Owen (9 page)

Our second witness, Bishop Grey, has arrived from London earlier in the day and spent a long time in a meeting with Queen Catherine and Bishop Morgan. He is elderly, but his mind is sharp. Bishop Grey is content to agree the plan to allow us sanctuary at his country manor, although he cautions that his tenure as Bishop of London is to end after a year. After that we might need to make alternative arrangements, depending on the reaction at Westminster if the marriage is discovered.

We all agree it will be best for our plan to be kept secret for as long as possible. Catherine’s main concern is how we can keep it from everyone when she visits her son in Windsor. There will be little privacy in the king’s busy household and it seems almost certain someone will find out, particularly if she is with child.

The castle chapel is ancient with small leaded windows set high in the walls. I shiver in the cold night air, hardly able to believe what is happening, and pace nervously in the dark hallway of the chapel. I repeatedly ask Nathaniel if he can see anyone approaching and start to wonder if something has gone wrong when Catherine arrives, a beautiful silk gown under her dark riding cloak.

Bishop Morgan has rehearsed the simple ceremony with us both in the privacy of the queen’s apartment and recites the formal wording from memory.

‘Owen Tudor, wilt though have this woman to thy wedded wife, wilt thou love her and honour her, keep her and guard her, in health and in sickness, as a husband should a wife and forsaking all others on account of her, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

I am ready. ‘I will.’

The bishop continues. ‘Queen Catherine, wilt though have this man to thy wedded husband, wilt thou love him, honour him, keep him in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband and forsaking all others on account of him, keep thee only unto him, for so long as ye both shall live?’

Catherine replies. ‘I will.’ Her voice is clear and confident in the still night air.

Now I answer. ‘I receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

Catherine responds and it seems time stands still. I look at Catherine and see not a queen but the confident woman who loves me, and who I love so deeply in return. I take the gold ring, which Catherine has chosen from her jewellery, and place it on her finger. The bishop gives us his blessing and it is done. I kiss my new bride and a Welsh servant has married a queen.

We thank the bishops for their kindness and loyalty to the queen, and Catherine presents Nathaniel with a gold crucifix as a token of her gratitude. Moving silently back through the silent castle grounds, I finally close and bolt the door of Catherine’s bedchamber, to spend our first night together as husband and wife.

* * *

The house at Much Hadam is on the edge of a quiet village some forty miles north of London. Although officially the palace of the Bishops of London, it is more of a manor house than any of the palaces I have lived in. The main feature is a high-ceilinged timber hall, over a hundred years old. The decoration is simple, as befitting its religious function. The rooms are spacious and the furniture practical.

My concern is Catherine will think it too plain after the luxury she has known, but I needn’t have worried, as she finds our new home at Much Hadam offers her the freedom she always longed for. The one thing that troubles her is Bishop Morgan’s suggestion about how she can explain her sudden disappearance. Before leaving Wallingford the bishops joined us for a toast in the queen’s apartments and the talk soon turned to this problem.

Bishop Grey raised the question. ‘What are you going to tell the rest of the household?’

The question hangs in the air and I glance at Catherine. We haven’t discussed it, although we can hardly expect to slip away without anyone noticing. There are always visitors calling at the castle to see the queen and the bishop is right, we must decide what is to become of the household staff.

Catherine answers. ‘We need time. There must be some way to answer any questions before it’s too late for them to challenge our marriage.’

Bishop Morgan nods to Catherine. ‘You don’t need anyone’s permission to travel around the country. For now, all you need to say is that you wish a change from Wallingford. You don’t have to tell anyone where you’ve gone.’

‘They will think it strange if I travel alone—and they will wonder where Owen has gone.’

A thought occurs to me. ‘I will tell Nathaniel to keep the queen’s household busy. I can say I’m going to the coronation in France. That will buy plenty of time.’

Catherine looks uncertain. ‘What will they say if someone like Duke Humphrey insists on knowing where I am?’

Bishop Grey answers. ‘I understand you will not like this, my lady, although it will stop any questions if it were suggested there is a problem with your health?’

‘To say I am ill?’ Catherine frowns at the thought.

Bishop Grey looks flustered. ‘In a manner of speaking, my lady. I was thinking of your father. It could be suggested that you have... shown early signs of his problems.’

‘You mean to suggest I am losing my mind?’ Her French accent returns and her face is flushed.

Bishop Morgan intervenes. ‘You said the constable here, Thomas Chaucer, is a first cousin of Henry Beaufort and possibly watching your household for the Cardinal?’

I see where this is leading. ‘I could explain to him, in strict confidence, why the queen has to be taken away from public view for a while—and ask for his co-operation in keeping this secret for as long as possible?’

The bishop nods again. ‘He will no doubt inform his cousin, Henry Beaufort—who in turn will ensure no questions are asked.’ He looks at Catherine. ‘You will need to consent to this, of course.’

Catherine stares out of the window. I follow the direction of her gaze and see how the ancient leaded glass distorts the view of the river, blurring the edges between where the water ends and the land begins. I remember how they locked her father away for his own safety and to hide his torment from the people. Catherine once confided to me that even her mother acted as if he was dead. No questions were asked as no one wanted to hear the King of France had gone mad. It was plausible that his daughter could inherit something of his ways.

‘I agree,’ she says, her voice so soft it can hardly be heard.

The powerful longbow creaks as I heave it back to full stretch and sight down the arrow. My arm strains with the effort of holding it perfectly still. I realise I am holding my breath and remember to breathe out. With a familiar swish that takes me instantly back to my youth, I loose the arrow and grin like a boy as it strikes satisfyingly deep into the centre of the makeshift straw target.

One of the unexpected aspects of life at Much Hadam Palace is that I have plenty of time to improve my skill with archery. That is part of the problem. Before my marriage to Catherine I worked hard, in a position of trust and responsibility, making sure the queen’s household ran smoothly. Now I see myself as a kept man, living off my wife’s allowance, with only maids, cooks and gardeners to worry about. Even they have little need of me, for as servants of Bishop Grey they ran his palace well enough on their own.

The village is little more than a hamlet, so the parish church of St Andrew's, said to have been built by men returning from the Crusades, is the focal point. When Bishop William Grey visits he explains that the grandeur of the village church, with its unusually long nave, is because of the adjacent official summer palace. The ancient door has iron hinges with fleur-de-lis, a sign of its Norman past, and the spire is a tall, traditional Hertfordshire spike, visible for miles around.

I am grateful for how well everything has worked out. Catherine’s wealth and allowances are more than enough for us to live in comfort for the rest of our lives. Bishop Grey doesn’t even require payment of rent, as the palace is owned by the church commissioners. It has all become a little too easy. I am lucky beyond my wildest dreams, yet find myself longing for the day when we can live openly as husband and wife, rather than hiding away in secret.

To show my gratitude and keep myself busy I cut down the young trees which have self-seeded in the churchyard, clear ivy from the walls, and restore headstones which have fallen. I find a rickety wooden ladder in the crypt of the church and climb high onto the roof to repair slates which became dislodged in the winter storms. It is satisfying work and I feel I am contributing to the local community, as well as keeping myself gainfully occupied.

The villagers I meet are friendly and assume I am in the bishop’s employment, doing the work on his orders. It surprises me how easily we have fitted into our simple life in the country after the luxury of Windsor Castle or even the hustle and bustle of life at Wallingford.

Nathaniel rides to visit us and reports that all is quiet at Wallingford Castle. It seems our plan has worked. No unexpected visitors have called and no awkward questions have been asked. He brings a bundle of letters and messages for the queen, including one from Harry in Windsor. Catherine is able to reply to them all without revealing she is no longer in residence there—or almost nine months pregnant with her second child.

I worry that, instead of glowing with health, Catherine spends so much time in her bed. I know almost nothing about childbirth so must rely on the judgement of the village midwife. A cheerful, buxom woman with unruly ginger hair, as far as I am aware she neither knows or cares about our identity and seems reassuringly unconcerned about Catherine.

‘She needs to rest, sir.’

I search the woman’s deeply lined face for clues to what she thinks. ‘Is it normal for my wife to look so pale?’

The midwife must see my concern. ‘Your wife has not slept well for many nights, sir, so it is best she stays in her bed.’

‘Can you tell how much longer we have to wait?’

‘The baby will come soon enough, one day, two at the most. I will stay here and have everything ready.’

I feel a little reassured. ‘You must tell me what I need to do.’

‘Some say husbands should keep away, but I know better.’ She gives me a conspiratorial look. ‘You sit with your wife, sir. She will be glad to see you.’

I try to let Catherine sleep for as long as she wants, then take the midwife’s advice and go to see her. Catherine is curled up on her side, a thin coverlet over her, her swollen stomach clasped in both hands. I pull a chair to her bedside and take her hand.

‘How are you feeling?’

She looks up at me with drowsy eyes. ‘I can feel the baby moving.’ She places the flat of my hand on her bulge. ‘The child kicks hard. It must be a boy!’

I can feel a strange movement. ‘Is it bad luck to talk about names before the baby is born?’

‘No.’ Catherine laughs. ‘Although I didn’t have any choice with Henry.’

‘Well, this time you can choose.’

‘Truly?’

‘Of course,’ I stroke her forehead, ‘I will name the next one.’

‘In that case... if it is a boy I would like to call him Edmund.’

I sit back in the chair. ‘Edmund?’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Of course not.’ I hope she misses the lie and remember my jealousy at how happy she had been with Edmund Beaufort. ‘What if it is a girl?’

‘What was your mother’s name?’

‘Margaret.’ A distant memory comes back to me. ‘My father called her Meg when I was a child—although her proper name was Margaret.’

‘Margaret it is then,’ says Catherine decisively. ‘We will name her after your mother.’

‘Thank you,’ I feel strangely emotional, ‘that would mean a lot to me.’

The end of the taper in my hand shakes as I light another candle. I can’t recall when I had last been so nervous. The midwife closes the door on me, shutting me out of women’s business. All I can do is wait and pray and pace up and down. Unable to help I try not to think about the stories I’ve heard about what can go wrong.

I always wanted a son but have given little thought to what it could mean to be a father. It seemed unthinkable when Bishop Morgan first suggested a child would make it impossible for even Duke Humphrey to challenge the validity of our marriage.

I hear Catherine calling out to God, followed by a worrying silence, and am about to knock on the door when I hear the cry of a new-born baby. Unable to contain myself any longer I push the door open a little and peer inside, not sure what to expect.

Catherine is propped up in bed holding a pink bundle to her breast and smiles as she sees me. ‘It’s a boy, Owen. We have a perfectly healthy boy.’

The midwife wraps the baby tightly in clean linen and I look down at my son.

‘Edmund.’

Catherine looks at us both proudly. ‘Edmund Tudor.’

* * *

Nathaniel’s expression of surprise makes me grin like a fool when I ride through the gates of Wallingford Castle alone. ‘Good to see you, old friend, it has been a while!’

Nathaniel shakes my hand. ‘Good to see you too, Owen. What brings you back to Wallingford?’

‘We need to talk, in private. Catherine wishes to visit her son in Windsor.’

Nathaniel sends for something for me to eat while I leave my horse at the stables and then follow him to the royal apartments. I find it strange to discover my room in Wallingford is exactly as I left it. Out of habit I check Catherine’s apartment and find the furniture covered with dust sheets, as if she is expected to return at any time. A serving girl arrives from the kitchens, carrying a platter of bread and beef with a flagon of beer and two pewter tankards.

I wait until the staring girl has gone, then close the door and ask Nathaniel to take a seat. ‘Catherine is missing Harry and wants to visit him in Windsor.’

Nathaniel watches as I pour us both a tankard from the flagon of ale. ‘Does she plan to tell him about you—about his half-brother?’

I take a drink before answering and pull a face at the bitter taste. ‘That’s the thing, Nathaniel. She wants to tell him and I’ve no idea how Harry will take it.’

Nathaniel drinks some of his ale while I tear a chunk of bread, still warm from the oven, and bite into it hungrily.

‘You think he is too much under the influence of his tutor, Sir Richard Beauchamp?’

‘I do. He could have me thrown in the Tower—we simply don’t know.’

‘What about young Edmund?’

‘Catherine has asked the midwife to care for him while we visit Windsor.’ I smile as I remember. ‘I thought it a step too far for her to turn up carrying a baby.’ I take my knife and cut myself a thick slice of beef. I’ve hardly eaten all day and it tastes good. ‘As far as anyone is concerned, Catherine has recovered her health and there is no reason to suspect she has a second child.’

I study my friend, one of the few people I can trust and rely on. Nathaniel looks like a noble now, with his neatly trimmed beard. He has invested in good clothes and wears fine leather boots and a fashionable black felt hat. It is hard to remember the man in front of me as the studious clerk I once knew.

He takes another drink while I wolf down the rest of the bread and beef. ‘I can arrange the visit to the king, although I wonder... if it is a good idea.’

‘We will need to bring the usual retinue of servants and a royal escort.’

‘That’s easy enough to organise, but what about the queen? Is she coming here?’

‘No, we will travel by St Albans. You can wait there with the retinue while I ride ahead and collect Catherine from Much Hadam.’

‘You haven’t decided if you will tell the king?’

Nathaniel’s question is one I have discussed many times with Catherine, once almost arguing about it. ‘We will have to see, Nathaniel. I am considering telling Sir Richard, if I have the chance.’

Nathaniel’s eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘What if he reacts badly?’

‘I think Sir Richard will agree that Catherine can see Harry when she wishes, and we can only do it with his support. It is a risk—but we can’t hide for the rest of our lives.’

Harry is taller and it seems the training has finally had effect, as there is something more regal about his manner. The earl has dressed him in an ermine-trimmed robe for the meeting and he wears a gold coronet unselfconsciously. Instead of running to embrace his mother he bows to her formally and waits while she curtsies in return before speaking.

‘It is good to see you, Mother.’

Catherine smiles. Her son is playing the part as he has been instructed. ‘And you, how you have grown.’

I am watching Sir Richard who stands behind the king with another knight I’ve not seen before at his side. Both wear their swords on low slung belts, fighting weapons, which have probably seen use in battle. I see the earl is studying Catherine, as if trying to detect anything unusual. Someone must have told him she suffered with her father’s problems, and I guess it could have been Cardinal Beaufort.

Most importantly, I realise that the earl and the knight, who must be the king’s full-time bodyguard, seem disinterested in me. Standing well back from Catherine, for once I find it useful to become an invisible servant again. It comforts me to know the bishops have kept their silence. No one knows our secret, for now, at least.

Harry sees me though. ‘Good day, Tudor.’ There is a welcoming note in the young king’s voice. ‘You must ride with me while you are here—and see how I have improved my skill at the joust.’

I bow to him. ‘It will be a great honour, Your Highness.’

Sir Richard notices me at last. ‘I need to talk with you, Tudor.’ He looks at Harry. ‘We will leave the king to spend a little time with his mother.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

I follow the earl down long, familiar corridors, rehearsing in my mind what I need to say. It crosses my mind that these could be my last moments as a free man, if God wills it. Sir Richard takes me to the room he uses for his study and keeps me standing while he sits behind a large oak desk cluttered with papers.

‘So tell me, Tudor, is the queen dowager ill?’

I look at the earl. An honest man, although unpredictable, Sir Richard’s long grey hair is receding and his face is deep with the lines which show he has not chosen an easy life, despite his considerable wealth.

‘Queen Catherine is well, my lord, yet there is something I have to tell you.’

‘What is it?’ He doesn’t sound the least bit interested in what I have to say.

‘She has remarried, my lord. To me—and we have a child now.’ I blurt it out, my carefully rehearsed speech forgotten.