Blood Royal (39 page)

It would only have been a day’s ride, Catherine thought disconsolately.

But there was no point in complaining. She knew Henry’s priority was the war; the return to France. She knew her ladies would think her grossly self-indulgent if she complained. So she ordered the Masses said, and kept her hurt feelings to herself.

TWO

Catherine had been lying there all day, for hours, just like this: utterly spent, but utterly at peace too, gazing at her baby.

She didn’t mind the aches, the rips, the soft sag of belly that still hung from her bones, or even the strangely ugly reflection of a much older woman with dark patches round the eyes and a shapelessness to the jaw that had stared back from the mirror they’d brought her. She’d shooed them away when they’d tried to comb her hair and make her beautiful after her bath. She didn’t need anyone weaving flowers into her head. She was clean and warm and free of fever; her milk was coming; that was all that mattered. That, and the little creature staring back at her.

She’d done her duty. She deserved her English crown. She had a son: a King for England.

But the truth was that she didn’t care about her son’s royal blood. She was too full of awe at his very existence. Her baby had big, blue, wondering eyes, and perfect miniature fingers that curled pinkly around hers and held on tight whenever she put her giant’s thumb into his hand. His tiny body startled out into a star of alarmed arms and legs if she moved it too fast. When he slept, he whiffled and sniffled, screwed up his eyes or opened his mouth or muttered, as if he were dreaming; but what could a person so fresh and new, who knew nothing of anything yet, possibly have to dream about? He was full of mystery. He was so small, so helpless;
he couldn’t move by himself. Yet, if she put him on the bed away from her, it seemed no time before she’d feel his little body relax luxuriantly against hers again; he’d somehow have dragged himself to her, without muscles, without understanding, just full of a child’s natural urge for warmth and love. He had his father’s wide-set eyes in a red, wrinkled little face. The top of his head smelled milky – of happiness, she thought, drawing him to herself to kiss again, knowing that she would give him all the warmth and love a child could want, for every day of the seven years he would be in his mother’s care, and for the rest of his life, too, even once they took him away to teach him to begin to be a man. She couldn’t imagine that future; but, for the first time in her life, she was completely confident that it would be full of happiness. She’d make it be. How beautiful he was.

She didn’t bother to turn her head when people came in to tend to her. She didn’t know the midwives’ and nurses’ names. She didn’t need to. She had enough, right here in this room. There was nothing she wanted to do except be left with her baby for the rest of the forty days of her lying-in, until she had to go out and be churched, and rejoin the rest of the world. She just wanted to get to know him, undisturbed.

The first disturbance came well before the forty days were up.

One morning, Catherine raised her eyes to discover Mistress Ryman, standing determinedly in the doorway, muttering, ‘If you please …’ and ‘If your Grace would be good enough …’ until, in the end, Catherine had, reluctantly, to acknowledge the extraneous presence.

She looked up. Mistress Ryman was one of those commonsense Englishwomen with a big pink wrinkled-apple face. At Catherine’s glance, she coloured up and bobbed, with an awkward grin that only half-masked the pugnacious bossiness of her nature. In the past nine months, since Henry had gone, Catherine had come to detest Mistress Ryman. But Mistress Ryman knew how to get the better of her mistress every time – knew Catherine didn’t like having to try and speak English, even after all these months, how she hated to
be betrayed, every time she opened her mouth, by the words coming out deformed and hesitant, so that she felt she’d been made a fool of by her tongue. Mistress Ryman just waited for Catherine to make a mistake with a word. Then, while Catherine cringed, she’d tell Catherine, with puddingy English solemnity, what to do – over and over again, if necessary, though always politely – until Catherine did it.

‘There’s a messenger, Your Majesty,’ the woman said now, making a point of speaking slowly, grimacing as if she were addressing an idiot. ‘With word from the King’s Grace in France.’

Catherine smiled. So Henry had heard he had a son. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. She held out her hand for the letter.

The woman shook her head. ‘He wants to give it to you himself,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Says it’s the King’s own will.’

Impossible. Men weren’t allowed here, to the birth chamber, were they? Not until after she’d been churched. Catherine’s brow furrowed. She said, in her fractured English: ‘But … I … can … not … receive … him.’ She let the hint of a question enter her voice. The English had their ways; they didn’t like anyone to step out of line. And she was always doing the wrong thing, she knew; always embarrassing Mistress Ryman.

No, she realised, while her words were still hanging on the air: they’d have thought of that. No one disobeyed the King’s orders; so they’d find a way to make it proper in their minds for Catherine to receive this guest; of course they would. The woman had a robe hanging ready over her arm: an embroidered wrap. It must be to dress Catherine to receive the guest. She stood up obediently and let herself be eased into it, suddenly remembering the pale round face that had stared back from her mirror, almost wishing she’d let them braid and beautify her hair after all.

‘We’ll come out here, Your Majesty – to your parlour. Much nicer for you to meet your guest out here,’ the woman was saying, still over-enunciating every painfully slow word. She moved to the bed to scoop up the little prince, who’d
wriggled out of his blanket and was lying naked but for a twisted napkin, entranced by a sunbeam.

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 balance 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.