Root of the Tudor Rose (18 page)

‘But … but he's Welsh!' Humphrey objected. ‘And you certainly can't trust
them
!'

‘Oh, you can't tar them all with the same brush,' said Henry Beaufort. ‘I think my nephew the King was actually rather fond of the Welsh, once he'd managed to subdue them. You know, people like Davy Gam. D'you remember him, Humphrey? Dead now, of course. Looked like a cross-eyed goat but he was very loyal. Henry knighted him on the battlefield. And the Welsh did give Henry excellent service at Agincourt. You, of all people, should know that.'

‘Yes, perhaps so,' Humphrey agreed grudgingly. ‘They're not bad bowmen.'

‘They're excellent bowmen,' said John, ‘especially the men of Gwent and Glamorgan. It's the wood they use, you know –'

‘My Lords,' Sir Walter interrupted, ‘I would be grateful if you would simply agree to the appointment of another member of clerical staff. It may not be for very long, just until we get things properly organised.'

‘Well, you'll need to talk to the man, Sir Walter,' said Humphrey. ‘What was his name again? He didn't seem very sure!' He laughed.

Sir Walter Hungerford chuckled. ‘Didn't he say it was Tudor? Owen Tudor? Something like that. Now, gentlemen, where were we?'

It wasn't quite dark in the nursery and Elizabeth Ryman sat in the firelight, a bowl of frumenty on the table in front of her, trying to feed it into the unwilling mouth of the King of France and of England. Grizzling, the baby kept trying to push her hand away. ‘Mistress Astley!' she called. ‘Joan, come and see what you can do with him. I don't know what's the matter. He's very bad-tempered.' She got up from her seat by the fire as Joan Astley came in to the room. Joan was a round-faced, matronly young woman of generous proportions who adored babies and seemed to be able to do anything with them.

‘I expect he's teething, Ma'am,' she said as Elizabeth Ryman handed the child over to her.

Joan knew exactly what the problem was, having explored the King's painful gums with her finger only this afternoon. Tincture of white willow bark was the answer. She swore by it.

‘Hello, my little kinglet,' she whispered, smiling and taking the vacant seat by the fire. She positioned the baby comfortably in the crook of her arm. ‘Who's got nasty old toothache, then? Eh? Let Joanie make it better for you.' She took a small glass phial from her apron pocket and shook it before removing the stopper. Dipping her finger into the liquid, she rubbed it gently on the baby's painful gums, soothing the hurt, lulling him to sleep.

This was how Catherine saw him for the first time in over six months. Having returned to Windsor with Jacqueline after Henry's funeral, she went immediately in search of her baby son, without even stopping to remove her heavy, rain-sodden woollen cloak.

‘I must see him, Jacq,' she said. ‘You have no idea how I have longed for this moment. Has he changed very much?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Jacqueline, ‘he has. He's a big boy now and quite heavy. Strong, too. Well, he's nearly a year old.' Then she stopped, her hand on the handle of the nursery door and a broad grin on her face. ‘Ready?'

Catherine hesitated, then darted into the room as soon as the door was open. She couldn't wait to feel her baby's arms around her neck, to see his toothless smile. Surprised, Joan Astley struggled to get to her feet without waking her small charge. Seeing the newcomer with the Countess of Hainault, she assumed her to be the Queen but she couldn't quite manage a curtsey while she was holding the baby.

‘Don't worry, please don't worry,' said Catherine. ‘Just give him to me! Let me hold him.'

‘Careful, my Lady,' said Joan, handing the baby over to his mother. ‘He's teething.'

‘Oh, I don't care. I just want to hold him.'

The baby opened his eyes and, seeing a stranger, screamed. Catherine held him tightly to her, thoughtlessly pressing his small face against the damp, scratchy fabric of her cloak, tears squeezing beneath her closed eyelids. She had tried so hard not to lose control at Henry's funeral, clinging to the thought of this moment as her reward for maintaining her dignity. But her baby had screamed at the sight of her. It was difficult to bear. ‘Please don't cry,' she begged him. ‘Please, please don't cry. Maman is home now, back with you again. Things will be different now.'

‘Shall I, Your Highness?' Joan Astley stood, holding out her arms for the baby, who was bawling loudly. ‘Don't upset yourself, please. And the King is upset, too. It's a difficult time. Let me take him from you. I can calm him.'

Jacqueline was all concern. ‘You mustn't worry, Catherine,' she said, ‘he'll soon get used to you again.'

Catherine was rooted to the spot with misery. ‘Yes, you're right. It was too much to expect that he would know me after all this time. And I didn't want to upset him. I'm sorry. I should have thought.'

The baby – her baby, struggling and crying in his nurse's arms – was a beautiful child with soft, creamy-white skin and brown eyes. Henry, she thought; he has his father's eyes. Light, straw-coloured hair lay like threads of silk across his head. She gazed at the child in wonderment as Joan tried to pacify him. Eventually his frightened tears subsided and he blinked up at the three women's faces above him, his nurse, his mother, and his godmother.

‘Has he stopped crying at last?' Elizabeth Ryman asked as she came bustling back into the nursery. Seeing Catherine, she immediately dropped a deep curtsey. ‘Oh, Your Highness! I'm sorry, I didn't know you had returned from Westminster. I should have been here to greet you.'

She rose and turned to Joan Astley. ‘Let Her Highness have the baby, Joan,' she ordered. Joan hesitated and glanced at Catherine who shook her head.

‘Let me take him, Joan,' said Jacqueline, holding out her arms to little Henry. ‘He knows me.'

The child went to her without a murmur, nestling against her shoulder, his thumb in his mouth. Jacqueline looked over his head at Catherine.

‘I'm sorry, Catherine,' she said.

Closing her eyes and not trusting herself to speak, Catherine nodded. She felt she had reached the lowest ebb in her life.

‘I'm sorry you've had to come back a second time.' Sir Walter strode into the castle library shortly after ten o'clock the following morning with a ledger under his arm. ‘Do sit down.' He motioned Owen to sit on a bench as he set the ledger on the table in front of him.

‘Thank you, Sir Walter.'

‘Now, young man, your cousin … er, Meredith, is it?'

‘Maredydd, Sire. Maredydd ap Owain.'

‘Yes, well, that,' said Sir Walter. ‘He tells me that you have mastered reading skills and that you can recite your times tables up to twelve. Is that so?'

‘Indeed, Sire.'

‘Nine twelves are … what?' Sir Walter shot at him.

‘Er … one hundred and eight,' said Owen after only a moment's hesitation.

‘Good, good. Languages?'

‘Welsh, Sire, my native tongue. And English, of course. I have sufficient Latin to serve its purpose in church. Oh, and a little French.'

‘Really? And where did you receive this fine education of yours? Did you study with monks? At Westminster, perhaps?'

‘No, Sire, I was taught at home in Wales. But, yes, I did study with monks, with the Dominican Friars at Bangor. That is where I learned to read and write and they also gave me lessons in arithmetic. One of the itinerant bards taught me to play the
crwth
and I picked up the strict metres from him, too.'

‘Picked up the what?'

‘The strict metres, Sir Walter, the rules which govern the composition of poetry in Welsh. The bards will always teach them to anyone who is keen to learn.'

Sir Walter's eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? How very interesting. Well, you won't be needing those in the English court. We don't go in much for poetry, not these days, not since Chaucer died, God rest his soul. But, apart from that, my boy, I think you will suit our purpose very well. Now, let me show you this ledger and explain what I'd like you to do.'

Sir Walter was a patient tutor. He took Owen through the columns of the ledger, showing him how he would like to see the figures presented and how he wanted to have certain domestic expenditures tracked in order to see where money was being spent unnecessarily.

‘I think there are significant savings to be made. Do you agree?'

‘I think you may be right, Sir Walter. If I can keep an eye on where the money goes over the next six or eight weeks, I'll have a much better idea.'

‘Good,' said Sir Walter, closing the ledger, ‘then I'd like you to start here next Monday morning. Be at your workplace immediately after morning mass. The seneschal of the Castle is Sir William Gifford and you will be answerable to him in all things. Including punctuality!'

‘Of course; thank you, Sire.'

As Sir Walter was getting up to leave he turned back with another question. ‘Tell me,' he said, ‘what made you want to leave Wales and come to work in London?'

Owen hesitated. There was no point in telling Sir Walter how everything changed after the family had become resigned to the death of Maredydd's father, whose memory he hero-worshipped. Neither was there any purpose to be served by telling him about his scheming kinsman Gwilym ap Gruffydd who had gained control of the family lands in Anglesey. There had been a girl, too; but Rhiannon was betrothed elsewhere. He might as well move on.

‘Perhaps,' he answered slowly, ‘perhaps a sense of adventure. I suppose I wanted to emulate my kinsman, Maredydd. He's older than I am. And he was invited to enter His Majesty's service after the pardon.'

‘Pardon? What pardon?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Sir Walter, I thought you knew. He is Maredydd ap Owain, the son of Owain Glyndŵr. Ours is an old and honourable family.'

‘So
that's
who you are, the pair of you! Kin to Glendower, the self-styled Prince of Wales! I thought there was something about you both.'

‘Will that make a difference to my appointment, Sir Walter?'

Sir Walter shrugged. ‘Well, I can't really see why it should. But it's difficult to forget the insurrection and the Welsh wars. Glendower and his followers were very persistent and very, very cunning.'

‘They were fighting for Welsh freedom, Sire. It was an important cause.'

Sir Walter shrugged again, more eloquently this time. ‘Not everyone would agree with you. Frankly, I was rather surprised that the King seemed to favour a policy of conciliation towards the Welsh, after all the trouble they gave him, and his father before him. And Glendower, the so-called freedom fighter, never even had the good grace to acknowledge the pardon he was offered after the revolt had been quelled.'

Owen was becoming increasingly irritated that Sir Walter couldn't be bothered to pronounce Glyndŵr's name correctly. But he really needed this job so he swallowed his pride and answered politely.

‘In the family, Sir Walter, we believe that he was dead by then but we can't prove that. Anyway, there was a second pardon offered and Maredydd accepted that on his father's behalf. That's when he was invited to enter the service of the King. He served with His Highness in Normandy.'

Sir Walter sighed. ‘And now you, too, are entering the service of the King. But a new king, King Henry VI. He'll need all the help we can give him, poor little mite.'

Owen smiled. It seemed such a strange thing to call the monarch. But then, that's really all he was; a poor little mite, a small baby who was forced to rely on the integrity and genuine concern of those who had the care of him.

‘I'll do my best to serve him, Sir Walter,' he said. ‘As long as you're sure that my background isn't going to make any difference to my position as a clerk in his household.'

‘No. Not unless you want it to. Your cousin has already proved his loyalty to the House of Lancaster and you're likely to do the same, I suspect. So it makes no difference to my decision. Good luck, my boy.'

Sir Walter turned on his heel and left the room.

Chapter Ten

England, November 1422

John of Bedford had been trying to find Catherine. No one seemed to have seen her and he'd almost given up when he spotted Guillemote. He thought he recognised the little French woman with the bright, intelligent brown eyes.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘you're … er … you're the Queen's tiring woman, aren't you?'

‘I am Guillemote, my Lord Duke, Her Majesty's personal maid.'

‘Ah, yes. Then be so good as to tell me where she is. I wish to speak to her.'

‘I believe, my Lord, that she is with the Countess Jacqueline. If you would care to follow me, please, I will ask if she will see you.'

The Duke found himself admiring what went before him. Guillemote had a pleasing figure with a trim waist and there was a look of organised determination about her. She was probably an excellent personal maid, he thought. She'd no doubt make some man a half-decent wife, too. Frenchwomen of her type were not always particularly pretty but he had found them to be diligent, intelligent, loyal, and, more often than not, possessed of a surprising sense of humour. Just the sort of wife he would have liked, he thought, the sort you knew wouldn't stray or embarrass you in any way. Not that he'd ever had any choice in the matter. There had apparently been a suggestion many years ago that he should be married to the Countess Jacqueline but it had come to nothing. In retrospect he was rather relieved about that since she was a bit boisterous for his taste. In temperament, she was far better suited to his brother Humphrey and they did appear to be quite entranced with each other. He himself had no prospect of marriage. John often felt quite lonely.

Guillemote stopped outside Jacqueline's door and knocked it discreetly. ‘Just wait a moment, please Your Grace, I'll see if Her Highness is here.'