Epitaph for Three Women (3 page)

So they set out and the Queen with her retinue followed the chariot containing the King’s corpse, accompanied by all the princes and lords of the King’s household and a few of his squires. At Abbeville they paused, where masses were sung for the repose of the King’s soul. It was an impressive sight and people waited along the roadside to catch a glimpse of it as it passed. The banners of the saints were held by the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of March and with them was Sir Louis Robsart, the Queen’s own knight, among numerous knights and nobles. Four hundred men-at-arms in black armour surrounded the bier; very sombre they looked, as befitted the occasion, their horses barbed black and their lancets held with the points downwards. At dusk, when the torches were lighted and they sang a dismal dirge as they walked, it was even more impressive – a solemn and fearful sight.

In every town through which they passed, masses were sung. They went through Montreuil to Boulogne and then on to Calais where vessels from England were waiting to carry the King’s body home.

It was a calm crossing and soon the white cliffs were in sight. Crowds of sorrowing people were waiting on the beaches and when the Queen stepped ashore she was greeted by fifteen bishops, and abbots and priests who were too numerous to be counted.

Katherine looked very young and desolate and won the sympathy of the people. They cheered her fervently. ‘Long life to the Queen,’ they cried. ‘God bless her and our baby King.’ She lifted her hand as she passed along in acknowledgement of their feeling for her but she was longing now for the dreary business to be over.

She wanted to be at Windsor, to see her baby, to assure herself of his well-being. She who had lived through the troubled reign of her father knew that she would have to be very careful now.

But for the time being she would go to Windsor. They would not attempt to stop her doing that. First she must see her little son, hold him in her arms. She must never forget that although he was only a baby – and very much like all other babies – he was the King of England. She was apprehensive. To be nine months old and King, surrounded by ambitious men, was a matter to be regarded very seriously; and although the baby sleeping in his cot was unaware of this … just yet … understanding would soon come to him.

In the meantime there was his mother to fight for him.

She was deeply moved as the castle came in sight. She had always loved it best of all her homes. To her it represented peace and security and her early life had instilled in her a need for both. The castle, grand and imposing with its Round Tower standing on an artificial mound surrounded by the deep fosse, the strong stone walls and battlemented towers, filled her with pleasure as she advanced. She could see the great forest nearby in which she and Henry had hunted together – not often for he had rarely time for such pursuits, but those great oaks had been the background of her first weeks in England when she had been so happy and young and innocent enough to believe that life would go on like that forever.

It was in that castle that her baby had been born and when she thought of that she felt a qualm of uneasiness for Henry had expressed the wish that his son should be born anywhere but at Windsor. Why had the impulse come to disobey him? She could not be sure, but it had been irresistible.

He had said: ‘I do not wish our child to be born at Windsor.’

‘Windsor is a beautiful castle,’ she had replied.

‘Ah, you love it well and that pleases me. I too have a fondness for the place.’

‘It should be the birthplace of kings,’ she had said.

Then he had taken her hands and looked very serious. ‘Not for our child, Kate. Not Windsor.’

No more had been said and they had revelled in the beauties of the forest and returned to the castle and partaken of the fine buck which they had proudly brought back with them. And they had laughed and frolicked together while briefly he forgot to think of war.

And when her time was near she had been at Windsor. I must leave here, she had told herself. It is the King’s wish. But she delayed leaving and the snow came. There were high snowdrifts everywhere and ice on the road. ‘It is no time for travelling, my lady,’ said her women.

And she was only too ready to agree. Henry would not wish her to take to the roads now. Who knew what would happen to a pregnant woman on a journey fraught with the dangers of winter travel?

It had been just a whim; she had always been one to shrug aside that which was unpleasant. It had been the only way to live through a childhood such as hers had been.

So in Windsor Castle her little Henry had been born.

With what joy she had sent messengers to France. How delighted Henry would be to learn that he had a son. And when the messenger returned to her she had sent for him and eagerly had asked: ‘How was the King? What said he to the news that he has a son?’

‘My lady,’ was the answer, ‘first he shouted his delight. He said it was the happiest moment of his life. And then …’

‘And then?’ she had asked. ‘What then?’

‘He wished to know where the child had been born, my lady.’

‘Oh!’ Her hand had flown to her throat and she had said quietly: ‘And what said he when you told him?’

The messenger had hesitated and she had gone on quickly: ‘Tell me.’

‘He turned pale. Then he said a strange thing, my lady.’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘’Twas something like this:

‘“I Henry born at Monmouth

Shall small time reign and much get

But Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.”

‘Then my lady, he added with great melancholy, “But as God will, so be it.”’

For a while she had been uneasy but she refused to be depressed. It was only now and then that she remembered; but as she rode towards Windsor it came into her mind again more forcibly than ever, because the first part of the prophecy had come true. Henry had gained much and reigned such a short time. Henry the Sixth would reign long. Yes, he should; she would cherish him and love him, and see that no harm came to him.

Her brother-in-law Humphrey of Gloucester was riding out to meet her. With him was Henry of Winchester, the baby’s great-uncle, who was one of the child’s godparents. They were accompanied by a retinue of knights and squires.

The two parties drew up and faced each other. Humphrey of Gloucester rode up to the Queen and taking her hand leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Then she was greeted by Henry of Winchester in like manner.

‘Welcome to Windsor, dear sister,’ said Humphrey. ‘This is a sorry occasion.’

He was handsome like his brothers but already the signs of the profligate life he lived were apparent on his face. He was a man of overwhelming ambition and even at this moment when he genuinely mourned a brother whom he had loved and admired he could not help wondering what advantage to himself could come out of the circumstances.

The Bishop – son of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford, beginning life as a bastard and later being legitimised – had always served the crown with loyalty. He was deeply disturbed by the death of the King, for he knew that with a child heir there was certain to be jostling for power and strife between various factions which was no good for any country.

‘Bless you, my lady,’ he said to the Queen. ‘May God guard you.’

Then they rode to Windsor.

First she must go to the royal nurseries.

‘You will find him in good health,’ Humphrey told her.

The nurses were with him. One held him in her arms and she was crooning a ditty to him while he played with coloured rings.

So unceremoniously had she entered that at first they did not recognise her.

Then someone said: ‘The Queen!’

They curtseyed deeply – all but the woman who held the child. Katherine went to her and took the baby.

He stared at her with wondering eyes and suddenly seized the gold chain about her neck and tried to put it into his mouth.

‘He seizes everything, my lady. He is so quick and bright …’

‘Henry, Henry,’ she said. ‘Don’t you know me? I am your mother.’

Then she kissed him tenderly and she took him to a window seat and sat down holding him tightly.

‘Yes indeed,’ she told herself, ‘I have much to live for.’

In the apartments of the Duke of Gloucester, he and the Bishop of Winchester faced each other. Humphrey had been trying to avoid the interview for he knew what its nature would be and he had no intention of listening to the advice of the old man.

Who in God’s name are these Beauforts? he asked himself. Bastards all of them. They should be grateful that their father thought enough of them to legitimise them and leave it at that. Instead they think they are as royal as I and my brothers are, and have a right to dictate to us what we should do.

Henry Beaufort had always had great influence with King Henry. He had been his tutor at one time and Henry had set great store by the views of his uncle. Before he had died he had named him as one of his son’s guardians.

And he wants to dictate to us all, thought Humphrey. Well, he shall find his mistake there.

Humphrey knew that the interview was to concern Jacqueline and he was certainly not going to be told what to do about her, because he had already made up his mind that he was going to marry her.

Humphrey was a man of conflicting characteristics. Dissolute in the extreme, given to frequenting low taverns and consorting with prostitutes, he was yet a lover of the fine arts. He had been most carefully educated at Balliol College and had quickly acquired a love of books which he had never lost. He collected them; and he honoured the men who produced them. When he was twenty he had made a gift of books to Oxford at the time when the library there was being enlarged. A patron of the arts, he was respected by those who performed in them and in their circle he became known as the Good Duke Humphrey. It seemed incongruous that one of selfish ambition who indulged in riotous living should earn such a title; but his was a nature of contrasts.

On his accession Henry had made him Chamberlain of England, and he had accompanied his brother to France and had taken part in the battle of Harfleur as well as that of Agincourt. In fact at Agincourt he had come near to losing his life when he had been wounded and thrown to the ground by the Duc D’Alençon. It was Henry the King who with characteristic courage and energy had found time to rescue his brother and save his life.

One must admire and revere Henry, Humphrey had believed; but when Henry was dead, what then? Humphrey was ambitious. A man must look to his own advantage. He had always believed that.

And who would have guessed that Henry would die so young? He was only thirty-five and strong, hale and hearty so it had seemed. And to be carried off by a fever and dysentery! It had happened to others. Soldiering was a profession which took a high toll of those who followed it. But who would have believed at the glory of Agincourt that Agincourt’s hero could so soon become a lifeless corpse.

Well, it happened and we must forsooth go on from there, Humphrey told himself.

His elder brother John had had the King’s confidence. He had the people’s confidence too. There was a quality of honesty in John which appealed to the people. But worthy as he was he had just missed that aura of greatness which Henry had had and which had enabled him to charm all those with whom he came into contact and inspire loyalty and belief in his invincibility. That was true leadership. It is found rarely and Henry undoubtedly had had it. And he, Humphrey? He was no Henry, he knew that. But he was a man who knew how to fight for what he wanted.

While John was in France Humphrey was in control in England. When John returned he would take a step backwards of course. But in the meantime he was in charge and he was not going to be dictated to by Beaufort, Bishop and royal bastard though he might be.

When the Lord Bishop had arrived, the squires had heralded him in with a show of reverence which irritated Humphrey, yet he had to admit that Henry Beaufort had an air of royalty about him. He could never forget he was the son of John of Gaunt and grandson of a King, and was not going to allow anyone else to do so either; and now behind him he had the authority of the Church.

Ambitious – was he not a Beaufort? Handsome – he took after his mother – and dignified. He was reputed to be impetuous and it was true he now and then acted without due thought; and he loved worldly possessions of which it was also said he had amassed a good deal. Whatever his faults he was consistently loyal to the crown. He had lent money to the King for his campaigns in France and none rejoiced more wholeheartedly than he at the success of those campaigns.

It was for this reason that he was now determined to turn Humphrey from a course of which he disapproved.

‘The Queen, God help her, will find comfort with her babe,’ said the Bishop. ‘Poor lady, I doubt she understands the difficulties ahead.’