Blood Royal Read online

  It must have been years since anyone had called Warwick a young man. The battle-hardened old war horse flared his nostrils and narrowed his eyes. So did Catherine. She couldn’t take her eyes off her mother.

  ‘It will be the worse for you if you don’t heed the command of your King,’ Isabeau grated, getting closer, with her deep-set dark eyes fixed on Warwick as if she were about to swallow her prey.

  The Earl just sneered. His mouth curled up with it: a display of hostile indifference that he must have known would only infuriate her further. He didn’t care if it did. He said: ‘The boy is in my charge. The Council of England has entrusted him to me. With the greatest of respect, Madame, it’s a long time since you’ve known anything of affairs of state; and you never knew England. So don’t meddle in what you don’t understand.’

  But Isabeau was right up against Warwick now, with her chin jutting out and her eyes glowering at him, and the hand with no stick in it hovering protectively over the little boy he had hanging from his fists.

  ‘The boy’, she said, and she sneered in her turn at his disrespect, ‘is the King of France too now. I don’t see what the Council of England has to do with commands that the crowned King of France makes to his subjects in France. The King of France gave you a command. To disobey him outright would be treason.’ She stuck her face right in his, so close that he stepped back looking startled. ‘I don’t think you’ll be safe on the streets for long if you try to commit treason in the capital of France.’

  It would have been the perfect signal for someone else born to brow-beating and furious family rows to join the attack she was mounting. But Harry had been brought up to quietness; and he was too young and too distressed to take his cue from her. He just went on howling like a lunatic. And Catherine was struck as dumb as she ever had been in childhood by the sight of her mother’s anger. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.

  Warwick stepped back another pace. Ignoring Isabeau, he shook the boy. ‘Be quiet,’ he said with quiet savagery. He shook him harder. ‘Stop that nonsense.’

  Undaunted, Isabeau joined in the shaking, only the shoulders she put her hands on and began shaking for all she was worth were Warwick’s. ‘Stop … that … at … once,’ she grunted in rhythm, refusing to let him shake her off, hanging on for grim death. ‘Didn’t … you … hear … me. I said … stop.’

  Warwick was so astonished at being so stubbornly assaulted by a fat old woman with a stick that he released Harry. Harry ran to his mother, still howling.

  Isabeau stopped shaking her prey, but went on standing too close to Warwick, holding his shoulders in her hands, hypnotising him with her basilisk eyes. When he took another step back, trying to shake her off, she lumbered heavily forward.

  ‘Now,’ she said, with grim satisfaction. ‘Give the order. Release the other young man too. Or you’ll be sorry. You’ll see.’

  Silence from Warwick. The Cardinal, who was beginning to come to from his amazement, was raising his arms in his corner, making calming noises. Little sounds, the beginnings of words of remonstration, began coming through his nose.

  ‘Don’t ignore me.’ Isabeau shook Warwick again, like a hound with a giant rat. Savagely, she added: ‘Have you no manners? I said, give the order – set free …’ She turned to Catherine for guidance. ‘I’m not good with names,’ she added, with superb self-possession.

  ‘… Owain,’ Catherine stuttered back. ‘Tudor.’

  Warwick couldn’t quite bring himself to strike this unexpected protagonist, however much the look on his face suggested he wanted to. But he was willing enough to go on offering verbal resistance. ‘I don’t think so. What for?’ he replied viciously, giving Isabeau a stare so full of violent hate that Catherine was terrified for her mother. ‘So the Queen Mother of England can debauch our court like her mother did the court of France?’

  Isabeau slapped him. Loudly. The stinging sound echoed round the room.

  Harry stopped howling and looked up with saucer eyes. The Earl put a hand to his cheek. It didn’t cover the red handprint the old woman had left on it. It didn’t cover the trickle of blood where her enormous ring had broken the skin.

  The Cardinal stepped forward with his hands patting the air, as if he were about to intervene. But he seemed to be able to say nothing more coherent than, ‘Nh … mnhhh’. All the eyes in the room shifted briefly to look at him, but then shifted away again.

  It was left to Isabeau to speak. ‘Why, you ask?’ she said softly, cruelly; pursuing her advantage. ‘Why, because that young man and the Queen Mother of England are man and wife, of course.’

  There was complete hush suddenly; even from the Cardinal. Those words were so startling that even Warwick stood utterly still, for a moment that lasted an eternity, pondering them. Then, with a hand still clamped to his cheek, he opened his mouth again, snarling like a wounded tiger.

  ‘What do you mean, man and wife?’ he growled uncertainly. He turned to Catherine. Catherine was aware that, below her, Harry was wriggling round to see her face; that he couldn’t believe his ears either.

  ‘You’re not telling me that you …’ Warwick said, taking a step away from the termagant Dowager Queen of France towards Catherine.

  ‘Yes,’ Isabeau said, stepping deftly between him and Catherine and answering for her daughter with tremendous certainty. ‘And make no mistake about it, if your men lay a finger on the stepfather of your King, I expect you can imagine what will happen to you.’

  Catherine couldn’t possibly have answered for herself. She had never been so astonished. Her heart was thudding through her body so she could scarcely hear.

  For a long, long moment there was only shame: the abject shame of dishonour. She was the Queen Mother of England; a princess of France; the blood of Charlemagne ran in her veins. How could her mother have so disgraced her as to suggest publicly to this man, her enemy – someone who wouldn’t hesitate to bruit it around the world – that she might have run off and married away from her blood …?

  Then, thickly, through the pounding, she started to understand her mother’s strategy. If Warwick believed she’d married Owain, he and the rest of the world might be able to despise her utterly forever, and without hope of redemption, for forgetting her pride and the glory of her birth, for contracting a mésalliance that shamed her blood and lowered her in the eyes of mankind – but Warwick wouldn’t, at least, be able to find her or Owain, who was at more immediate risk, guilty of a sin against God that might justify him in taking either of their lives. She could save Owain. She could live to see her son grow up. But she’d have to sacrifice her reputation.

  She rocked on her heels, holding on to Harry; hearing voices, ghostly voices in her head. Christine’s: the blessed sacrament of marriage … the highest form of love. Owain’s: fight for what you love. Her mother’s: it didn’t hurt to sacrifice my reputation for someone I loved.

  And now her mother’s voice came again, but there was nothing ghostly about that cracked Bavarian command. ‘Catherine. Tell the man. Come along.’

  Looking at Warwick’s blazing eyes, she realised: You will destroy Owain, and try to destroy me, and damage Harry so badly you might as well destroy him, if I don’t fight. ‘Yes,’ she said, and from somewhere she found the strength to draw herself up to her full height and stare defiantly back at the Earl. ‘I am Owain Tudor’s wife.’

  But Warwick’s lip curled. He wanted blood, not social embarrassment. He was already regrouping. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you’d be fool enough. And if you were, you couldn’t get married all by yourself. Who’d have been fool enough to have married you to the … Welshman?’

  There was another hush. Catherine felt the flash and brilliance of her fighting spirit fade. She could feel herself droop, and Warwick grow in height and menace.

  But Isabeau didn’t quail. Not for an instant. She was a fighting animal through and through, and she was fighting for her child. The old Queen of France turned and bent a
fierce, expectant glare in the direction of the Cardinal. Cardinal Beaufort, in his corner, with his arms raised and his hands patting the air downwards, as if calming gestures might be enough to take the heat and danger out of the room. Cardinal Beaufort, whose relief at the successful completion of the coronation had, just an hour before, made his thin, sallow, pop-eyed face appear sleek and relaxed. Who was already looking forward to the praise and recognition he expected to be his lot on his return to England; to the gratitude of the nation for pulling off this coronation and bringing the King back safe and whole, after a difficult voyage in which he’d managed to avoid all the fighting, mutinies, failures, recriminations and scandals that might have been expected. Who wanted a peaceful, wealthy old age, at home. Who had never, in a lifetime of intriguing, admitted he’d done anything wrong. Who never, under any circumstances, did political favours.

  Cardinal Beaufort was swaying on his heels, with his apologetic little smile glued to his mouth, still patting ineffectually at the air, thinking. Only the slight furrow between his eyebrows suggested the agony of indecision he was in; only the faint ‘Mnh-mnh’ coming again from his throat as he cleared it.

  He’s about to say he had no idea about any of this, Catherine thought. He’ll deny us. Of course he will. It’s not in his nature to do anything else. Trying to save us would compromise his own future; why should he? Even that thought, as she watched him shake his head and open his mouth to destroy her, didn’t kill her affection for him. She was floating. She was holding tight onto Harry, preparing herself to be dragged away, waiting …

  ‘Me,’ the Cardinal said, and his voice was light, and his eyebrows were raised in their usual quizzical way, even though he was smiling a little sadly at Warwick as he spoke; as he gave away the easy future he’d thought awaited him. ‘I married them, dear boy.’

  It was not clear from Warwick’s red face, the eyes bulging from their sockets, the mouth open, the strangled gargle of astonishment, whether he’d have more questions. As it turned out there was no time for further questions; no time for anything. Catherine had been too intent on what was happening inside the room to notice the noises outside – until the door burst open and Duke John stormed in. Not the apologetic, awkward, shy brother-in-law Catherine had always known, either, but the powerful commander she’d thought he must probably always have been with his men – loud-voiced, stern-faced, and in a towering rage.

  ‘What in the name of God is going on?’ he yelled. He advanced on Warwick until he was towering over him, pinning him against the wall. ‘I’ve just caught a dozen of your men kicking the hell out of Tudor,’ he growled. ‘They said it was on your orders. And now I see you up here, shouting, threatening; could hear you all the way up the stairs. Ladies present, too. Royalty. This is a coronation feast, not a brawl. All the aristocracy of France we could muster are here, and we had the devil of a time getting them to come, too; the last thing I want is for them to leave saying we invite guests here only to beat them half to death. Whatever the man’s done, it will wait. You must be drunk. Or out of your mind.’ He put a hand on Warwick’s shoulder and walked him firmly to the door.

  Warwick’s eyes were darting around and his mouth was opening and shutting, but no words were coming out. It wasn’t hard to see why Duke John might think he was drunk. Catherine thought he might still be trying to find words and arguments; but nothing remotely answering to the needs of the moment seemed to present itself to his brain. He did look out of his mind.

  There were two stolid sentries waiting outside, clanking. ‘My men are going to take you to your quarters,’ Duke John finished sternly. ‘Sleep it off; and be grateful nothing worse has come of it. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Warwick gargled again.

  ‘Go,’ Duke John said.

  It was only when the footsteps had got right to the bottom of the stairs that Duke John took a deep breath, and, looking around the rest of the room, at the frozen faces of Catherine and Harry and Isabeau and the Cardinal, said again, more calmly this time, ‘Now, what in the name of God has been going on?’

  Owain was bandaged everywhere a bandage could be wound. But one eye had escaped the fists and feet and was looking at Catherine. And, even if he couldn’t talk beyond grunts, he could raise a splinted arm a little to signal he understood.

  ‘If only I could hold your hand,’ Catherine said, ‘or something.’ She patted gingerly at his quilt. He drew in a sharp breath. She stopped.

  ‘We’re all in terrible trouble,’ she said, but her eyes were merry. She’d had a week to get used to the dizzying feeling of freedom. It had been a while before Owain had got well enough to talk. ‘It gets worse with every messenger. Duke Humphrey couldn’t be angrier. He’s threatening to put the Cardinal on public trial for stealing the crown jewels as soon as we get back. We think it’s really because he’s so furious about … the other thing.’ She looked down. ‘… Us. Duke John is coming back to England with us to try and keep the peace between them.’

  She put out her hand again, then remembered just in time and drew it back.

  ‘But it’s not all bad. Warwick’s not coming. Someone has to run the war in France, so he’s staying here. He’s written to Duke Humphrey asking to be released from his duties with Harry. He says he “despairs of Harry’s excessive simplicity, innocence and inability to distinguish good and evil”.’ She grinned. ‘I think he meant that Harry is so loving of his old sinner of a grandmother … and was so excited to hear his sinner of a mother had married you,’ she added.

  The hand lifted a little. The watching eye drooped and opened again. There was a grunting from behind the bandages. Catherine leaned forward to try to make out the jumble of sounds.

  ‘Why? Is that what you said? Why what?’ she murmured. ‘Why did the Cardinal say he’d married us …? Ohh. That.’ She looked down. The faintest blush tinged her cheeks. She twisted her fingers against each other. ‘Because I was with child, he said. It was the only excuse he thought Humphrey would have believed or forgiven. He said he’d been planning to tell the rest of them after the coronation; but he was worried for my immortal soul, and that of the child; and he’d seen it as his duty before God to perform the ceremony as soon as I confessed.’ She couldn’t bring herself to look up. ‘And anyway, it’s true,’ she added to her plaited fingers. ‘As it turns out, I am with child.’

  There was a sudden torrent of noises from behind the bandages. She smiled wider.

  ‘Duke John’s suggesting a deal,’ she said. ‘With the Council, for me. If I return to England, but agree to retire from the English court for the rest of my life and live in seclusion, he’ll ask the Council to let me have Waltham Manor and Hertford Castle as my residences, and keep my incomes, and see Harry – often.’ She looked up into Owain’s one open blue eye. ‘The deal is for me and my unborn child.’

  There was another rumble from under the bandages.

  ‘You,’ she said. ‘Yes. There’s provision for you, too. As my husband, he’s going to ask for the full legal rights of an Englishman for you – no more problems with Welshness. And the right to live as my husband, with our child, sharing the seclusion of Waltham Manor and Hertford Castle.’

  There was a silence this time – a thoughtful pause. When the rumbling started again, Catherine interrupted it almost at once.

  ‘Let’s not talk about blood,’ she said, and she couldn’t keep a slight mistiness from her eyes. ‘I’ve done what a royal princess is brought into the world to do. I don’t mind if I’m not considered royal any more. Our child won’t be a king. Just a Tudor. And I don’t mind – if you don’t.’

  Rumble.

  ‘Which only leaves one problem,’ she added hastily, ‘apart from that you might still want … Oxford … and the monks?’

  Rumble. It sounded like laughter.

  ‘… and you know what it is. Whatever poor Warwick thinks, we’re not really married. Yet.’

  With a tremendous effort, the bandaged hand began to move towards Cather
ine’s. She watched. She was getting used to miracles wrought by love. You could achieve anything if you were only willing to fight.

  The fingers crept agonisingly over hers. Looking at them, feeling them on her skin, Catherine suddenly felt utterly certain that she and this man whom she loved would spend the rest of their lives together – decades; another forty years, maybe – raising children who’d grow up happy and innocent, far from the throne, in the calm of the English countryside, belonging to a pragmatic place where blood didn’t count for as much as love – never had, never would. That their monarch, her son, Henry VI, would grow up to become a wise, peace-loving philosopher king like his French grandfather; that her brother Charles would be driven out of Bourges; and that peace would come again to both Harry’s kingdoms. She should never have doubted. Owain should never have doubted. It was all going to come out all right.

  From somewhere inside the bandages, a voice that was a shadow of Owain’s, but, for all the pain in it, strangely light of heart, said: ‘Married. Well … isn’t … it … time … we … were?’

  HISTORICAL POSTSCRIPT

  Catherine de Valois lived only another six years, until the age of 37, after returning to England to live in seclusion in the land of her adoption. She continued to see her son, King Henry VI, from time to time, and remained close to Cardinal Beaufort.

  Catherine’s son King Henry VI of England was always mentally fragile, a condition that worsened with age and the onset of the Wars of the Roses. Modern doctors believe he may have suffered from bouts of catatonic schizophrenia. The head of the House of Lancaster, he died in suspicious circumstances in the Tower of London, many years later, after being removed from his throne twice by noblemen of the rival House of York. His teenage son had already been killed after a battle between Yorkists and Lancastrians. Under Henry VI’s rule, England was finally defeated in its century-long attempt to conquer France, and all English landholdings in France except Calais were lost. France’s King Charles VII, Catherine’s brother, returned from the political dead after decades of fighting from his capital in exile, Bourges, to take back the throne of France and rule from Paris.