The Queen's Lover (51 page)

The next day, as she checked the corners of the Westminster Palace apartment before mounting her horse for Windsor, in case there was any last little thing that had been forgotten, she found a new scrunch of parchment tossed into a corner.

She unraveled it. It was another poem to her, from Charles of Orleans.

"Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart, and with some store of pleasure give me aid, for Jealousy, with all them of his part, Strong siege about the weary tower has laid,"
Charles of Orleans had written--no letter, no words of everyday affection, just a plea. He was jealous. He wanted her. He was asking for patience and perseverance to help him to get her.

Catherine's heart bled for her poor, gallant cousin and the hopelessness of his situation. She didn't know how this message had missed its destination, but she could imagine the Bishop taking it from a messenger yesterday, reading it himself, and seeing it represented a danger that he, the Bishop, thought she shouldn't take, throwing it into a corner.

Or...For a moment she wondered: Could it have been Owain?

All the way to Windsor, Catherine thought, a little apprehensively, but not without pleasure too, about the possibility of a new marriage. Her thoughts were in the abstract. She couldn't really imagine the intimacy of any real-life man's form or face turning toward her, or smiling, or whispering (except Owain's--she could always imagine Owain; but then Owain was always there in front of her; all men, in her mind, had something of Owain's dark, quiet, height, and poise). When Catherine thought of marriage, she thought primarily that she might enjoy a more public life, attending dances and dinners such as the one Humphrey had organized, where she'd been surprised to have so enjoyed the sight and sound of so many adults of her own rank
gathered together, talking and laughing. She might enjoy having a new title--becoming, if not a queen again, for she couldn't leave England and Harry, then maybe a princess or duchess to an English duke--and having guests to invite, or alliances to nurture for her husband.

As long as the husband wasn't Duke Humphrey, she thought. A lifetime of beef breath and hair bursting ginger from nostrils and ears, and coarseness of speech: worth planning to avoid.

As it turned out, however, there was no need for Catherine to rush into a defensive marriage plan to ward off the Duke's amorous attentions. Duke Humphrey had abruptly married someone else. His bride was Jacqueline of Hainault. The lovers had papal permission to marry--but not from Pope Martin of Rome. They'd decided the dubious dispensation of the rival Benedict XIII of Avignon, whose rulings were not accepted in England, would be enough. As soon as they were churched, furtively, in Essex, the Duke and his new Duchess had rushed off to the Continent together. Duke Humphrey was apparently planning to fight her battles for her, and force the Duke of Burgundy to accept that Jacqueline's pre-existing marriage to the Duke of Brabant was null and void.

Catherine stared at the Bishop, who'd been delighted to be the bearer of this news, and was looking cheerfully back at her, smiling with tremendous, visible satisfaction.

"What...gone?" she stammered. "For good? Just like that?"

The Bishop's smile grew broader still. "Just like that," he agreed. Catherine could see him thinking of all the Council meetings that would become easier now Duke Humphrey wasn't there to throw his weight around and nag for a larger share of power than the Council wanted to give him--which would leave the Bishop to organize things in his own subtle way. Duke Humphrey had, in effect, impulsively left England to be ruled by the Bishop. No wonder the Bishop looked glad.

But the Bishop didn't say any of that. He just said kindly: "We'll have more time now, to find you a good marriage," as if he had nothing on his mind but Catherine's well-being, and pressed her hand. "You'll be happy about that."

Catherine stole a glance at Owain, standing behind the
Bishop. She was learning to trust Owain's reactions; to see England through his eyes and rely on his cooperation. It was one of the few things she was certain of in her life here, she thought, gratefully; that she and Owain Tudor had moved beyond the impetuousness of their long-ago feelings for each other to the graver, more restrained, more enduring affection that prevailed now. She counted him a friend. She wanted to see how he'd taken the news that Humphrey had gone, and her remarriage was in the hands of Bishop Beaufort. But he had his eyes fixed on his former master, and his features were expressionless. Try as she might, she couldn't read the studied neutrality in that dark face.

Months passed before the Bishop brought up the question of Catherine's marriage again--happy, quiet months, in which, with the Bishop's gentle guidance, the affairs of England seemed to run smoothly enough, far away from Catherine's and Harry's tranquil child-world, and Catherine forgot the brief flicker of interest she'd felt at hurrying back to the company of adults.

The next mention of marriage came only after Harry had made his first bone-jolting four-day trip to London, stopping at Staines, Kingston, and Kennington, before riding on his mother's lap through the City of London to Westminster, to be introduced to a cheering Parliament. It happened only after Christmas, at Hertford Castle, with the entire school of royal wards now in residence. The entertainments had been organized by Owain, from Jack Travaill's London players and the Jews of Abingdon, with New Year gifts to the King of coral beads, a gold brooch, and, from Duke John in France, a gold ring set with a ruby.

Harry was nearly three, in fact, when Bishop Beaufort came to chapel with them and raised the matter again. Watching the little boy's head, folded in prayer, in the chapel (to Catherine's relief, the child loved the solemnity of candles and stained glass and chanting, and spent willing hours on his knees--better, she thought, time spent quietly in prayer than rushing about fighting), he said, "If you were still minded to marry again...I have given the matter long thought...and there is a possible match..."

He gave her a side ways look.

Catherine wished Owain were with them. But he was busy with household duties. Feeling a little alone, she composed her face and hands; made a point of looking up at the Bishop with willing alertness, as if about to acquiesce. She didn't need Owain, she told herself. She was close to the Bishop. She could trust the Bishop to have found the best candidate for her, couldn't she?

"Edmund Beaufort," the Bishop murmured, watching her face.

Catherine's head swam. She hadn't met Edmund Beaufort--he was a prisoner in France--but she knew of him. She'd met his mother, she recalled--the charming, elegant, dark-haired Margaret of Clarence whom the Bishop had introduced her to last year, at the feast at Westminster. She remembered liking Margaret of Clarence at once. She remembered the Duchess's lovely profile too, and the willowy grace of her movements. A son who took after that mother would be unlikely to be ugly, she thought with relief.

Beyond that guess, she realized, she knew only the sketchiest of facts about Edmund Beaufort. He was younger by five years or so: maybe nineteen now. And he was a prisoner of war--like Charles of Orleans in reverse. The fourth son of one Earl of Somerset, and the brother of another, he'd been one of the English lords captured a few years back at the battle of Bauge. He'd been held at Bourges by Catherine's brother Charles ever since, though in his case a ransom had been agreed and he would shortly be released and allowed to return to England.

She knew the Bishop and Duchess Margaret had been drawing up plans for a celebration of Edmund Beaufort's return. Was a marriage to Catherine to be part of the celebrations?

"What do you think?" the Bishop whispered.

"Your nephew," she replied slowly. "You're suggesting I should marry your nephew?"

As those words crossed her lips, it occurred to Catherine that, if she accepted this marriage, organized by one member of the Beaufort clan, to another member of the Beaufort clan, she would be demonstrating to all England that both she and her son the King were utterly at one with the Beauforts. It
wasn't at all the neutral marriage proposition she'd expected the Bishop would come up with, after all his talk about how she must find a husband to avoid angering Duke Humphrey. It would infuriate Duke Humphrey, and Duke John over in France, too, if she married a Beaufort. Of course it would--it would elbow both the royal brothers further away from the King, and replace their influence definitively with Bishop Beaufort's. It would be a brilliant marriage--for the Beauforts. But would it be so brilliant for Catherine of Valois, Queen Mother of England?

Then again...perhaps it was necessary to choose one set of allies. Perhaps she couldn't spend her whole life sitting on the fence. Perhaps the Beauforts were better for her than the brothers.

If only Owain were here, she thought, panicking inside, but smiling back at the Bishop to hide her turmoil of conflicting thoughts with what she hoped was an appearance of interest that was warm enough to be courteous but not so warm that it signaled instant acceptance.

With a flash of relief, she realized that she knew where Owain had been planning to be this afternoon: supervising the harvest of the last roses of summer from the walled garden, to be made into potpourri and oil, and the cutting back of the remaining foliage for winter.

Rising from her knees, and raising a startled-looking Harry from his prayer, thinking to herself that there was no point their being in chapel if they were only going to talk among themselves, and that they might as well take the last of the summer sunshine while it was there, she said, a little louder: "An interesting idea...I'd like to know more...shall we go and walk in the gardens?"

Catherine felt relieved once she'd managed to bump into Owain and the servants in the gardens, and the Bishop had rumbled, in his urbane way, "What a pleasure...join us for a stroll, if you can spare five minutes." In the sunlight, Owain had eased himself into the position he'd grown comfortable in during his time of service to the cleric, walking just behind the
older man's shoulder, looking thoughtful. But when Owain heard the subject under discussion he had no guidance to offer. His face closed up. After one brief turn around the paths, he excused himself and returned to his work.

Catherine was quietly panicked again to see him go. The Bishop took no notice. He continued to talk, gently, insistently: describing Edmund Beaufort's charm as a child--"my favorite nephew," he said with a reminiscent smile--his physical beauty, and, of course, the extraordinary bravery Edmund Beaufort had shown as little more than a boy, at the battle of Bauge.

"His courage deserves reward. I've raised the question at Council, and I think I can safely say the councilors may decide to give him--oh, an earldom at least--"

Catherine widened her eyes, hoping she looked appreciative enough. Even without Owain's guidance, she could smell a rat now. So, she thought, Edmund Beaufort has no title.

"And appropriate estates for an earl...or a duke," the Bishop added beguilingly. "Revenues."

Catherine smiled and nodded. But she was thinking: So Edmund Beaufort has no money either.

She knew of one more problem with Edmund Beaufort, which the Bishop hadn't mentioned. Like all his powerful Beaufort relatives--even the Bishop--Edmund wasn't quite royal. He was the product of Prince John of Gaunt's relationship, a generation or two back, with his mistress Katherine Swynford. This union had become marriage after twenty years. The children of the union were now considered legitimate, as far as that went, but they were barred in perpetuity from holding the throne of England. A royal marriage to Catherine, a genuine princess, would be a clever alliance for Edmund Beaufort. It would raise his status, possibly enough to allow the Beauforts, at some future stage, to bypass that irksome barrier to their highest ambitions.

"It's got cold," Catherine said, looking up as if the sky had filled with clouds, feeling less sure than usual that she liked the Bishop, who was looking at her with such determinedly agreeable eyes, and who wanted her to advance him and his kin with this marriage. "Let's go inside." Yet by the time, much later,
that the persuasive Bishop had left, Catherine had let herself be half convinced that Edmund Beaufort was tomorrow's man, one of the great warriors of the English aristocracy, and therefore a potentially worthy match.

She'd asked for a picture. She'd agreed to consider receiving a letter. She'd even dared ask, "How do you think Humphrey would feel about a Beaufort marriage?"

And she'd heard the Bishop's wry reply, pronounced over a shrug, "Ahh, Humphrey--a spent force now, wouldn't you say...I doubt we'll see him again for many a long year."

"Well...what about Duke John?" she'd persisted.

But the Bishop had only shrugged again. "As for John, I'd say
he
has his hands full with running the war effort in France. It's not going as well as it was. He should have cleaned up every last soldier from Bourges long ago, but he doesn't seem to be able to get near the south." Then he grinned, with friendly malice. "What's more, he has Humphrey to deal with now too, charging around the Low Countries making a fool of himself. Can you imagine--they say Humphrey's challenged the Duke of Burgundy to a duel to settle the question of Jacqueline's marriage! So...poor John...a lot to contend with. He won't worry overmuch if you marry young Edmund."

He tittered. Reassured, Catherine tittered too. She was letting the picture into her mind of a future of amusing, gossipy fireside evenings with a younger, handsomer version of the Bishop: talking French with an Englishman who'd spent half his life at her brother's rebel court; a man who, once he was made a duke by Harry, would achieve greatness. A man Harry would love.

Owain excused himself from service for the next two days. A fever, he said. A lesser servant set out Catherine's food at table in his absence.

But she found him on the third day, in the chapel, on his knees. He was very pale. There were shadows under his eyes. He looked angry and set-faced.