The Tudor Bride (42 page)

‘You will stay with us though, Owen, will you not?’ Catherine laid a hand cajolingly on his sleeve. ‘I do not like the thought of living on the edge of a wild forest without your protection.’

He bent and kissed her rather sweetly on the brow. ‘I will stay as long as you like, cariad. But I predict that you will find the Hatfield forest a serene and beautiful place. Some people call it Hatfield Broadoak because of its majestic trees. Perhaps you will not want to leave.’

Before he could raise his head, she reached her hand behind his neck and pulled it down to press her lips eagerly to his. ‘That may be so, but only if you are there with me,’ she said softly.

Carts were therefore loaded and the cavalcade of mothers and children departed the next morning for the seven-mile journey to Hatfield, escorted by several men at arms led by Owen and Thomas Roke. John Meredith remained behind to keep order at Hadham. For the sake of Catherine’s unborn child, we travelled at a plodding walk, crossing the River Stort by ford after about an hour. Although the meadows around the river looked marshy, the autumn rains had largely held off and the sluggish stream barely reached the wheel-hubs as the carts rumbled through the water. Catherine travelled in one of them with Catrine, Louise and the babies while Alys, Anne, Mildy and I all tucked our skirts up under our saddles as a precaution, although the water on our horses’ legs was less than hock-high. A group of about ten Hadham servants, stable hands, cooks and laundry maids, waded through beside us, excited at the rare prospect of visiting a new place. I counted heads and hoped Owen was right when he said there would be enough room for all of us at the hunting lodge.

Over the next hour the countryside gradually altered from fields and meadows to common scrub and then to forest, the narrow track winding through groves of magnificent ancient oaks whose leaves had already changed to russet and deep crimson. The ground beneath them was thick with withered leaf-fall and full of the rustling sounds of small woodland creatures scuttling away from the noisy rattle of the carts. Little birds with jewel-coloured wings flitted around in the canopy and the occasional deer was glimpsed fleeing our presence, its white tail flashing through the sparse undergrowth, or squirrels could be spotted darting among the overhead branches. Otherwise it was shady and peaceful in the forest and we encountered no other travellers.

Owen seemed to know the way, although the tracks all looked the same to me and it was something of a surprise when we eventually emerged from the peaceful shadows into bright sunshine and found ourselves joining a wide thoroughfare which, judging by the number of hoof-prints and cart-tracks in the dusty surface, connected well-populated habitations. Like all roadways it would be deep with mud once the autumn rains arrived, but for the present it was firm and springy. On this side of the forest much of the land was given over to pastures. We had reached the edge of the wealthy East Anglian sheep-country which, according to the London tailors I had dealt with, supplied the best weaving wool in the world. The presence of so many sheep in the fields delighted me because I had been supplementing William’s suckling with ewe’s milk and I knew that Catherine would soon be weaning Edmund in favour of her new babe. We should be able to obtain a good supply.

None of us were cheered by our accommodation however, when we finally reached it. While income from the manor of Hatfield Regis formed part of Catherine’s dower, it all came from rents. There was no manor hall as at Hadham, only scattered farmhouses, all of which were inhabited by the families of their tenants, so the lodge, built as a base for hunting parties, was the only accommodation available to us. Although the forest had been a royal park for hundreds of years, the privilege of hunting there had gradually been offered to courtiers of lower rank. Owen said that the post of Forest Warden had now been granted to one of the manor tenants, a minor esquire who was permitted restricted hunting rights in payment. As a consequence, while the forest itself was well managed, recently the lodge had been more or less abandoned.

Viewed from a distance it was a charming sight. Under roofs of thick grey thatch was a large central hall flanked by two cross wings, set on bailey ground within a well-filled moat and surrounded by an orchard of fruit trees, their autumn livery flaming orange and red in the midday sun. It was built in the local fashion, using a frame of heavy oak beams from the forest, which had seasoned to a mellow grey-brown and were filled between with a willow lattice plastered with ochre-coloured clay but on closer inspection several patches revealed where the clay had crumbled away and the lattice showed through, leaving scope for wind and rain to penetrate. The shutters looked weather-proof and diamond-shaped leaded glass in the windows indicated that at one time there had been a certain investment in the comfort of noble guests, but now several panes were missing and those that remained were obscured by a thick deposit of the dust of ages.

As at Hadham, the moat was there to keep animals out of the domestic area rather than as a defence against attack, but there was no gatehouse and the drawbridge had clearly not been raised into its timber cradle for some time. We crossed it with bated breath because the ropes looked frayed and some of the planks were half-rotten. It was a subdued party that dismounted onto the cracked and weed-filled paving of the courtyard.

‘I will hire some labour in Hatfield market and get the place spruced up,’ said Owen apologetically, dismounting and leading his horse to a hitching post. ‘A few days’ work by a few men will make a world of difference.’

For the first time since leaving Hertford Castle I saw an expression of despondency on Catherine’s face. ‘I hope it looks better inside than out,’ was all she said when Owen came to lift her down from the cart.

It did not. Every surface in the hall was covered in dust and an army of spiders had been busy spinning webs in the exposed rafters. There were also ominous beams of light descending through the sarking boards which supported the thatch and puddles on the floor below confirmed that neither roof nor walls were weather-tight. The light was welcome though, because the filth on the windows rendered the place as gloomy as our mood.

‘Perhaps we should have recruited a team of people to clean the place before we arrived,’ squeaked Anne, flapping frantically at something with long legs which had fallen on her from the beams above.

‘There was no time,’ I reminded her. ‘Dust and a few insects are infinitely preferable to the pox.’

‘You are right, Mette,’ said Catherine. ‘Let us look over the rest of the house while the babies are quiet and then we can make a plan of attack.’

I loved her for her down-to-earth practicality that day. As a queen she could have sat down and let the rest of us toil to make the place habitable, but the thought obviously never occurred to her. During a quick tour of the wings that led off each side of the hall, we discovered enough bed-chambers on the upper floors to allow each family one of their own and one to set up as a nursery for the babies. At the back were a pantry and a servery, lean-to store-rooms and still-rooms and, located separately, a brick-built bake-house and kitchen with a hearth wide enough to hold a roasting spit. Later we found a tumbledown brewery and some rickety latrines built out over the moat. Catherine held her nose at these and Thomas assured her that there were close-stools packed on the carts which would serve the same purpose.

‘We will establish stool-rooms in the house,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, Thomas,’ observed Catherine darkly. ‘But who is going to empty them?’

‘The usual people, Madame,’ he replied with a broad smile. ‘Servants and gongfermours. Such things should not concern the king’s mother.’

‘The king’s mother is concerned, Thomas.’ Catherine sounded rather cross. ‘It is important.’

The stocky receiver-general blushed. ‘I apologise, Madame. I did not mean to imply otherwise.’

‘Well, we must make plans and that is one of the first things to consider. We have few servants with us, let alone – what did you call them, gongfermours? – and jobs must be allocated among us all.’

Funnily enough, scrubbing the filthy flagstones on the kitchen floor seemed to bring the sparkle back to Alys’s eyes in a way that no coaxing or sympathy had achieved. The physical effort of bringing a neglected room back to useful service seemed to be of more therapeutic value in restoring her love of life and sense of purpose than any amount of heart to heart persuasion on Catherine’s part or mine. When I actually heard her humming a little tune to herself as she showed Catrine how to clean out a rusty cauldron with river sand and a hank of old sacking, I began to believe that we might succeed in getting her to stay on with us.

It took three days to get the house into a reasonably habitable condition and at the end of it Catherine decreed there should be a feast to celebrate. In view of the ride there and back, she even suggested that, being pregnant, she should stay behind with the servants and look after the babies while the rest of us went off to Hatfield to buy food and other necessities.

On a busy market day our presence in the town sparked no special interest apart from a few admiring male glances cast at Mildy and Alys, pretty in their colourful shawls and coifs as they filled their baskets with vegetables and fresh ewe’s milk cheese. Out of nostalgia for my childhood, I was drawn by the smell of fresh bread to the baker’s stall where I discovered that Hatfield boasted only one bakery but as many as eight breweries and two wine shops. What that said about the priorities of the populace I hesitate to suggest, but it certainly meant that we need not run short of ale, should we fail to brew enough of our own. The bakery was run by laymen at the nearby priory and, in my humble opinion, produced an inferior loaf, but then I often complained that I had not tasted decent bread since leaving France. However, the wafers and fruit pies looked delicious and I loaded my basket with these as a sweet treat for the feast.

On the way back to the lodge we made a detour to collect a fresh supply of ewe’s milk from the nearest farm, which nestled at the edge of the forest. I watched fascinated while in a matter of minutes two sturdy milk-maids filled the new wooden buckets we had bought at the market. The small sheep stood quiet and patient, staring at us with their limpid yellow eyes, little knowing that their curly pelts of fleece, almost fully re-grown after their summer shearing, were the primary source of England’s wealth. Geoffrey had told me that when the barons held their parliaments at Westminster Hall, the lord chancellor, who held the nation’s purse-strings, sat on a sack stuffed with wool to demonstrate its value to the English crown. However, for little Edmund Tudor and my own sweet William, the ewe’s milk was of far more worth.

At the feast, queen, courtiers and servants all sat around a big trestle in the hall and Owen opened a cask of wine, brought by Geoffrey from his brother’s vintry. He had loaded it on a pack-horse, which he led from London to Hadham then, after discovering our absence, on to Hatfield, arriving just as the cloth was spread. He surprised me at the kitchen hearth, putting pies into the warming oven and our kiss was hot and hungry – hot on my part, hungry on his.

‘I could swallow one of those in a mouthful,’ he said as I closed the oven door. ‘I have not eaten since dawn. My belly thinks my throat has been cut.’

I tapped the front of his padded doublet. ‘It does not look like it,’ I said. My cheeks were fiery from the heat of the fire, where only minutes ago a spitted stag had been roasting, brought down in the forest by Owen and now being carved in the servery. ‘How did you know where we were?’

‘John Meredith told me. I rode through Hadham village but I did not speak with anyone. I noticed there was a row of fresh graves in the churchyard though. John said it was the pox.’

‘We did not like to leave but we have the children to think of and you will see now that Catherine is pregnant again.’

‘You did the right thing.’ He looked about him; the sooty ceiling of the kitchen still bore remnants of its festoon of cobwebs. ‘Not exactly a palace, is it?’

‘You should have seen it before we cleaned it up. I do have a chamber though and it has a bed in it with a mattress and I might even share it with you.’

He laughed and tweaked my bright-red cheek. ‘I’ll be warm tonight then. But bed can wait. Show me the board first, please!’

When we had all eaten our fill, while the cloth was being cleared and Owen was tuning his harp, Catherine brought her cup to sit beside Geoffrey and me on a bench. ‘I have a favour to ask of you both,’ she said.

She was at a glowing stage of her pregnancy and, in honour of the feast, wore one of her court gowns. Its blue brocade skirt and sweeping fur-lined sleeves gleamed in the light of the fire, looking royally out of place in the yeoman surroundings of the hall’s open rafters and mud-plastered walls. But the torn nails and grazed skin on the hands that rested on the small mound of her baby-belly bore mute witness to her thorough share of the clean-up process.

‘I want you both to go to London for the king’s coronation.’ One hand moved indicatively over the brocaded bump. ‘Because of this I cannot support my son on his day of days, but I know Henry will regret my absence. I am the only one who knows the powerful force of the anointing, the only one who could offer him the strength of experience; how to pray for divine guidance in the God-given task he has been born to.’ Tears welled in her eyes as she contemplated her son’s future and the void her absence formed in it. ‘I ask you to witness anything you can of the event and bring me back your impressions. Go to Westminster. The king may be hearing petitions and if Henry should chance to hear your name or see your face he might insist on you being admitted. I will give you a letter for him just in case. It would be so good to know if it is actually placed into his hand, for I fear that those I send each month do not always reach him and those that do are always read first by another.’

‘Of course we will go to London, Mademoiselle,’ I said, moved by her earnest pleading. ‘But I do not know how much we will be able to achieve.’