Authors: Tony Riches
Owen (12 page)
‘Sixteen?
Catherine will never agree.’
The earl stands and opens the door. ‘You had best make sure she does, Tudor. And remember—watch your back.’
* * *
The warning signs are there, although I don’t want to acknowledge them. Catherine is even more upset than I expected at the news she must not tell Harry about his brothers until he comes of age. It means another five years of secrecy and subterfuge. She becomes obsessed with the idea something will happen to the baby she carries.
She wakes me in the middle of the night, her face pale and her eyes wide in the dim moonlight through the window. ‘I’ve had a bad dream, Owen. I saw my own funeral, in Westminster Abbey.’
‘It’s only a dream.’ I smooth her brow, then run my hand over her rounded curves. ‘Not long now before there’s one more in our family.’
Catherine is still reliving her dream. ‘There was a little effigy next to mine. It was a boy... he looked like you.’
‘It’s natural for you to worry when the child is so close.’
‘I worry something will happen to me before I can explain to Harry.’ She has concern in her eyes. ‘I must tell him, before it’s too late.’
‘You will, Catherine, as soon as this baby is born.’ I hug her closer. ‘And it is going to be the easiest birth of all of them.’
Catherine agrees. ‘We were lucky with Edmund and Jasper, they’re both growing into strong healthy boys.’
‘So forget your silly dreams?’
‘There is something I want to tell you, Owen.’
‘What’s that?’ I suspect I already know the answer.
‘Sometimes my dreams seem... real. I find it hard to remember what I’ve dreamed and what has really happened.’
‘I think we all do that a little.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I sometimes... forget who I am.’
When I wake to find the bed next to me empty I suppose Catherine has risen early. I lie there alone, listening to the summer birdsong and thinking about the conversation we had in the middle of the night. Catherine’s baby is close to being due and it is only natural she should worry.
As I dress I decide to make a special effort to help her from now on. We never discuss her father’s madness or how difficult it must have been for her to witness as a child. I am unsure if to do so will make her nightmares worse or help her come to terms with her past.
The bishop’s cook, a cheerful woman named Mary, is making bread in the kitchen. There are plenty of bakers in Hatfield, although Mary likes to make fresh loaves every day and regularly tells me there is nothing to compare with the smell of baking bread. She looks up and smiles when she sees me.
‘Good morning, sir.’
I watch her kneading and turning the soft dough on the old oak table. ‘Good morning, Mary. Have you seen my wife?’
Mary stops her kneading and looks at me as if unsure what to say. ‘I have sir... I thought it strange she was going riding—in her condition, if you know what I mean?’
‘She was riding?’
‘Not on a horse, sir. I saw her leaving the stables in the wagon when I came to light the ovens early this morning.’
I glance at the ovens, now almost ready for the bread. ‘Thank you, Mary.’
I am worried now as it is not a good idea for Catherine to ride in the old wagon with the baby due. We used it to carry our luggage to Much Hadham, and when Edmund was born he was brought to Hatfield on the wagon. Well built, with a rain canopy supported by wooden hoops. It is only used occasionally now for carrying supplies. Briony and Catherine sewed cushions, padded with wool, for the boys to rest on, but the wagon is uncomfortable to ride any distance on the poor local roads.
In the stables I find the wagon and both the horses we use to pull it are missing. I curse the time I have wasted since she left, and saddling my Welsh Cob, canter to the crossroads. The town is to the left but it is not a market day and the road looks deserted. Ahead is the road to London and I can see a few riders in the far distance but no sight of our distinctive wagon.
That only leaves the lane which skirts the bishop’s land to the west and runs down to the River Lea. The ride along the bank of the river is a favourite of Catherine’s although I think it unlikely she would take the carriage far as the roads are deeply rutted.
Our last conversation returns to my thoughts. If Catherine woke not knowing who she was, she could be anywhere. I ride back to the stables and go in search of Briony. She is not in her room, which reassures me a little as I hope it means she is with Catherine. At a loss to know what to do, I ask the cook to explain to Catherine if she returns that I have ridden to Windsor in search of her. The realisation she might have gone to see the king has been at the back of my mind since I first learned she is missing.
The road becomes busier as the morning draws on. Once I think I can see the wagon in the far distance, and then find it is a different one as I ride closer. I can ride faster than the slow wagon, but Catherine left early. I continue as fast as I can, only stopping once to water my horse, yet by the time I reach Windsor it is late afternoon.
There is no royal standard flying, which suggests that the king is not in residence. A guard informs me the king is in Westminster and has been there for some time. I thank the guard but now have a new problem. Westminster is a good day’s ride from Windsor and Catherine might have left the wagon in preference for a riverboat, if she is even trying to see her son. I have ridden too far to turn back, so decide to find a pallet in the servants’ quarters and ride to London at first light.
The London road is busy with carts and wagons, as well as horses riding alone and in pairs, although I don’t see Catherine’s wagon all day. I have not slept well the previous night and woke with tell-tale welts where bed bugs have feasted on my blood. The bites soon begin to itch annoyingly, which does nothing to improve my mood.
By the time I arrive at the Palace of Westminster I am wondering if the journey has been a waste of time. Unlike Windsor, where I am known by many of the servants and staff, I find it impossible to gain access until I claim to have an urgent message to deliver to the Earl of Warwick. The soldiers on the gate look at my fine clothes and sword and ask me to wait.
A page boy eventually arrives to take me to see Sir Richard. I allow my horse to be led to the stables and follow the page with mixed feelings. I am right to be concerned for as soon as I see the earl it is obvious he is not in a good mood.
‘I’ve been expecting you, Tudor.’
‘Is Queen Catherine here, my Lord?’ I silently pray for good news as I wait for his answer.
‘The queen dowager arrived here demanding to see the king. As you know, she was in no condition to have risked such a long journey.’
‘Is she alright?’
‘No thanks to you, Tudor.’ He glowers. ‘I thought you agreed to stop her telling the king until he is of age?’
‘She has not seen the king.’ He softens a little. ‘The journey here brought on the birth of her child.’
‘Where is she now, my lord?’ The news is a shock.
The earl points towards the towering spire of Westminster Abbey. ‘This is no business for the king’s physician. She is being cared for in the abbot’s infirmary.’
I find Catherine sleeping, her face as white as a fresh linen sheet. One of the abbey monks is seated at her side, his head bowed in prayer. I cross over to Catherine and kiss her tenderly on the cheek. Her skin feels cold and she stirs and says something, but I can’t make out her words. There is no sign of Briony or our child. There should be a baby, snuggled in the bed next to her or perhaps in a basket.
I turn to the monk. ‘Where is the baby?’
The monk looks at me, as if wondering what I mean, then makes the sign of the cross as he understands. ‘The child is given to God.’
‘It was a boy?’ Somehow I have known for months.
Catherine murmurs something and I lean over her and strain to understand her words.
‘I named him Owen, after you.’
I kneel in prayer in the privacy of the chapel of St Paul, to the side of the aisle of Westminster Abbey. Candles flicker in the silence as I pray for Catherine, that God is merciful and spares her. I say a prayer for the mortal soul of my youngest son, Owen, who is taken before I even see him. I pray for my boys, Edmund and Jasper, that they will have as rich and rewarding a life as mine.
Catherine is never quite the same as the woman I fell in love with. A year has passed since that fateful day in Westminster, yet its shadow lingers over our lives. On a good day, Catherine is as bright and happy as ever, reminding me of the beautiful young queen I would lie awake dreaming of. Then a dark depression drifts over her and she becomes distant and forgetful. I find her most difficult when she insists her youngest son, Owen, still lives.
‘I gave him to the monks.’ She looks shocked that I don’t believe her. ‘He is alive, I saw him when he was born. He has your dark hair.’
I recall the words of the monk who prayed at her bedside. ‘He was given to God.’
Catherine is adamant. ‘He lives, Owen.’ Her eyes flash with anger and she grips my hand so hard it hurts. ‘Don’t you want to see him? Our son is waiting with the monks of Westminster Abbey for us to visit him.’
‘I’m sorry, Catherine. You have to understand. Our son is dead.’
Catherine stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘Why would you lie to me about such a thing?’
I hold her close until her anger passes. ‘We have two good strong sons. Let us put the past behind us and talk about our future.’
Edmund and Jasper bring a new happiness to me. I like being a father and am determined to do everything I can to give them the best start in life. I buy them each a pony from the horse fair and teach them to ride. I spend hours in the woodshed crafting them little bows of yew. We set up a straw target in the courtyard and after many failed attempts they learn to shoot an arrow straight and true.
In the evening, before they go to bed, the boys beg me to tell them stories. I tell them my real name is Owain ap Maredydd ap Tudur. Flickering candlelight casts grotesque, dancing shadows as I tell them of the last true Welsh prince,
Owain Glyndur,
and the great adventures of the Welsh rebellion against the English. I see their wide eyes when I explain how their grandfather, Maredydd, escaped with me to London when he was forced to flee his homeland.
I also tell them how their half-brother, Harry, is King of England and of France and will one day make them knights of the realm with noble titles. Catherine still insists that she wishes to see her eldest son but now I have taken precautions. The wagon is secured with iron chains. Briony is almost dismissed for her failure to prevent Catherine from leaving the house is let off with a warning. She is needed all the more now another baby is on the way.
It comforts Catherine to feel a child kick in her belly again and she insists this time it will be a girl. After four boys she knows it is her time. She is so certain God will not refuse her prayers she sews miniature dresses with Briony in anticipation. At nights she asks me to place my hand over the baby and I laugh as I feel it move inside her.
‘Her name will be Margaret, after your mother.’ She repeats the words so often I know they will come true, even though she has taken to her bed again, and is now too weak to climb down the stairs.
I caress her brow. ‘You must eat, Catherine.’ I secretly worry at how her bones show through her pale skin, a painful reminder of her frailty.
‘Later, Owen. I will eat later.’ Catherine refuses whatever the cook makes to tempt her.
‘You have to eat—for the baby to grow strong.’ My persistence is rewarded by Catherine tasting a spoonful of warm mutton soup. It is a start.
She looks up at me with ice-blue eyes. ‘I wish to pay for prayers to be said for Bishop Morgan, every day.’ Her voice sounds weak, barely more than a whisper.
‘I will ask Nathaniel to see to it.’
‘Will we attend his funeral?’
‘Bishop Morgan was laid to rest in the chapel of Charterhouse, in London. You were not well enough to make the journey.’
A flicker of concern appears on Catherine’s face as the consequences of the bishop’s death dawn on her. ‘This means our time in the bishop’s house is at an end?’
‘It will take some time for them to appoint his successor, but yes, Catherine, it is time for us to leave.’ I feel the nagging uncertainty about our future return.
Catherine looks around the room which holds so many memories. ‘Where will we go?’
I take her hand. ‘I will find us somewhere safe, Catherine. There is no need for you to worry.’
I fish with the spoon in the bowl of warm soup and find a tasty morsel of well-cooked mutton, which I offer to her. She takes it as a child would and opens her mouth for more. I cannot share my secret with Catherine until she is stronger. On his last visit Nathaniel told me Duke Humphrey had called at Wallingford Castle with a score of armed men, looking for the queen. It seems he knows our secret, as he demanded answers when he questioned the servants of her household. Although it is clear the duke doesn’t know where we are living, I fear it is only a matter of time before he discovers our hiding place.
Nathaniel rides through the night from Wallingford Castle. The first I know of his arrival is when I am woken by his hammering on the door until it is answered by a worried servant.
‘I must speak with Master Tudor.’ He shouts as he barges past the servant. ‘It is most urgent.’
I pull my clothes on as fast as I can and find he is already at the top of the grand staircase. ‘What’s happened?’ I guess the answer from his exhausted and dishevelled appearance.
‘Duke Humphrey’s men are on their way here.’ Nathaniel shakes his head. ‘They are going to arrest you, Owen. I came as soon as I knew.’
‘Thank you, Nathaniel.’ I glance back to my room where Catherine is still sleeping. ‘How long do we have?’
Nathaniel frowns. ‘They could be here any time. The thing is...’
‘What is it?’ I know Nathaniel well and see the concern on his face.
‘I heard that Duke Humphrey has taken this personally. He has sworn to bring you to account.’
‘I can’t leave Catherine, Nathaniel. She is in no condition to travel—and the boys...’
‘I will stay here with you, if you wish.’ Nathaniel’s hand drops to the hilt of his sword. ‘Queen Catherine is as safe here as anywhere else, as are Edmund and Jasper.’
‘I’ve put you in danger too many times, Nathaniel. You know it will be hard for you if things go badly?’
Nathaniel nods. ‘I understand—and I’ve made my decision.’
As dawn breaks Duke Humphrey’s men swarm into the bishop’s courtyard like a pack of hunting dogs. The man commanding them places guards on all entrances to the house. I am expecting them and open the door, stepping out into the courtyard to face the young officer.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
The officer hesitates before replying. ‘I have orders from the Lord Protector of England. You are Owen Tudor?’
‘I am.’
‘Duke Humphrey has ordered me to take you into custody, to answer before the king’s council.’
‘I must remain here to care for Queen Catherine. She is with child and unwell.’
The officer seems unsurprised. ‘The duke is aware of the queen’s condition, Master Tudor. My orders are that the queen dowager is to be admitted to the Abbey of St Saviour, in Bermondsey, to be cared for there by the nuns until her child is born.’
‘Queen Catherine is unfit to travel to London. I can’t allow it!’ I raise my voice and see several of the guards move closer, ready for the command to arrest me.
The officer holds his ground. ‘I am authorised to use force if necessary, Master Tudor.’
‘What about my sons?’
‘The sons of the queen dowager are to be taken into the care of Katherine de la Pole, the Abbess of Barking, for religious education.’
I curse my decision to remain at Hatfield when we could have all escaped to Wales, although I know in my heart that even there I could be hunted down and arrested. The duke seems to know everything about us and I wonder if he has an informer in the bishop’s staff and servants. I have no choice other than to surrender to the king’s men.
Catherine’s shrill voice breaks through my deliberations. ‘You will not arrest him. As the king’s mother, I order you to unhand him!’
I am as surprised as the young officer and we both turn to look at Catherine. She is already wearing her hooded travelling cloak, her arm steadied by Briony, dressed ready for a journey. Catherine looks pale but her voice sounds clear and confident. The officer takes a pace back as if unsure of his position, and his men look to him for orders.
‘I will have to be advised by the Duke of Gloucester.’ He gives me an uncertain glance then turns to his men. ‘In the meantime Master Tudor will accompany the queen dowager to Bermondsey Abbey.’
The first sign of a grey dawn is showing on the horizon as we leave. Catherine rides in the wagon ahead of me and Nathaniel is at my side. Behind us follow the soldiers of the duke, acting as an unnecessary armed escort. They have made no effort to take my sword, for now at least.
I feel immensely proud of my sons. ‘You are going on an adventure, and I will come for you after the baby is born.’ I take my purse from my belt and hand them five gold nobles each. They look at the small fortune and seem to know what it means.
‘Be brave, boys.’ I tell them. ‘Remember you are Tudors.’
I expect Catherine to protest as her sons are taken by the soldiers, but it is as if her defence of me has taken all her energy. She kisses them both and tells them to be good boys, then watches impassively, raising one hand in the air as they ride away. I am concerned about her now, as I recognise the signs.
It takes most of the day for our procession of wagons and riders to reach the old abbey south of the Thames at Southwark, stopping in Barnet at mid-day to rest and water the horses. Catherine looks dazed and nearly loses her footing as the sisters of the abbey help her from the uncomfortable wagon. As they lead her away I realise there is nothing I can do to help her now.
Nathaniel persuades a young priest to let us share his small room, now crammed with as many of my possessions as we could bring from the bishop’s house. It is not much to show for a lifetime. My old longbow stands next to a bundle of my clothing on top of a locked wooden chest. Only Nathaniel knows it contains my life savings in gold nobles and silver groats, as well as Catherine’s silver and gilt cups. Concealed in old sacks under papers the secret hoard also includes my precious charter from parliament, confirming my rights as an Englishman.
The priest, Thomas Lewis, is a talkative, clean-shaven man with a lilting Welsh accent. Thomas listens sympathetically to my story and explains that he works as a chaplain alongside the abbey sisters, helping pilgrims and the poor. I am pleased to learn the priest is a Welsh speaker. Originally from the North Wales town of Flint, Thomas has many stories of his travels around Wales and is good company.
We take a meal of pottage in the abbey refectory, washed down with sweet mead, and sleep under rough wool blankets on straw pallets, tired after a challenging day. I wake early and go in search of Catherine, finding her in a side room of the infirmary. The winter sun shines through tall, stained-glass windows, creating colourful patterns of light and shade on the well-scrubbed stone floor.
‘How are you feeling?’
She regards me with red-rimmed eyes and glances at Briony. ‘The sisters said Briony couldn’t stay with me—but I insisted.’ Her voice sounds a little stronger again.
‘We could not stay at the bishop’s house any longer, Catherine.’ I look around her sparsely furnished room, taking in the wooden crucifix on the wall above her and the leather-bound Latin prayer book beside her bed. ‘This is a good place to have some rest until the baby is born.’