Blood Royal Read online

  However obedient she’d been till now, Catherine wasn’t going to allow that. She stepped adroitly past the woman and picked up her son herself first; wrapping the blanket tenderly round his limbs; letting her hand and arm support his neck and head. She’d carry him herself.

  The woman bit her lip, but said nothing. I’ve probably committed another offence against English etiquette, Catherine thought, rocking the baby against herself, rejoicing privately at the warmth of this new life that had come so mysteriously from within her own body. But she didn’t care. He was her baby. The messenger would want to see him. She would carry him.

  The woman led her out. Catherine had both hands around her child, whose body fitted so naturally against hers. She was still looking at little Harry, memorising the expression in his eyes, when the messenger at the back of the parlour began his deep bow.

  She went on rocking the baby, and waiting, without particularly resenting the interruption. It was easy enough to do whatever was expected of her here, at least. Everything worked, if you just always did what they told you.

  She thought nothing had the power to disturb the peace that had come upon her.

  But she was surprised when she recognised the man, rising to his full height again and squaring his broad shoulders, and stepping forward through the half-darkness, with a sealed document that must be Henry’s letter in his hand, and saying, ‘A healthy, beautiful boy.’

  He spoke the words correctly and calmly, but with none of the warm tenderness she’d heard from every woman who’d said the same sort of thing in the past couple of weeks. He kept his eyes on the waving arms and the tiny fingers curling and uncurling near his nose, not on the baby’s mother. His lips were tight, as if he didn’t want to be here, saying these words. But he was speaking French, at least. That was a joy. She hadn’t heard French for months.

  ‘Owain Tudor,’ she said, and smiled.

  Perhaps it was the sound of her native tongue that touched her, or the confidence that came from achieving her life’s goal – this child she was holding in her arms. Or perhaps it was just the loneliness she was suddenly also painfully aware of: the prickle down her spine that told her Mistress Ryman’s hostile eyes were on her, as usual, and that the lady-in-waiting was tut-tutting behind her back at the messenger’s murmured French.

  At any rate, she found herself looking at Owain with all the warmth of a long-lost friend. With her body still so battered from childbirth, she couldn’t remember, or even imagine, physical desire, even for this man, who had once, briefly, been her lover; but Owain was someone she’d been close to, who reminded her, in a rush, of summer, and the scent of rose oil, and youth, and the sounds of Paris. And there were so few friends here in England, in the darkness of December.

  He didn’t smile back.

  He just held out the letter.

  It seemed a long while before she remembered the last time they’d seen each other: her cruel, childish, public humiliation of him; that evening of forcing him to read his own poems out loud. A foolish revenge, she could see now, since all she’d been angry with him about was that he’d understood her destiny and delivered her back to it. She should have been grateful. Now that she understood she was happy with her destiny, she should be grateful. And ashamed.

  He was still holding out the scroll.

  ‘Would you like to read the letter from your husband, Your Majesty?’ Owain Tudor said patiently, when she did nothing to break the silence.

  She nodded, keeping her eyes owlishly on him, hoping she would get a chance to apologise; hoping he would accept. For, after all, all those upheavals seemed a lifetime ago to her.

  She took the letter. With a shock, she saw he was wearing black clerical robes; a hood. The robes of an Augustinian – a lay brother, she guessed, since he was out in the world, walking about, not shut up in a cloister somewhere. A humble Austin Friar.

  Why? she found herself thinking, dully. Surely he’s not a clerk? Does he beg for a living; tend bees? Why is he dressed like that?

  Her imagination failed her. It couldn’t, surely, be anything to do with … the poems? Her?

  She broke the seal.

  When she showed no signs of starting to read, Owain Tudor added: ‘He wishes you to know that he received the news of his son’s birth with humble rejoicing and devout exultation, his joy being shared by the English army … and he wishes you to hear devoutly a Mass of the Blessed Trinity, as soon as you can, and dedicate the Prince to Almighty God, humbly praying that his ways and actions should be directed in happy succession to the honour and glory of God.’

  She nodded. Suddenly the impatience she’d tried to suppress ever since Henry vanished to France, sending back no letters, no gifts, no word, nothing but military dispatches and impersonal instructions to do the right thing, came rushing back. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with resentment of Elizabeth Ryman, sitting so infuriatingly out of sight behind her. Elizabeth Ryman, who’d been in charge, during the birth, of the casket containing the silver jewel, Our Lord’s foreskin. It was renowned in France for its help to women in labour. Henry had made sure to have it brought over in good time for her confinement. That was just the kind of detail her husband would make sure to organise: the kind of proof of his thoughtfulness that would win popular approval on both sides of the Channel. She hadn’t actually wanted the relic in the room when her time came, all the twists and prongs of its great silver casing glittering and winking in the firelight, reeking of incense and rotten wood; but Elizabeth Ryman had insisted. She was as stubborn as a mule. What the King said went. Catherine’s personal wishes didn’t matter to her. It was best to give in.

  Now Henry was writing to tell her to have Harry churched, and Owain Tudor, who’d been her friend, was reading back the King’s orders in that official, pompous voice they all used here.

  Of course she’d had the baby baptised and confirmed within hours of his birth. All kinds of solemn Masses had been said. She knew the right thing to do. She didn’t need these detailed instructions from her husband. What kind of fool must he think her, to believe she’d need reminding to protect her infant son from the risk of eternal damnation?

  ‘Please tell his Majesty,’ she replied very formally, glancing round at the wretched Mistress Ryman, who’d sat herself down on a stool by the doorway, in accordance with some English notion of propriety, and was showing no sign of going away, ‘that his wishes have been carried out. And that all the bells in London were rung on the day of the birth, and Te Deums sung in every church.’

  Owain answered, just as solemnly, as if they were two mummers in a play: ‘His Majesty also wishes you to know that his siege at Meaux is going well.’

  She inclined her head, with all the stiff English pride she was now learning.

  ‘God willing,’ Catherine replied formally, ‘Meaux will soon surrender to my lord.’

  ‘So, are you campaigning in France again, Owain?’ she then asked, in a more human voice, raising her eyes to his averted ones, wishing the conversation wasn’t so stilted, trying to draw him out a little without allowing Elizabeth Ryman to feel an impropriety was taking place.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Now I’ve left Oxford, Bishop Beaufort has taken me into his household while I think about whether to take holy vows.’

  So he wasn’t a clerk – not yet, at least. For reasons she didn’t understand, she was relieved to know that. Still, getting conversation out of him was like wringing blood from a stone. He didn’t want to talk. He was angry with her, all right. She gestured for him to sit. He stayed standing.

  She said: ‘But you were in France?’

  Shortly, he replied: ‘My master sent me to Meaux with messages for his Majesty. I was fortunate enough to be the bearer of the news of his son’s birth.’

  He bowed. He looked ready to go.

  She turned to Elizabeth Ryman, and nodded down at the baby in her arms. The woman came bustling up, eager to end the conversation. ‘Please,’ Catherine said, trying to get the ba
lance of haughtiness and politeness right, without compromising on her pronunciation, ‘take him; he needs changing …’ and, with a last brush of the lips on her son’s soft head, she handed him over.

  Then, to Owain, she said hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry … so sorry … for everything I did … I’ve been meaning to say, ever since you came in … I was so unkind … I didn’t realise what I was doing. I was a child. Please forgive me.’

  His face closed. He shut his eyes. Tightly, he nodded. She understood: she hadn’t made it better. But she didn’t want to let him go. Without him, there’d be just the Mistress Rymans.

  They stood for a few minutes in silence. Every time Catherine dared glance up at him, he was looking away. She tried to think of new questions. She couldn’t. But he didn’t retire, either.

  There was a sound from the doorway. Elizabeth Ryman was standing with the baby wrapped in fresh linen, a watchful look on her rosy-cheeked face.

  ‘I don’t suppose’, Catherine said carefully, and ignored Mistress Ryman’s shake of the head at her use of French, ‘that there’s any talk of His Majesty coming back to England?’

  She’d known the answer without having to ask. That wouldn’t be Henry’s way. He was a king with a vision, and it wasn’t a vision in which his wife had much of a place.

  Owain was moving towards the door now. Catherine followed him, after taking Harry from the lady-in-waiting, relieved to have him back in her arms.

  ‘I’d love my husband to see him,’ she said, bending her head to Harry’s scalp, reassured by the milky smell of him; ‘and my parents if it comes to that.’

  She added sadly, looking at Mistress Ryman, as if expecting to be countermanded, ‘Though I know I can’t. Go. Of course.’

  He’d started fiddling with his belt; checking he had his belongings with him. She could see he was about to leave; go back to his life; leave her alone with the dour women.

  But he looked up at that. Perhaps, she thought, he’d heard the desperation.

  ‘You could,’ he said, considering, though still without warmth. Out of politeness to Mistress Ryman, to whom he was bowing a courteous farewell, he switched into English. ‘Go to France. Why not? Once your lying-in is over, there’s nothing at all to stop you.’

  She stared. Could she? Wasn’t there?

  ‘You’re the Queen of England. Future Queen of France. Your husband is in France. Your parents. Take your son to them. Who could blame you? They are your family.’

  There was a glitter in his eye and a bitterness in his tone that Catherine couldn’t miss. And then he was gone.

  ‘But a newborn,’ said Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, another pop-eyed, ponderous brother-in-law with no time for women. He shook his head. He wouldn’t meet Catherine’s eyes. He looked out of the window, as if wishing she would go away. ‘You couldn’t travel with a newborn.’

  ‘My son is three months old now,’ Catherine protested faintly. ‘He’s got a tooth.’

  ‘Never been done,’ Humphrey of Gloucester added more firmly. ‘Heir to the throne. Risk.’

  ‘Heir to the throne of France as well as England …’ Catherine prompted. She couldn’t give up. ‘That’s new too … he’ll need to learn French ways if his French subjects are to love him …’

  She smiled winsomely up at her brother-in-law. But Humphrey of Gloucester just shook his head again, so the cloud of gingery curls above his eyes quivered.

  Catherine felt tears of disappointment prickle behind her eyelids. It had taken her so long to pluck up the courage to ask; to master the words. He’d turned her down without even thinking. He wasn’t an unkind man, though, she thought. Just stubborn and domineering. He was even twinkling at her in his awkward, bear-like way, as if he had suddenly thought of good news.

  ‘Not to say you can’t go,’ he added suddenly. ‘Show us all that France is English now. Not just Calais. A lesson for everyone. Quite right. Get a bit of an entourage together. Leave the boy here. Mistress Ryman – good woman – capable hands. Meanwhile, you: a month or two with your parents. See your husband. Though … battlefield … not your style, eh?’

  He chuckled and ruffled her hair. He hurried away. He looked relieved to have finished the interview.

  She didn’t want to leave Harry. But now she’d sensed the opportunity she wanted to be home so badly, just for a while. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she muttered to her baby son, hugging him so tightly to herself that he wriggled and squealed, and the fierce red patches on his cheeks grew redder; ‘it will be as if half of me is missing. But you’ll be safe with Mistress Ryman.’ She laughing at herself for wanting this so much; she, who had tried so hard to get to safety in England, and now felt so stifled by it. She was already imagining the garden at the Hotel Saint-Paul. She was imagining her mother’s grin; the hand sneaking out to the bowl of sweetmeats, the dirty laughter over the filthy jokes. She was imagining her father’s handsome profile, and his question-mark back, and his lost eyes.

  She wanted to see her husband. She wanted to share the joy of parenthood with him. That was why she was going. He would come to Paris to see her when the war allowed. Soon.

  But sometimes she also found herself imagining the journey: being led under the green sunlight of trees by Owain Tudor, whose eyes would sparkle again with the friendly warmth of long ago.

  She was trying not to think about that. That wasn’t why she wanted to go. Owain Tudor had given her the idea. But he was no part of this plan.

  Bishop Beaufort, splendid in his purple, was easy to persuade.

  ‘Of course, my dear, of course,’ he said urbanely. ‘Whoever Humphrey recommends. It’s peaceful enough between Calais and Paris; for security purposes I doubt you’d need more than a small company of knights. And, as you say, my man Tudor is fresh back from France and knows the northern roads like the back of his hand. A familiar face to you, too. He’ll be a good guide.’

  Catherine felt a little uneasy that she’d gone so out of her way to bring Owain Tudor with her to France, when he so clearly hadn’t wanted to renew their acquaintance. But seeing him here in England had been a kind of trigger to her memories. Owain seemed to have found a way towards the next part of his life – those monkish robes. Surely he wouldn’t hold a grudge forever? She remembered feeling so close to Owain. She wanted to make amends; to show him the past was past; win him back as a friend, at least. She needed friends. If she, as Queen of England, chose to ask a soldier of her acquaintance to lead her entourage on their trip from Calais to Paris, what was wrong with that?

  Was there something quizzical in her new uncle’s glance? Was he wondering why she was so interested in borrowing this particular guide, when the English court was full of other young men who also knew northern France like the back of their hands?

  No, she thought, banishing the flicker of embarrassment. Bishop Beaufort – lettered, civilised, and a beautiful singer – was more like a French nobleman than anyone she’d encountered at this court. She felt she understood him. He was probably only hoping that, by helping his new niece so promptly, he’d encourage her royal husband to forgive him the crime that had brought five years of King Henry’s brooding resentment – being offered the Cardinal’s hat that he’d been forced by his nephew and monarch to reject. There was no place in Henry’s scheme of things for anything he deemed to smack of disloyalty. All must serve one cause.

  ‘I will tell my husband’, Catherine said gratefully, ‘how quick you were to help me. I’m certain he will be grateful to you for reuniting us.’ She squeezed his strong, clean hand, which glittered with rubies. She knew she was right when she saw the matching glitter of gratitude in his eyes.

  The France party grew. By the time Catherine set off it was late spring and Duke John of Bedford, the King’s next oldest brother, was her highest-ranking companion on the journey.

  She travelled with little Henry and her own household as far as Dover. He’d walked his first steps the day before they set out. She’d never seen joy so intense. Now, cooped u
p in a jolting litter with his mother, he cried inconsolably.

  ‘I wish you could come, I wish you could come,’ she muttered, but he only cried louder. She cursed Duke Humphrey’s stubbornness. ‘Next time … next time we’ll go together,’ she added, hoping she might make him understand her meaning and be consoled.

  She believed all of her attention, all her mind, all her heart, was taken up with sorrow at the parting to come with her son. The gulpy panic that filled her was real enough; the anxiety gripping her heart whenever little Henry cried was more intense than ever. But there was a fizz of excitement bubbling quietly up in her too. Perhaps it was the prospect of seeing the land of her birth again that had made her put on midnight-blue velvet skirts with a scattering of silver stars. In a day or two, God willing, she’d be riding through the quiet green swell of Normandy, with French wind in her hair.

  When Mistress Ryman took Henry away, what seemed hours later, he was still crying – thin, fretful wails that rent the air and set Catherine’s teeth on edge. All Catherine wanted to do was sit in silence and recover. But there was no time. The travelling party was already on board ship, waiting. She’d seen Mistress Ryman’s censorious look at her rich velvets and knew what she thought: Too grand for travel. But she didn’t care what Mistress Ryman thought. She discarded the tear-stained, crumpled linen she’d prudently put between herself and Harry. There was no time to call any of the ladies to help repair the travel damage. She’d just look over herself. She took out the comb and glass she’d been farsighted enough to bring, and began setting her horned hennin headdress straight, pinching pink back into her tired cheeks. She had to look her best.

  She only realised that she must have imagined she’d be on board beside Owain – feeling the exhilarating chop and tug of the tides, watching the gulls swoop in the ship’s wake, looking over the side, throwing crusts, laughing, with the painful awkwardness between them vanished – when, instead, John of Bedford offered her his big hand up the gangplank. She was aware of Owain, bowing his head from a distance with the other knights and ladies. His eyes were fixed on her. She’d thought he’d be looking happy to see her, but his expression was pinched. He didn’t acknowledge her private glance. He didn’t want to be here. She could see he had no intention of coming near.