Root of the Tudor Rose (46 page)

He let himself out of the house as quietly as he could, grateful for a dry, moonlit night as he prepared for his journey. It was almost dawn and he would make good time as soon as it was light in the east. Swinging himself up into the saddle, he turned his horse's head towards the south. He had to trust the animal to stay on the road because he could see nothing through a veil of tears.

At first, Abbot John Bromley of Bermondsey took some persuading that Master Owen Tudor was a representative of Her Royal Highness the Dowager Queen Catherine. He claimed to be her Clerk of the Wardrobe, no less. Travel-stained and weary, Owen was not at all the kind of person whom the Abbot would have expected to be the bearer of a message about the Queen's illness and her need for treatment. The man couldn't even rightly describe what was wrong with Her Highness, except that she was excessively melancholy and her worries were having a devastating effect on her health.

Owen delved around in his scrip for evidence of his credentials and was relieved to find a receipt from the royal cordwainer for a pair of Her Highness's shoes. Astounded, the Abbot realised that this dirty-looking messenger really was who he claimed to be and that he genuinely
was
making arrangements on behalf of the Queen. And he'd assured him that Cardinal Beaufort would be certain to visit the patient, as might her son the King. How exciting to think that the monastery would soon have another royal patient! It had been a long time since the last one. He must make plans.

After leaving Bermondsey, Owen headed back across London Bridge, straight for St Paul's Cross and Maredydd and Emma's house. They were delighted to see him though Maredydd had heard nothing about the children and knew nothing of their whereabouts. Even the sociable, gossipy Emma had heard nothing and they were both appalled by Owen's account of Edmund and Jasper's abduction and how Catherine's health had deteriorated so rapidly because of it.

‘Melancholy,' said Maredydd. ‘Bile. That's what causes it. Black bile. She should drink a spoonful of the juice of the mallow each morning, boiled in water. Saffron is beneficial, too, they say.'

‘Who says?'

‘
Meddygon Myddfai
,' said Maredydd. ‘Surely you haven't forgotten them? The Physicians of Myddfai are much talked about here in London nowadays. People say there's nothing they can't cure.'

Owen brightened visibly. Of course he remembered. And that was the answer. The celebrated Welsh physicians would cure Catherine of the black bile that tormented her, he was sure of that. He would take her to see them, just as soon as he had found Edmund and Jasper.

He took his leave of Maredydd and Emma, thanking them for their many kindnesses, waving aside their apologies for not being able to offer him a bed for lack of room in their small house.

In Bermondsey two weeks later, Abbot John Bromley ordered a great peal of bells to be rung for Her Highness the Queen and monks were summoned from all parts of the monastery to greet her.

Expected to process into the monastery church of St Saviour and kneel before the crucifix to pray, Catherine somehow managed to get through a service and endured some interminable singing by a group of choristers. One of the older boys looked so like little Edmund that her heart raced and for a moment she almost believed it could be Thomas. Then reason prevailed. Thomas was growing up as a foundling in the monastery at Westminster, not here in Bermondsey. She prayed then that Troutbeck had been right when she'd promised that Owen would come to Bermondsey soon, with news of the boys. As the service came to an end, Abbot Bromley gave Catherine his blessing and sprinkled holy water over her. He didn't seem to notice that she could barely stand.

At the Abbot's table after the service, the royal guest picked politely at a small amount of the food on her trencher before pleading extreme tiredness. Joanna Troutbeck helped her to bed in the best room the monastery could offer where, lulled by the scent of beeswax and incense, she fell immediately and soundly asleep.

Wanting to reflect on the events of the days gone by, Owen was taking a late-night walk by the waters of the Thames. He had found himself board and lodging at a nearby inn and had left his horse with the ostler there. It was good to be back in London, even though it was necessary to be circumspect in moving about the town, trying to pick up scraps of gossip. It had been good to see Maredydd, too, and it was rather touching that he had become a family man in middle age and had filled his small house with children, six daughters, his days of sowing wild oats long gone. He seemed very happy but had confided in Owen his only regret which was that, having had more experience with the sword than with the pen, he would find it difficult to make a record for posterity of the brave exploits of his father, Owain Glyndŵr. And because Emma couldn't see the point of educating girls, his daughters were hardly likely to do so either.

Suddenly, Owen was on the ground, pinned down and winded by the weight of an attacker.

‘What the hell …?'

It was pitch dark and he couldn't see his assailant. Neither could he tell how many men had attacked him.

‘Orders, mate. You're to come with us. We've got a nice little college in mind for you and we're going to bang you up in there for a couple of weeks, just to give you a bit of education.'

‘What? Are you arresting me? What for? What have I done?'

‘You're Welsh and you're out of doors after dark. That's enough.'

‘But I've got my letters of denizenship! I've had them for four years. I have as many rights as an Englishman.'

‘You'll never be fit to lick the arse of an Englishman! Once a Welsh bastard, always a Welsh bastard. Besides, you've been messing about where you shouldn't ‘ave been, ‘aven't you? Thinking yourself good enough to screw ‘Er ‘Ighness the Queen! Ha! There's a law against that, you know, you ignorant Welsh bastard.'

The thick-set thug who had been kneeling on him got up suddenly and yanked Owen up with him, bending his left arm painfully behind his back. Another seized his right arm and he was unceremoniously frog-marched up Newgate Street and thrown into the notorious building at the end of it.

Whittington's College, of course! That was the name the wags of the London underworld had given to Newgate Jail since it had been rebuilt with money bequeathed by Richard Whittington. Lying in the dark on a slimy stone floor, Owen realised what his attackers had meant by ‘a nice little college'. He wondered as he lay shackled in filth and darkness, grimacing at the stench of the place, what Emma, so well connected to the late Lord Mayor, would have made of it.

In Bermondsey, Catherine awoke to the sound of the monastery bell. Joanna Troutbeck smiled at her.

‘Good morning, Your Highness. You've slept well. It's nine of the clock.'

‘Good morning! Was that the bell ringing for Terce, Troutbeck? Why, surely, it's almost time to wish me “Good Afternoon”!

‘No matter, my Lady. You have rested. That is all that matters.'

‘Indeed I have and I feel refreshed. Troutbeck, please, fetch my robe. I would like to dictate a letter. Perhaps you will …'

‘No, Ma'am, I don't feel confident enough in my writing. I will ask if one of the monks can take your dictation.'

‘Yes, of course. I'm sure Abbot Bromley will recommend someone. In the meantime, I think I could manage to eat a little frumenty.'

The letter which Catherine later dictated to Brother Osbert was addressed to Cardinal Beaufort. His London residence was also in the parish of Southwark and she suddenly wanted to see him very much. Once the message had been dispatched she knew that if he was in London, she wouldn't have long to wait.

The Cardinal was shocked at the sight of her though he tried not to show it. Pregnancy was distorting her slender frame and she looked as though she harboured a monster which was consuming her from within. She was emaciated and gaunt and though Troutbeck had done her best, she lacked poor Guillemote's talents as a hairdresser and Catherine's once-glorious hair was coarse, lacklustre, and streaked with grey.

‘Your Highness! Catherine, my dear. I came as soon as I received your message. I had no idea that you were in Bermondsey. I would have been here to welcome you …'

‘My Lord Uncle! I'm so pleased to see you.'

‘How are you, my Lady?'

‘I am very unwell. My babies … they've … they've taken them away from me and I don't know where they are. And Owen … I fear the worst.' Catherine had hoped to control her tears but found she couldn't.

Henry Beaufort laid his hand very gently on her head as she wept and his heart ached for her in her grief. So, everything he had had heard was true. It was widely rumoured that Humphrey of Gloucester had somehow found out about Catherine's marriage and, in his fury, had ordered that her children should be seized. Beaufort, who could scarcely believe that anyone would do such a monstrous thing, also knew that Owen was a marked man, wanted for the crime of marrying the Queen without royal consent. But he did have some information which he knew would please Catherine and he was certain of it because, though he had come by it in a roundabout way, at least he had it at first hand.

He had met William de la Pole, the Earl of Suffolk, a few days ago at a policy meeting of the King's Council. Henry was wary of Suffolk; not for nothing was he nicknamed ‘Jackanapes'. He knew the man for a boaster and he naturally mistrusted anyone who was friendly with Gloucester. Making sociable conversation after the meeting, Henry had casually asked after de la Pole's sister, Katherine, and de la Pole had boasted that she was in charge of the King's half-brothers these days. That had struck Henry as very odd but he'd presumed that there was a good reason for it. Now he knew.

He put his finger under Catherine's chin and lifted her face to look at him. ‘Don't upset yourself too much, my dear Lady. I do have some good news for you. I know where your children are and they are in good hands.'

Catherine clutched at his sleeve. ‘Oh, please, tell me. Tell me. Where are they? Who is looking after them?'

Beaufort patted her hand reassuringly. ‘They have been taken to the abbey at Barking and are in the care of the Abbess. I know her quite well. She is a good woman. She'll make sure that the children are well looked after and will come to no harm.'

Catherine was crying with relief and gratitude, unable to speak.

‘But, as for your husband … well, I'll see what I can find out. I will make enquiries.'

‘Oh God,' Catherine sobbed, ‘I can't bear to think that he might … he might be …'

‘My dear Lady, if you feel strong enough, you would do well to write to the King, your son, as soon as possible for your husband's sake. It is your best hope. I feel sure that His Majesty's tender love towards you will not permit him to see you suffer like this. It would break his heart …'He took Catherine's hand, held it gently between both of his and added ‘… as it breaks mine.'

The Cardinal helped her to compose the message to the King and promised that he would have it delivered as soon as he could. Catherine signed it and he pressed his ring into the warm sealing wax, feeling certain that the King would come to Bermondsey in search of his mother at the first opportunity.

It was hopeless. As long as he was here in Newgate, Owen would never know whether Catherine had reached the monastery at Bermondsey in safety and could only pray that, if she had, her health would improve under the care of the Benedictine monks. He must find a way of escaping from this hell hole and find the children, then he would take them all to Wales, first to Myddfai where Catherine would be fully restored to health by the famous physicians, then to Anglesey, among his people, where she and the children could enjoy the wild beauty of the mountains and be enchanted by the music and poetry of the bards. He tried, in his memory, to hear those half-forgotten rhythms and sweet cadences once again but they were drowned out in the darkness by the ugly noises of men snoring, cursing, and shouting abuse.

How ashamed his great kinsman Owain Glyndŵr would have been to think that a member of his own noble family had been jumped on from behind and wrestled to the ground like a common cutpurse. And how distraught Catherine would be if she could see him now, a prisoner, lying shackled on this stinking floor in the dead of night.

The King didn't notice that the monastery had been scrubbed and waxed in his honour but he pleased Abbot Bromley greatly by agreeing to attend midday mass when he arrived at Bermondsey a few days later. On his knees in the little church of St Saviour, Henry prayed silently but fervently for his mother's return to health. Then he visited her in her room and was shocked by what he saw.

Catherine lay on her bed, deathly pale and still but she struggled to sit upright when her son entered the room.

‘Maman, please, don't. Stay where you are comfortable, don't move. My learned uncle the Cardinal told me that you were ill but I didn't realise … I thought … perhaps …'

‘I am gravely ill, Henry,' said Catherine, falling back on to her pillows. ‘I am sorely troubled both in mind and in body. I have been suffering these several months with something … lethargy … a painful cough … no one seems to know … the doctors try to leech me and Owen tries to stop them …'

‘How is he? How is Master Tudor?'

‘I don't know. I don't know how he is or where he is. I can only pray to God that he is alive. All I know is that he was trying to bring me news of our boys, Edmund and Jasper. I know now that they are being cared for in the Abbey at Barking but I'll never get well again as long as I am parted from them. It was so cruel …'

Henry grimaced. He knew something of his uncle's persecution of his mother and her husband, she had told him of it herself. But the Duke of Gloucester was still a figure of authority in his young life and, not quite fifteen years old, he was not entirely sure how to deal with the problem.