Root of the Tudor Rose (35 page)

She didn't explain why she thought so.

Humphrey, who clearly felt himself the victor in the conflict with his uncle Henry Beaufort, had resumed his chairmanship of the ruling Council which controlled the day-to-day business of the Commons. He saw this as his opportunity to safeguard his interests by introducing a bill which called for the creation of a parliamentary statute making it an offence for a dowager queen of England to re-marry without the knowledge and specific permission of the reigning sovereign. Humphrey was damned if he was going to allow the possibility that a pack of the Queen's half-blooded brats by Edmund Beaufort would be able to threaten his own claim to the throne though, of course, he wouldn't state that publicly as a legitimate reason for wanting to introduce the bill.

To his fury, the Commons threw it out.

This pleased John of Bedford, who really couldn't see the necessity for such legislation. After all, the idea of the King withholding his royal permission for such a marriage was preposterous. The King was not yet five years old.

So why, John wondered, had Humphrey deemed it necessary to introduce the bill? Did he know something about Catherine that John was unaware of? John aired his concerns to Henry Beaufort and was surprised when his uncle laughed.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘that means that Humphrey is suspicious. He thinks that the Queen has her eye on a second husband and I wouldn't be at all surprised that he's noticed the way my nephew Edmund Beaufort looks at her! And of course, far be it from me to say so, but it could be that his feelings are reciprocated.' Bishop Beaufort had a twinkle in his eye and couldn't see any harm in misdirecting John's curiosity.

On considered reflection, John decided not to tell Catherine about what had happened in Parliament, it would only upset her and make her feel even more alienated from the English court than she already was. What she didn't know, she wouldn't grieve over. After all, the Commons had rejected Humphrey's bill, so it wouldn't make any difference to her, and if she was becoming fond of Edmund Beaufort, well, good luck to her, she deserved to find a little happiness.

Privately, Catherine thought that Henry was far too young to be knighted but John of Bedford was of the opinion that conferring a knighthood upon him would bring the Leicester Parliament to an appropriate conclusion. Catherine wasn't going to argue so, before they left for the closing parliamentary session in the Great Hall of the castle, she made young Henry twirl around two or three times before she was satisfied that he was perfectly presented.

‘But, Maman
,
I am the King. It doesn't matter how I look!'

‘It's precisely because you are the King that it
does
matter,' she contradicted him. ‘Dame Alice Boteler wouldn't let you go to Parliament looking like a hobbledehoy, now would she? But since Dame Alice is unwell and confined to her bed, I will make the decisions! And I think you'll do nicely.' Then she smiled and bent to hug her little son. He stiffened in her arms, uncertain how to react to a gesture of affection.

That Whit Sunday morning John of Bedford duly knighted his nephew the King who, in turn and using a lightweight sword with a blunted edge, dubbed thirty other new knights. His mother watched him with pride and even his Uncle Humphrey beamed his approval.

There was one last item on John's agenda. As part of his solution to the current problems, he had already made an approach to Pope Martin in Rome. Once safely back in Calais with his wife and his uncle, John intended to procure for Bishop Beaufort the coveted cardinalate which had been denied him for so long. He knew that the one thing which would restore Beaufort's good spirits and leave him with some tangible gain from this whole sorry mess would be to further his ecclesiastical ambitions. He liked to imagine his uncle's face, beaming with pleasure beneath the broad red brim of a cardinal's hat.

Chapter Nineteen

London, 1428

His cousin was the most nervous of bridegrooms and, as he hurried up Crane Street towards the church of St Michael Paternoster Royal, Owen couldn't for the life of him understand why Maredydd, a royal gentleman-at-arms and a soldier of many years' distinguished service in battle, should be reduced to a quivering jelly at the thought of getting married. If only Owen had the opportunity to marry where his heart lay, he would be jubilant.

Maredydd's bride, Emma Maunsell, was pleased to boast of her family's relationship to Richard Whittington, who still held pride of place in the hearts of Londoners though he had been dead these five years and was buried in this very church. Emma was from Whittington's mother's side of the family and had been brought up in rural Gloucestershire, an area which offered few opportunities for a woman with lofty marital ambitions, particularly a woman who was not in the first flush of youth. So, taking advantage of her excellent family connections, Emma had moved to London and lodged with the remaining members of the Whittington family in their elegant home. Here she hoped to meet the right people and make a good marriage to an aristocratic English husband. She had not yet achieved her objective when she was introduced to Maredydd by a mutual friend. As soon as she set her shrewd blue eyes on him, she came to the conclusion that she had spent far too long worrying about the wealth and position of a prospective husband rather than taking advantage of what might be her last opportunity of being made to feel like a beautiful, desirable woman. She had accepted his proposal of marriage with grateful enthusiasm.

All heads turned in her direction as she arrived at the door of the church and gave her future husband a dazzling smile. There was tenderness in his eyes as he led her towards the altar where they took their vows, Maredydd in a strong baritone with a perceptible Welsh accent, Emma a little more quietly with her gentle West Country burr.

By the time they came to the giving of rings Owen was grinding his teeth in frustration at the unfairness of it all. Why couldn't he be standing there with Catherine? They had been lovers for more than three years now, they had a baby daughter, and yet they still had to keep their relationship secret. They dared not compromise Catherine's position at court but Owen knew that having to leave Tacinda had come close to breaking her heart.

He'd had to let Maredydd into the secret eventually and he would never forget the look of incredulity on his cousin's face. They had been sitting together in The Swan as they had done so often in the past, though not so much these days, now that Maredydd was betrothed to Emma.

‘Well, I'd better get back to her,' Maredydd had said loftily as he rose to leave. ‘You should get yourself betrothed, you know, Owen. There's nothing like a good woman to bring out the best in a man.'

‘I know that,' said Owen and then, despite himself, added: ‘I already have one.'

‘What?' Maredydd paused before fastening his cloak, suddenly interested. ‘You dark horse! You've never told me about this! What's her name?'

‘Catherine.'

‘Catherine? Catherine who? Do I know her?'

Owen blushed in confusion now and reverted instinctively to his mother tongue. ‘
Y Frenhines
,' he said.

‘
Y Frenhines
? The Queen? What? You … and the Queen! Oh, yes, very funny. Come on, Owen, don't take me for a fool. How can you expect me to believe that?'

‘Because it's true.'

‘What, you and the Queen? Don't talk such utter rubbish …'

‘
Mae'n wir
, Maredydd. It's true, I promise you.'

‘You're … you're, what, having an affair? That's absurd. Edmund Beaufort is giving it to her. Everyone knows that. It's common knowledge.'

‘
Taw, Maredydd, paid a siarad Saesneg
,' Owen attempted to silence his cousin. ‘Don't speak English for God's sake, and lower your voice or everyone will hear you and nobody must know. Nobody!''

Maredydd saw the expression on his cousin's face. ‘Dear God,' he said, wonderstruck. ‘It's true, isn't it? I'll say nobody must know! How long has this been going on?'

Owen steered Maredydd roughly towards a quiet corner of the big room and pushed him down onto a bench. Maredydd was shaking his head back and forth like a man stunned by a heavy blow.

‘You all right, mate?' On his way to the bar, his friend Will Simpkin stopped in his tracks at the sight of him.

‘Yes, thank you Will, he's perfectly all right,' said Owen. ‘Just had a bit of a shock, that's all. Just a bit of … er … news. He'll be as right as rain in a moment.'

‘If you say so.' Will shrugged then moved away.

‘News? It's the most amazing piece of news I've ever heard in my life! You and the Queen!'

‘
Fi a'r Frenhines
,' Owen insisted. ‘Please, Mared, don't speak English. Someone is bound to hear you and then the cat will be well and truly out of the bag.'

‘Some cat!' said Maredydd, as the blood slowly started returning to his face. ‘How long has this been going on? All right …' he held up his hand to silence his cousin, ‘
Ers pryd mae hyn wedi bod yn mynd ‘mlaen
?'

Relieved at having persuaded Maredydd that the subject was more discreetly discussed in Welsh, Owen answered his question by starting the story from the very beginning. He left nothing out, from the initial attraction between himself and the Queen which they had both tried so hard to suppress, right through to the flight to Wales and the birth of little Tacinda.

‘Tacinda? What sort of name is that?'

‘It's what Catrin wanted.'

‘Catrin!' Maredydd was shaking his head again. ‘I can't believe that you even call the Queen by her first name, let alone in Welsh. And as for sharing her bed …! You do share her bed, do you? I mean, you don't just have her up against a wall when you get the chance?'

Owen's nostrils flared and he suddenly wanted to smash his fist into Maredydd's face but he controlled himself. ‘No, Mared. She's not like that, and, yes, I do share her bed whenever I have the chance. Sadly, that's not as often as we'd both like.'

‘Well, dear God, I've heard everything now. You know what this means, don't you? You could lose your head if the wrong people get to know about it.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Owen. ‘I'm very aware of that. So you must promise me faithfully that you won't tell a living soul. Not even Emma.'

‘No, not even Emma,' Maredydd nodded his agreement. He changed his mind about leaving and sat quietly for the rest of that evening, subdued. Every now and then he'd look at Owen and shake his head in disbelief. He was going to take a long, long time to get used to the idea of his cousin's royal lover.

‘Your Highness,' said Guillemote, opening the door into Catherine's room, ‘the priest with the curious name is here. He would like to see you if it is convenient.' Catherine smiled; there were some things about which Guillemote was peculiarly stubborn, she knew the man's name perfectly well.

‘Is he on his own, Guillemote?'

‘Yes, my Lady.'

‘Then show him in, please. Oh, and I suppose you had better bring him a goblet of wine. He never refuses one.'

She couldn't put her finger on what it was about Marmaduke de Kyrkeby that made her like him instinctively and trust him implicitly. Perhaps it was the twinkle in his eye, his readiness to listen to her opinions, or just the fact that Henry Beaufort thought so highly of him. He and Catherine, together with Bishop William Gray, had formed a close friendship over the last two years since Catherine had come to live in Baynard's Castle. She was always pleased to see them both.

‘Do sit down, Rector,' she invited him. ‘Now, tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?'

‘Your Highness, I have a letter from Bishop Beaufort, no, I'm sorry, Cardinal Beaufort. I must get used to calling him that. Thank you,' he said as Guillemote set down a goblet on a table at his elbow. ‘Mind you,' he went on, ‘his cardinalate hasn't changed him, he still writes as he always did. Very entertainingly. And on this occasion he has particularly asked me to give you his compliments. I couldn't ignore the opportunity to come and deliver them in person!'

‘That was kind of you.'

‘It was a good excuse for me to visit you, my Lady,' de Kyrkeby smiled, opening a leather scrip he'd been carrying and taking out a small roll of parchment. ‘By the way, as well as asking after you, he has also asked me to enquire after someone called Tacinda. A small child of your acquaintance, I believe? He seems keen to know that she is well.'

Catherine's heart somersaulted and she caught her breath. ‘Are you sure that's what he said?'

‘Of course, look, see for yourself.' He held out Beaufort's letter. She took it from him and looked at the Cardinal's neat, well-formed handwriting. The name leapt out at her from the page. Tacinda. Why had he mentioned her in a letter to Marmaduke de Kyrkeby? Unless … unless … perhaps Henry Beaufort was giving her the opportunity to confide in his old friend the Rector of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, should she wish to.

Her eyes scanned the letter without seeing it while her mind raced. It was another of those moments when, if she spoke the truth, she would never again be able to deny it. And yet there was something about the Rector which made her want to confide in him.

Catherine looked up. ‘She's my daughter,' she said.

The Rector paused in the act of raising his goblet to his lips. ‘Your daughter?'

‘Yes, my daughter. Bishop Beaufort … I'm sorry, Cardinal Beaufort … seems to want me to tell you about her.'

‘Then perhaps you would be wise to do so, my Lady.'

She never regretted it. She talked and talked, her words tumbling out in a jumble at first, a mixture of French and English, difficult to understand. Then she calmed down and de Kyrkeby was able to get a better picture of a lonely young woman away from home in a foreign environment where no one seemed at all interested in her welfare, falling in love with a young man who had befriended her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to him, except that she was no ordinary young woman. She was the Dowager Queen of England and she was in love with a servant. Thinking back, he realised that this must have been the cause of her distress on the occasion when he first met her. He remembered how Henry Beaufort had taken charge of the situation. He seemed to be doing so again, from a distance.