CHRISTMAS had come and Katherine decided that it should be kept at Eltham. The King was now five years old and earlier in the year his uncle Bedford had made him a knight and several other boys had received their knighthoods at the hands of young Henry himself. That had been an interesting ceremony and Henry was now beginning to realise that he was different from other boys. People bowed to him, kissed his hand, cheered him, applauded him and made him feel very important in every way. He found it pleasant and was now beginning to expect to be treated in this special way by everyone as soon as he escaped from the nursery. There his mother, Joan and Dame Alice remained in command.
There were great festivities at Christmas. He very much enjoyed the giving and receiving of presents. Joan Astley helped him to choose a pair of gloves for his mother and hide them so that they would be a surprise for her. He had great difficulty in keeping the secret and on more than one occasion nearly let it out. His mother had caught Joan putting her fingers to her lips and had looked very bewildered. He had enjoyed it all very much. He loved the smell of pies baking and meat roasting and his mother had told him that there would be mummers and dancing and Jack Travail would be invading the castle with his merry companions.
Eltham, that palace which had been built by Edward the First, was some eight miles south of London on the road to Maidstone. Henry was used to living in palaces but it was exciting to come to this one at Christmas time and to pass over the ivy-covered bridge with its four groined arches. As they entered the great hall he held his mother’s hand and the retainers came forward to kneel before him. He extended his hand for them to kiss with a natural grace. It was all part of being the King.
He could scarcely wait for Christmas morning when he would give the gloves to his mother and see what he was to be given.
Among his presents were some coral beads which delighted him more than anything else for they had once belonged to his great ancestor Edward the First. Joan Astley told him stories of the great Kings of England and the glorious lives they had led. Edward the Third interested him particularly because he had been a boy when he had come to the throne – a little older than Henry it was true. Quite old, Henry thought him. But everyone said he was just a boy.
There were a few other children who had been brought to the palace to share his games – the sons and daughters of noblemen – and they played bob apple and blind man’s buff in which the elders joined. Then there were the players who performed a miracle play. Henry found this a little dull but when Jack Travail and his companions came into the hall and entertained them all with his games and plays Henry was enchanted. He clapped his hands with the rest and cried: ‘More! More!’ much to Jack Travail’s delight. Henry wished it was always Christmas.
Dame Alice came all too soon and declared that it was well past bedtime. The other children were seized on too and Henry was taken, protesting a little, to his bed where he was soon fast asleep.
In the hall the Christmas merriments continued.
Katherine seated on a low stool surrounded by a few of her attendants watched the dancing. It was four years since she had become a widow. A long time. She should marry again, all said it. She was surprised that they did not try to persuade her to do so and perhaps persuade forcibly. She supposed her father’s death and the preoccupation of her brother who was trying to regain his throne and the fact that she was a French princess who had her home in England were all reasons why she was given some respite.
Besides, when a woman has married once for State reasons she should be allowed to make her own choice of a second marriage. That had always been a kind of unwritten law, not always adhered to, of course, especially when a woman was a specially good bargaining counter which she would have been but for the upheaval in France.
Because of that she was allowed to live her quiet life at Windsor whenever the fancy took her.
The ladies and the squires were dancing together. She declined to join in. She wanted to sit quietly and watch. Christmas had made her thoughtful. Lately the question of what her future would be had been constantly in her mind. She was twenty-five years of age. No longer a girl.
Her eyes went to Owen Tudor who was partnering one of the ladies in the dance. He was scarcely graceful. Dancing was not one of Owen’s attributes. Dear Owen! He was often quiet and thoughtful nowadays. She wondered if the same thoughts occupied him as did her.
The dancers were pirouetting which some of them performed very gracefully. She clapped her hands. ‘See who can turn the longest,’ she cried. ‘Come closer that I may see.’
So they approached and she called on one at a time to perform before her. The ladies applauded and some of the men were laying stakes on who should be able to do the most turns on tiptoe.
‘Come, Owen Tudor,’ she called. ‘It is your turn. I wish to see you perform this pirouette.’
‘My lady,’ he said, flushing a little, ‘I am no good at it.’
‘Nevertheless you must try,’ she said.
He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of despair which amused everyone, then he came close to her and began to turn on his toes. In a second or so he had toppled forward. The Queen put out her arms and he fell into them.
It was the first time they had made such close contact and both were aware of a tremendous excitement. It could only have been a few seconds that they remained so, looking at each other, but the true nature of their feelings was revealed to them … and perhaps a hint of them was given to others.
Owen recovered himself first. ‘My lady …’ he stammered. ‘A thousand pardons …’ He scrambled to his feet, his face now scarlet.
The Queen laughed on rather a high note. ‘’Twas no fault of yours, Owen,’ she said. ‘Methinks, alas, you are not going to be the champion.’
Everyone was laughing now. Owen Tudor was happier on a horse than pirouetting in the ballroom, they said.
‘Happier still,’ whispered one of the men, ‘in the company of Queen Katherine … alone.’
When the Queen retired for the night she was very thoughtful. She had known for some time, of course. When she went out riding and he was a member of the party the day brightened. If they could contrive to be alone then it was indeed a happy day.
She faced the truth. She was in love with Owen Tudor.
One of the women who was combing her hair said to her: ‘My lady, have I your permission to speak openly to you?’
This was a faithful friend, one who believed because of the favour Queen Katherine had shown her she was especially privileged.
‘What is it?’ asked Katherine.
‘It is being noticed, my lady, that you show much favour to Owen Tudor.’
‘Owen Tudor. The Welsh squire? He is a very good squire. The King is greatly attached to him.’
‘My lady, people talk.’
‘Of course they talk. They have tongues have they not?’
‘At times mischievous people talk slanderously.’
‘Against me, you mean?’
‘Yes, my lady. Against you and … Owen Tudor.’
‘What say they? Tell me that.’
‘That he would be your lover … and that he is low-born and you are a Queen of England and a daughter of a King of France. Also, he is Welsh.’
‘Welsh? What of that?’
‘They say the Welsh are barbarous savages.’
‘Then they speak nonsense, do they not? Owen Tudor has shown he is as gallant and cultivated a gentleman as any we have at Court.’
Her vehemence frightened the woman who had thought only to offer a gentle word of warning. She did not believe for one moment that the Queen could possibly take a lowborn Welsh squire for a lover.
‘Ah,’ said Katherine, ‘I am not English either. Do they say that I also am a barbarous savage?’