‘Is it nonsense? Henry’s in the thick of the fight; at Louviers he was all-but killed by a gunstone. At this moment the future looks bright enough; but the next who knows?’

  Did she speak with the tongue of prophecy? I have often wondered.

  When we met again she wore widow’s weeds.

  XVII

  Henry was dead; dead in the pride of his manhood—Henry that had stood my friend. I had thought of him as one might think of a god; now, at thirty-five, he had gone down to the grave. Once I had thought him cold; now he was cold, indeed.

  Dead at Vincennes, his sickness kept from friend and foe alike, until Death himself spoke out loud. Riding at the head of his men, urging his sick body forward and failing; and dying in the dark of an August morning, head on his confessor’s breast.

  I thought of Catharine in her dark hours and of her strange prophecy. She had left England joyous as may day; how would she return?

  All England mourned; not only in palace and in town, but in far villages and scattered hamlets which high policies pass by. Every heart weeping for him who had been their hero and their King.

  I looked down at the babe in my lap. He alone crowed and laughed. Yet he had lost most. Eight months old. Too young to bear the weight of a crown; younger still to be left fatherless. Yet he laughed while the country mourned. And, memory moving, I sent a woman, her face all blubbered with tears, for a black riband and tied it about the little arm.

  But, the days passed and I walked in the sun in the garden at Windsor, the sharp edge of shock blunted. I grew used to the idea of the King’s death; if I had lost a friend, there was one less to forbid my marriage with Gloucester. And there was a further comfort and hope. One of the King’s brothers must remain in England to hold the reins until the babe was old enough. Bedford, as all Christendom knew, was England’s finest captain. Now, more than ever, he would be needed in France. Surely they would not leave the command to my hothead Gloucester!

  Gloucester would come home. Gloucester, sweet Gloucester—and no one strong enough to forbid our marriage.

  Catharine had warned me that no woman would ever hold him—least of all a wife. I considered this, turning myself about before the mirror …There were some that called me a beauty—the usual compliment paid to princes where they may hear. Yet, without overmuch stretching of the word, I could pass! Life in England, its peace and its safety, had put back some of the flesh I had lost. I was rounded now in the fashionable way of beauty—no more; there was a liveliness in the eye and in the mouth. And I favoured our Dutch headgear; an open net through which the bright hair shone—chestnuts in a golden basket. But looks alone would not hold Gloucester. I had taken him by the eye; now I must learn to keep him.

  The King’s death had darkened the face of England, but to me, it must bring my lover. I hid my joy beneath the decent mourning.

  I forgot my joy when I saw Catharine again.

  I rode to London to meet her. I had expected to see her sickly and sad—three months since the King had died, and she carrying out the heavy duties of a widow that is also a queen. I was not prepared for what I saw She was very thin, and her face set in lines of misery—that one might expect. But now and again she seemed to listen to some secret thought; for I saw her mouth locked as though in anger, her face stamped with bitterness.

  She asked about the child and, hearing he was well, wrapped herself in silence and listened no further, not though I told her how he laughed and crowed when he was pleased, and of his infant rages when they did not fly to his command—a true little King! There she sat and gave no more sign than as if she had died herself.

  She would not rest in the Tower, even one night, so we passed through London. London; and a smoke-black sky pressing down upon shuttered streets; and in each doorway a man in black from head to foot, holding a lighted torch above his head. The black clothes, the dark streets, the orange torches flaming smoky into the black sky—a city out of hell you might think! The cortege moved on towards Westminster; and when we were clear of the smoky air and the night-sky clear again with frost-sparkling stars, she began to speak.

  ‘The King has shamed me in the face of Christendom. When he lay dying he sent for those he loved … but not for me. And there were messages for those he would never see again … but not for me. I am nothing. I should have been named a regent but I am nothing. My child, my child even, given to the hands of others. Why do they take him from me? What have I done to merit such disgrace? I have brought France in my pocket to an ungrateful King; I have borne a son to an ungrateful husband. And what am I now but a stranger, disgraced, in an unkind land?’

  And when I would have spoken—though, indeed, I knew not what to say—she cried out very bitter, ‘Never tell me that the English love me … though they should, they should! Love the foreigner! It was for the crime of being foreign that Johanne was thrown in prison; for that and that alone. Oh, I have heard while I was away; I have learnt. The King wanted her money and shut her up the better to despoil her. And no hand lifted to help the foreigner, no voice lifted to enquire into the truth!’

  I said, ‘You are ill with sorrow and with weariness. And who knows if the things you hear are true or false?’

  ‘They’re true enough. About Johanne—I had it from Exeter; and who should know but the King’s uncle that had it from the King himself? When Henry felt himself sicken, he asked Exeter to have Johanne released without delay for my soul’s sake. For his soul’s sake! That says enough, I think. I wish he had been so tender of me. That I am to be shut out of affairs; that my son is to be taken from me—I had from Bedford himself.’

  ‘Then … Bedford is to be Regent?’ And my heart sank like a stone.

  She shook an impatient head. ‘No Regent, no Regent at all. Protector. Protector only. But not Bedford, alas! Bedford’s a cold man but he’s just; he means well by me. It’s Gloucester.’

  My heart leaped again in my breast.

  ‘But Gloucester’s a mean man,’ she said. ‘Not just! He cares only for himself. The King has done me great wrong,’ she said; and there-after—perhaps she sensed a coldness in me because of what she had said—was silent.

  Life had changed indeed for Catharine. It had reversed the order of the game. The Queen had become a pawn.

  When she saw the child for the first time since her absence, she snatched him from the nurse and clutched him to her breast and would not let go though the babe cried out and fought her off with his fists, and the nurse looked black as thunder. That the child did not know her was—as to any mother—grief to her heart. But with her it was more; much more. Without him she was reduced to nothing; and she knew it!

  These days she was all a wildness and a despair; nor, though I longed, could I give her any comfort. There was a coldness between us. I could not forget she had called Gloucester a mean man. Unjust, unkind, self-seeking—those words I could forgive; but meanness stuck in my throat.

  For her part she could not forgive me because I loved the man she now regarded as her enemy. He had, she was certain, worked upon the King with guile to push her from her rightful place. I tried at first to defend him; and that failing, tried to assure her that, loving Gloucester, I loved her none the less. As wife to the Protector I could—and would—serve her well.

  But it was all useless; she was forever upbraiding me. ‘Gloucester’s wife you’ll never be. The King would not have allowed it; nor will Bedford allow it. Never, never, never!’ And she would repeat the word with a slow and irritating obstinacy.

  ‘You yourself would set aside his dying wishes if you could!’ I said once, goaded. ‘But he laid no dying wish upon me. If he spoke with Bedford against the match, be very sure we shall hear!’

  Now her distrust reached beyond Gloucester to me; she did not trouble to hide her dislike of me. By God’s providence—or so it seemed—my kinswoman, Madam Johann, new-released from prison, desired my company; and I was glad to change the air of Windsor for that of Langley.

  But not for long. The air at Langley was as cold as that at Windsor.

  I found my kinswoman pale from imprisonment; and severe. The first thing she heard when she had been set at liberty was gossip about Gloucester and me; it was for that I had been summoned.

  I grew weary of her complaints. I could not believe that marriage with Gloucester could harm anyone. On the contrary it could only—as King Henry himself had agreed—bring increased prosperity to his country and to mine. And surely I had the right to a little happiness! So when I could endure this second Queen’s upbraiding any longer, I took to horse, and, the faithful Robbesart in attendance, was away to London. And there—and truly now Heaven did smile upon me—I found my lover new-returned from France.

  Catharine came hurrying to Westminster and ordered me to her presence—Queen to subject. I went obedient and unafraid, I went with the intention of being gentle and kind; I had good reason. But the way she kept me waiting and the way she received me at last, cold and unsmiling, and the words she said, put me out of all patience.

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ I said; and I no longer called her Cat, or even cousin. ‘It is true. We are living together at Hadleigh as man and wife—and there is no shame in the matter. My Lord of Gloucester and I are married.’

  ‘Why this secrecy if there’s no shame in the matter? Why these lies?’ she asked, very cold. ‘You are my friend and you deceived me.’

  ‘There was no lying. I went to Langley and I meant to stay there. But I found the air too biting cold with Madam Johanne’s tongue. I saw no need to endure it. As for the secrecy—my lord desired it!’ I looked into her bitter face. I said, ‘And wisely! You would have robbed me of my happiness, had you been let.’

  ‘I would have saved you,’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘There was no more kindness in you …’

  ‘So you ran to the kindness of Gloucester. Gloucester’s kindness! I wish you joy of it.’

  ‘I thank you, Madam,’ I said.

  She lost her quietness then. ‘You have disgraced yourself in the eyes of Christendom. Live with Gloucester you may—like any of his whores. Not as his wife; never as his wife. Have you forgot my Lord of Brabant?’

  ‘I do my best, Madam, though it is hard. But Brabant is not my husband and never was. I have no husband but Gloucester. And, indeed—’ and I heard my voice shake as though even now I might plead and she listen. ‘It is no ill match. The King himself offered me marriage with his brother. He would have given me to Bedford—’

  ‘I trust you will be happy,’ she cut me short; her bitterness made mockery of the words.

  I curtseyed to the Queen; I rose and stood looking at her. Her face did not soften; it was remote and cold. I went out leaving behind me our broken friendship.

  In spite of the Queen I felt no shame; the only shame I felt was in having been tricked into Brabant’s bed.

  Bedford, that just man, knew the truth when he saw it. It was vital for him not to offend Burgundy, yet still justice urged him to our side. His letters, following my own, urged the Pope to declare the Brabant marriage null and void. Delay, he said, might well result in the shedding of Christian blood.

  When my brother of Bedford, for so I could call him now, stood by me not because he wanted to—he had no joy in this marriage—but because justice demanded it, what need had I of shame?

  And so I gave myself to my happiness. Madam the Duchess of Gloucester, second lady in the land and wife to my dearest love.

  And I was happy. Whatever they said of his character no one could deny his charm. He was a gay companion, and delightful to women—until he tired of them. He was not tired of me; not yet. I had all the charms of a mistress, he would say, and none of the shackles of a wife.

  None of the shackles of a wife! I suppose I ought to have guessed then what was in his mind. If he regretted his bargain he could easily get rid of me; the Brabant marriage had not yet been declared null.

  But how was I to have known? He was forever seeking me out; he could not, it seemed, let me alone. No sport, no past-time worth-while without me. I rode, hunted, hawked and danced better than the best, he would say. And he was forever telling me I was beautiful, that I was charming, and that I was no prude. And he would tell me, laughing, that while other women emptied his purse I should fill it.

  And so I should have done had he played his part. For I had made him master and ruler of all my possessions—when he should gain them for me. ‘I am a woman,’ I told him. ‘I have no pleasure in policies nor in the battlefield; nor would they become me now I have a husband—a true husband—and I can rest.’

  Yet it was little rest I had with Gloucester these days. We gave ourselves to pleasure of the sport, to pleasure of the table, to pleasure of our bed—as though there was no war with France nor any land of mine to win back.

  It was my husband that tired first.

  He loved me—he did love me then; I must believe it. But with him ambition must always come first. And now his uncle Beaufort, that cunning bishop of Winchester, was barring his way at every step.

  My husband was Protector of England; but he was not Regent and he had not a Regent’s power. He had managed—with the utmost difficulty—to secure the right to summon Parliament as though he were king. It brought him a little prestige but not much more. When it came to the vote, his was worth no more than the next man’s. Nor had he the strength of his peers behind him. They distrusted him because he was forever seeking the goodwill of the lesser lordlings and squires that were flattered by his condescension and taken by his charm.

  And, even more, he wooed the common people. In Holland we have long known the strength of the common people; sovereign and noble alike seek, before all else, their goodwill. But in England, without the great lords, a man cannot stand; and those Gloucester could neither break nor bend.

  The anger between my husband and his uncle had been long, though hidden—more or less. Now, it came out into the open and the struggle promised to be bitter. Beaufort was the more subtle, the more tenacious; and, for all his belief in himself, Gloucester must have known it. I think it was in his mind, even then, at the beginning of the struggle that, if things went badly for him in England he would carve himself a kingdom in Holland.

  But there was no such thought in my mind. Young, and very much in love, I thought it was for my sake he offered to return with me, sword in hand. I was a fool to believe he could think of others first; a fool to believe that, even to serve his own ambitions, he would stand firm in the face of difficulties.

  Beaufort opened hostilities with the lightest of touches. My husband came bursting into my chamber one day, black as thunder.

  ‘This thrice-damned bishop!’ he cried out. ‘This bastard uncle of mine! Yesterday he staged a pretty play and everyone applauded—except me, the fool for whom it was staged. The Chancellor resigns; and I’m summoned to Windsor. Fool that I was not to put two and two together! I got there to find the lords in Council—as many as he could scrape together—Ormonde and Talbot and Clinton and Poynings and a crowd of others. And the dear Archbishop-Chancellor, of course, surrounded by his covey of bishops, including beloved uncle Beaufort. And there was Madam Catharine smiling in the middle of them; pussycat with cream! And well she might!

  ‘I saw now what was afoot—but even then I didn’t see it all. Archbishop Langley was waiting to resign the Great Seal. I held out my hand, naturally; I expected him to hand it to me. But instead, he made as though to put it into Kinglet’s hands—hands that couldn’t even grasp the edge of it. So then my uncle Beaufort must needs come forward and put his paws round Kinglet’s fingers lest the Great Seal drop. Then he called on me and, in the presence of them all, he guided that baby’s hands towards me; towards me, Gloucester, Protector of the realm. And I passed it to that fellow that keeps the Chancery Rolls to keep till we’d chosen the new Chancellor.

  ‘Oh it was a pretty scene and damnably significant!’

  I needed no word of Gloucester to tell me how significant! It was to show him that he was not Regent but Protector; Protector only. All law came from the King and from the King alone—with Bishop Beaufort, of course, to guide him.

  ‘Oh pretty, pretty,’ Gloucester growled. ‘Thrice-damned Beaufort. And thrice fool I. I should have known what was on foot. Why Windsor and not Westminster? I should have asked myself. I should have feigned sick. Madam Catharine makes common cause with the bastard bishop, does she? She shows her hand; let her wait till I show mine!’

  I did my best to sweeten him. I pointed out that Catharine was but a pawn to be moved at the will of others. I said that no one could foresee this cunning step of Beaufort’s. And though I did not tell him so, it savoured of a woman’s cunning. And whose then but Madam Johanne’s, the shrewdest brain in England? Obviously she believed in Beaufort’s star. It was not comforting.

  Gloucester went about furious; it was hard to talk to him without provoking a quarrel. And, as if that were not enough, I had my own difficulties. I say my own because they seemed to leave Gloucester unmoved.

  Catharine had promised that I should be the scandal of Christendom; she was not wrong!

  My mother’s letter was the first harbinger of the wretched storm.

  The whole land is full of rumours that you are married again. And, God save us, how can that be since you are fast-wed already? They say you have taken Monsieur the Duke of Gloucester for husband and that you are already with child by him.

  You have ordered the Estates to meet; but you say no word whether these tales be true or not. God grant that they be lies! For I tell you plainly that Gloucester’s strumpet you may be; his wife, never. I am in dire distress on your account.

  My reply left her in no doubt of the matter.

  The tales you hear are true; why should you doubt them? The contract—I will not call it marriage—between the Duke of Brabant and myself was, from the beginning, null and void; and this you know well.

  By deed of gift I have endowed my husband with all my lands and titles. To the title of Gloucester he now adds Count of Hainault, Holland and Zealand, and Lord of Friesland besides.

 

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