
Nathaniel makes a suggestion. ‘I could go and see how the land lies, without drawing attention to myself?’

‘I’ll ride with you—your French is even worse than mine.’

Travelling light to the outskirts of Coutances we hear the bells of the cathedral chiming to mark the hour. The town is a sprawling confusion of narrow streets and old buildings, reminding me of the back streets of Rouen. There are plenty of people in the busy market, where flies feast on hanging hams and old women in black shawls haggle in high-pitched French over the price of linen from Brittany.

Nathaniel points to a courtyard stacked with bricks and roof tiles. ‘We could ask them?’

I engage the owners in conversation. The man is helpful enough but seems fearful of reprisals if he helps us. He warns me there are many in Coutances with long memories of how the castle, which they call the Château de Regnéville, was stolen from them by force. It seems the influence of Duke Humphrey continues to affect me, even here in the wilds of Normandy.

Leaving our horses, we walk to the impressive cathedral in the centre of the town. Instead of the subdued coolness I expect, a cleverly designed lantern tower floods intense light into the centre of the cathedral. My eyes are drawn to the stained-glass windows, showing the last temptation. The figure of Christ is surrounded by trumpeting cherubs while cloven-hoofed devils torment naked people and a handsome French knight holds the scales of justice.

I light a candle for Catherine and kneel to pray in the Chapel of Saint Joseph, under a colourful wall painting of the Holy Trinity. I pray for my sons, for Catherine’s soul and that of our little daughter Margaret, and for guidance in how to keep the peace in Regnéville. I am aware now that I was sent on this impossible mission to keep me out of the way, but I have no wish to fight the French and hope to find some way to bring acceptance of our presence here.

 
* * *

Nathaniel is working on his ledgers as I enter the room on the second floor of the castle which he has adopted as his study. A collection of seashells gathered from the beach are arranged on the stone sill of the small window, which has a good view of the harbour. Two fine trading ships are moored at the quayside, a common enough sight now, bringing a steady flow of income. Merchant ships often stop to take on fresh water or to shelter from rough weather.