Root of the Tudor Rose (40 page)

‘And what might that be, my Lady?'

‘The girdle of the Virgin Mary. It is kept here in the monastery but only allowed out for royal births. That's no good to me now, of course. I daren't let them find out who I am.'

‘Then we'll have to do our best without it, my Lady,' said Margery.

‘It won't be the first time,' said the Queen, managing a wry smile.

Catherine's baby was born later that evening, leaving her feeling drained. It hadn't been a particularly difficult birth but she was exhausted by the tension of the last few weeks, by the journey from Hertford, and by the emotional strain of having to watch Henry from a distance. She was fast asleep when Margery Wagstaff went to find Owen.

‘You have a son, Master Tudor,' she said. ‘And your wife is sleeping. I would be obliged if you didn't wake her.'

Owen wanted to hug the woman, despite her rather forbidding demeanour. He would have wanted to hug anyone who was anywhere near him, he was so overjoyed. Then he saw the expression on the midwife's face and she spoke before he could frame the question he knew he must ask.

‘He's a handsome babe,' she said ‘and contented enough. But he has a club foot. He won't be able to lead a normal life. It doesn't worry him now but it will trouble him later on when he starts walking and he will never be able to run and play like other boys.'

The most difficult thing Owen Tudor had ever had to do in his life was break the news to his wife of their beautiful baby boy's disability and explain to her that it would worsen as he grew, affecting his ability to walk. At first, she refused to believe him but Margery Wagstaff gently explained to her that though the twisted foot didn't look too bad at the moment, once the little boy started growing, he would only ever be able to move about on crutches.

Once she realised the implications of what she was being told, Catherine gave vent to her distress. It was bad enough, she wept, that she and Owen had to behave like fugitives but at least they stood a chance of staying one step ahead of their persecutors. The little one could never do that, not if he couldn't even walk unaided.

What was wrong with her? Had she offended God in some way? Why could she not have a husband and children like any other woman? She had looked forward so much to this baby and been so glad to be able to give Owen a son. But what good was a son to him if the child had to be looked after constantly and carried everywhere? A man needed a son he could rely on, not an invalid he had to care for.

Catherine was inconsolable.

Abbot Harweden's painful ankle gave him good reason to keep his distance from the pilgrims but they continued to puzzle him and Brother Geoffrey, the infirmarian, had told him that the woman had become hysterical in her grief at giving birth to a disabled child. He still had a strong feeling that somehow he knew her, but who
was
she?
What
was she? The Abbot suspected that the pilgrims were not exactly as they appeared to be and he had the reputation of the monastery to consider. One couldn't be too careful. Still, he had to shoulder some of the blame for the situation since he'd been burning with curiosity about the woman. He shouldn't have been so inquisitive. Perhaps he should not have invited the pilgrims to avail themselves of the monastery's hospitality if the woman was quite so close to her time but had he not done so, he would have been guilty of disobeying the rules of St Benedict. The situation was very difficult. The more Abbot Harweden thought about it, the more he realised that he must talk to the woman's husband. He ordered that Owen should be summoned to a meeting in the chapter-house the following morning.

‘Forgive me for not rising to greet you,' he began as Owen was shown into the room, ‘but my wretched foot is still rather painful and I try to keep the weight off it. Now, tell me, how is your goodwife feeling today?'

‘My wife is asleep,' said Owen. ‘I'm afraid the birth of our son was not without its problems and she has exhausted herself with weeping. She is very upset.'

‘It's quite understandable,' said the Abbot. ‘Brother Geoffrey tells me that the child has a disability and is likely to become halt as he grows up. Is that so?'

‘Sadly, yes. At least, that is what the midwife says, though the child doesn't seem at all distressed at the moment.'

‘No, but he will find things difficult as he begins to grow.' Abbot Harweden gestured towards his own bandaged foot, resting on a low stool in front of his chair. ‘My current indisposition makes me doubly sympathetic towards those whose feet trouble them.' Owen gave a wan smile before the Abbot continued. ‘Of course, as Benedictines, we will do our best to help. After all, we have taken a vow not only to shelter pilgrim travellers but also to heal the sick where we can. In fact, I have a particular interest in the disability which affects your child. He has a club foot, has he not?'

‘Yes,' said Owen, ‘he has and I don't know what's to be done about it. Though perhaps, Father Abbot, with your experience of healing, you could suggest something to help him? That would be of great comfort to my wife.'

‘As it happens, we had a foundling here some five years ago who had the same disability. Of course, it is not possible to cure the condition but I have a theory that if the baby's leg can be artificially straightened during the period of initial growth, it can help considerably. In fact, I had some success with that foundling child by restricting his leg in a wooden frame and, indeed, he seemed not nearly so halt as he might have been.'

Owen brightened considerably. ‘Could you, perhaps, do the same for my son?' he asked.

‘I could certainly try,' said the Abbot. ‘Of course, he will always have to use crutches to aid his walking and will need sedentary employment when he grows up. And if you were to leave him here in order for me to supervise his treatment there would, of course, be the small matter of a contribution towards his care and his keep.'

‘There will be no difficulty with that,' said Owen, ‘but the situation is not exactly straightforward.' He paused for a moment as he came to a decision. ‘Tell me, Father Abbot, are you a man who is able to keep a secret and divulge it to no one? On your honour as a man of God? It is a very important secret.'

There was nothing for it; Owen had to confide in the Abbot and had the situation not been quite so grave, he would have laughed at the expression of amazement on the Abbot's face when he was told the identity of the woman who had so recently given birth in the monastery's infirmary.

When he'd got over his initial shock, Richard Harweden was pleased that he hadn't been mistaken in recognising Her Royal Highness the Queen, knowing that he knew her from somewhere other than a half-remembered painting. He thought her a lot less like the Madonna now and more like Our Lady of the Sorrows but knowing who she was altered his assessment of the situation considerably. He was aware that being embroiled in this amount of subterfuge could have a seriously damaging effect both on himself and on the monastery if the wrong people got to know about it. But when he was told that Cardinal Beaufort was fully aware of the Queen's rather irregular domestic situation, he realised that kindness towards the pilgrim mother might be of great benefit after all.

At heart a compassionate man, Abbot Harweden pointed out to Catherine and Owen a few days later that the baby would never be able to live a normal life at court or anywhere else and that, in their circumstances, they would have the greatest difficulty in giving him a successful upbringing. He gently suggested that the baby should be taken into the care of the monks, as though he had been a foundling. This would guarantee him both a good education and the best possible treatment for his disability.

So it was arranged that young Thomas Owen Tudor would be brought up as a Benedictine and taught to read and write. Only Abbot Harweden would ever know that the Queen had promised the monastery a generous endowment towards his keep. In due course, even if he chose not to become a monk, the young man could be employed copying manuscripts in the scriptorium at the Abbey, where there would be little need for him to put weight on his deformed foot.

Everyone agreed that this was the best plan for the baby and Owen finally managed to convince Catherine of the good sense of it by reminding her of her own upbringing in the convent at Poissy and the unstinting love of Sister Supplice.

Nevertheless, when the time came, it took all his mother's strength and courage to walk away from her third child.

Chapter Twenty-one

London, 1430

Things changed after the coronation. Now that the King was exclusively under the tutelage of the Earl of Warwick, Humphrey's position had altered slightly and Catherine feared that, with more time on his hands, he would find another outlet for his energies, one that could spell trouble.

She felt she had good reason to worry. It was well over a year since Pope Martin V had finally declared Humphrey's marriage to Jacqueline unlawful and therefore invalid, which meant that Humphrey had been free to marry his mistress Eleanor Cobham and had done so, almost immediately. That in turn meant that the Cobham woman was now entitled to call herself the Duchess of Gloucester and had given herself such airs and graces that Catherine could hardly bear to be in the same room.

Those who had been fond of Jacqueline considered the marriage doomed from the outset. The gossips whispered that Eleanor had regularly used the services of the witch Margery Jourdemayne to supply her with potions and perfumes to attract the Duke. It could only end in sorrow, they said, but Eleanor had achieved her goal. The only thing that would have made the new Duchess of Gloucester even more triumphant would be the birth of a child but Margery Jourdemayne had failed her in that. Nevertheless, Eleanor was as beautiful and intelligent as Humphrey was cultivated and debonair and they were an impressive couple. They both loved music and dancing, poetry and parties and Humphrey had undertaken the conversion of a manor house at Greenwich into a pleasure garden which he and Eleanor called
La Pleasaunce
. Here they entertained musicians, scholars, poets, physicians, philosophers, and writers from all over the world. It was an adult, sophisticated alternative court, away from the child King's household at Windsor.

Catherine never craved an invitation to
La Pleasaunce
and the fact that the Gloucesters spent so much time there meant that she had some respite from her constant worries about keeping her marriage a secret from Humphrey. In any case, she would much rather remain at Windsor, where at least she had a chance to see Henry occasionally despite the fact that the boy was subjected to a relentless regime of education and training for kingship.

Now that the King's English coronation had taken place, planning had begun for his French coronation though no date had yet been set for this. Nevertheless, a large and costly royal entourage of over three hundred people left for Calais on St George's Day in April in preparation for the occasion. Catherine did not travel with them.

There was a good reason for her reluctance to visit France. Owen could hardly believe her when she told him. ‘Not again!' he protested, though he felt a small thrill of pride that he was so easily able to get her with child.

Catherine couldn't pretend that she wasn't worried about expecting yet another baby but, seeing the expression of joy on Owen's face, she had no wish to dampen his delight. He seemed to thrive on the prospect of fatherhood.

‘There's nothing for it, Owen, but to stop sleeping in the same bed,' she said sternly.

‘It's not the sleeping that's causing it, my sweet, it's what we do when we're awake that's the problem.'

‘That doesn't strike me as a good enough reason to stop doing it,' she said and kissed him.

‘Then you can only expect to go on producing babies for the rest of your life, my Lady.' Owen wagged his finger at her in mock severity before taking her into his arms. ‘And this time, cariad
,
I will move heaven and earth for you to keep the child. It doesn't matter what it takes.' Then he held her at arm's length and looked at her with a questioning twinkle in his eye. ‘And where would your naughty Highness like to spend the summer this time, eh?'

She couldn't help but smile. He would sometimes call her by that silly name when he was teasing her, teasing her until she begged him to bring her to the pinnacle of her pleasure.

‘I don't really mind,' she said, ‘as long as I can get the news from France. We'll need to be somewhere near London, so that I can keep up with what's going on.'

Most of Catherine's dower properties were a good distance from London, too far for messengers to travel with ease, so the choice was a difficult one. It was quite by chance that they hit on the best solution.

Owen had been invited to St Paul's, where Bishop William Gray had agreed to christen Maredydd and Emma's first baby, a girl named Margaret, after Maredydd's mother. Maredydd could hardly contain his excitement but Emma, not yet churched, was not present, and neither was Catherine who was nervous about being associated with Owen on an occasion like this. But she joined him afterwards at the small, private reception in Maredydd and Emma's new home near St Paul's Cross where, naturally, the talk was all of babies. They laughed about the lack of choice when it came to naming little girls, since both Owen's mother and Maredydd's mother had been called Margaret. Then, in the company of trusted friends, Owen let slip the fact that there might soon be yet another Margaret in the family, though he was deeply worried about where Catherine could give birth to her coming child without raising suspicion. That was when Bishop William Gray made a suggestion.

‘The manor house at Great Hadham would suit your purpose very well, Your Highness,' he said to Catherine. ‘It is the country home of the Bishops of London and is fully staffed throughout the year. Sadly, I have limited time to spend there but I would be delighted if you and Master Tudor would like to make use of it. All I will tell the staff is that you're my guests: they don't need to know who you are. But, my Lady, won't you be missed at court?'