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  Epitaph for Three Women

  Виктория Холт

  On the death of Henry the Fifth, a nine-month-old baby is made King of England. Ambitious men surround the baby king, including his two uncles, the Dukes of Bedford and Gloucester. Shrewd and clever, Bedford seeks to uphold all his late brother had won and preserve it for young Henry the Sixth. Gloucester, a man of poor judgement, greedy for wealth and power, has other ideas.

  In Lancastrian England and war-torn France, there are three women whose lives are to have a marked effect on the future. Katherine de Valois, haunted by an unhappy childhood, finds love in an unexpected quarter and founds the Tudor dynasty; Joan of Arc leaves her village pastures on the command of heavenly voices; and Eleanor of Gloucester is drawn into a murder plot and becomes the centre of a cause célèbre. Murder, greed and ambition flourish alongside sacrifice, dedication and courage. These are turbulent times as the defeated become the victorious…

  Jean Plaidy

  Epitaph for Three Women

  Part One

  Catherine of Valois

  Chapter I

  THE WELSH SQUIRE

  WHEN her brother-in-law came to tell Katherine that the King was dead, she could not believe him. Not Henry, not the mighty conqueror of her country, not the lover, husband and father of her child.

  She stared at him incredulously, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘No. It cannot be so.’

  John, the great Duke of Bedford, who had loved his brother Henry well and had always declared it was his dearest wish to serve him with all his might, and had indeed proved that this was so, now regarded her with melancholy eyes.

  ‘His last thoughts were for you,’ he told her. ‘“Comfort my dear wife,” he said. “This day she will be the most afflicted creature living.”’

  She continued to stare at him with disbelieving eyes.

  She murmured: ‘He was a little sick … yes … But death …! Oh no … not that.’

  ‘He should have rested. He insisted on going to Burgundy’s aid.’

  Anger showed in her eyes, momentarily subduing her grief. All her life had been overshadowed by the conflict between Burgundy and Orléans. And once again it was Burgundy.

  ‘You knew him as I did,’ went on the Duke. ‘He would never rest while there was a battle to be fought.’

  She murmured quietly: ‘England … France … my son … What shall we do now?’

  The Duke laid his hands on her shoulders and drawing her to him gently kissed her brow.

  ‘It is for God to decide,’ he said.

  And because he knew there was nothing else he could do to comfort her he called one of her women to him.

  ‘Leave her with her grief,’ he said. ‘But be prepared. It will be terrible when she realises what this means.’

  * * *

  So he was dead, the seemingly invincible Harry, the very mention of whose name had struck terror into the French. Since his coming to the throne he had left his dissolute life behind him and had devoted himself to winning the crown of France. He had been tall, handsome, virile, active yet gentle and just in his dealings save when his anger was aroused. Then men compared him with a lion. He was a man who refused to see failure and forever after when men spoke of him they would think of Agincourt, that famous battle into which he led his men with all the fire and confidence of a conqueror so that his tiny army, depleted by sickness, had faced the might of France and won a resounding victory. It had been a more than victorious battle for it heralded the end of the war which had been going on since the days when Edward III decided that he had a claim to France.

  And just as the great warrior was about to accept the fruits of his conquest, he had taken to his bed and died.

  Katherine might well ask, What now?

  She was twenty-one. Not very old but it might be that a childhood fraught with disasters had prepared her in some way for them.

  In Windsor Castle in England a nine months old boy was living cared for by his nurses under the control of Henry’s brother Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. That little boy – Henry like his father – was the most important child in England, because on the sudden death of his father he had now become England’s King.

  Now that she had grown accustomed to the fact that Henry was dead a calmness settled on Katherine. Her brother-in-law John would tell her what to do and she would trust him, as Henry had.

  She travelled from Senlis to the Castle of Vincennes where Henry lay and when she looked on the dead body of her husband her calmness deserted her and for the first time since she had heard the news, she wept. It was as though at last she realised what the death of Henry meant, and she was desolate, afraid of the future.

  There were so many who wished to talk to her. His body must be taken back to England, they said. There should be no delay. But the Duke of Bedford had ordered that her wishes should be respected in every way.

  She wanted to be alone, she said, just for an hour … alone to think. She ordered that her horse should be saddled; she had a desire for the solitude which the forest could offer.

  So they saddled her horse and she rode out into the Bois de Vincennes while at a respectful distance the King’s squires waited for her. When she dismounted one of the squires hurried forward to take her horse. She looked at him. He was young, about her own age, tall, dark, with a face which interested her.

  She said: ‘I have a mind to rest here for a little while. The forest is beautiful at this time of year. Do you agree?’

  ‘It is, my lady,’ he replied. He had an accent which she found difficult to understand, but then she was not as proficient in the English language as she would have liked to be. She remembered afresh how Henry had laughed at her delivery of some words. ‘I must improve,’ she had said demurely. ‘No,’ he had cried. ‘I like it your way, Kate. Don’t change. Just stay my little French Kate.’

  She wondered if she was going on all her life remembering.

  She said: ‘Already there are signs of autumn.’

  ‘It’s so, my lady,’ answered the squire.

  ‘It is sad … the summer over. The leaves are already changing colour. Soon the branches will be stark and bare.’

  A terrible melancholy had come over her. As with my life, she thought. He is gone. Summer is over. The winter is coming on. Then she looked at the squire. He was very young – in the springtime of life one might say.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked impulsively.

  He looked surprised as though wondering of what interest his age could possibly be to this Queen.

  But he answered promptly: ‘I am about to be twenty-one.’

  She looked at him and smiled. A moment ago she had been thinking how young he was, with his life before him; and he was just her age.

  It was like a revelation. Henry was dead; but she was alive and she was young. She was beautiful; she might be the widow of Henry the Conqueror but she was also the mother of Henry the Sixth of England and there was so much left to her. There was her baby to care for. Her whole life lay before her. She had lived through terrible hazards in the past; she would do so again if necessary.

  For a few moments her melancholy had lifted. She smiled dazzlingly at the young squire.

  ‘I will return to the castle now,’ she said. ‘There is much to be done.’

  Obediently he helped her to mount.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She looked at him steadily. ‘You have a strange way of talking,’ she went on in halting English. ‘I think you could say the same of me.’

  He did not know what to answer and she smiled at him again.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what is your country? Where do you come from?’

  ‘I come from Wales, my
lady,’ he answered.

  ‘Wales. Oh yes, I have heard the King speak of Wales. Tell me your name.’

  ‘It is Owen Tudor, my lady.’

  ‘Owen Tudor,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you, Owen Tudor. You have done well.’

  She rode thoughtfully back to the castle. A hope had returned to her. It was strange that it should have happened during a few moments’ conversation with a Welsh squire.

  * * *

  They laid the King’s body in a chariot which was to be drawn by four horses. She had ordered that an effigy should be made resembling him as near as possible, and that this should be placed above the coffin and borne across France to Calais. On the head of the image was set a crown of gold and brilliant gems and about its shoulders was a purple velvet cloak trimmed with ermine. In the right hand was placed a sceptre and in the left a golden orb. It was uncanny. As though Henry had come to life again to observe his funeral rites.

  The Queen had chosen those who would accompany the cortège to England.

  ‘What do you know of the King’s squire, Owen Tudor?’ she asked Bedford.

  He had never heard of the man but would discover since he had caught the Queen’s interest.

  Bedford was clearly wondering why the young squire had done this, and she answered quickly: ‘He seemed greatly moved by the King’s death. I have a feeling that he was a loyal servant.’

  Bedford came back with the information: ‘A Welshman of obscure origins. Grandson of Sir Tudor Vychan ap something. These Welsh have unpronounceable names. I gather the father disgraced himself in some way and was outlawed.’

  ‘Don’t let us blame the son for his father’s sins,’ she said.

  ‘Nay, he pleased my brother. He was on the field at Agincourt and so distinguished himself that in spite of his youth he was made squire of the King’s body.’

  ‘I had a feeling that he had served the King well.’

  ‘How did he come to your notice?’

  ‘’Twas nothing. He brought my horse. I spoke to him and I was impressed by his … feeling for the King.’

  ‘Henry had a way with him,’ said Bedford. ‘He could bind men to him. It was one of his qualities as a leader. They would have followed him to hell if need be.’

  The Queen showed signs of being overcome by emotion and Bedford hastened to discuss further details of the progress to England.

  Before they left Katherine gave orders that Esquire Owen Tudor was to be among those who escorted the cavalcade to England.

  * * *

  So they set out and the Queen with her retinue followed the chariot containing the King’s corpse, accompanied by all the princes and lords of the King’s household and a few of his squires. At Abbeville they paused, where masses were sung for the repose of the King’s soul. It was an impressive sight and people waited along the roadside to catch a glimpse of it as it passed. The banners of the saints were held by the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of March and with them was Sir Louis Robsart, the Queen’s own knight, among numerous knights and nobles. Four hundred men-at-arms in black armour surrounded the bier; very sombre they looked, as befitted the occasion, their horses barbed black and their lancets held with the points downwards. At dusk, when the torches were lighted and they sang a dismal dirge as they walked, it was even more impressive – a solemn and fearful sight.

  In every town through which they passed, masses were sung. They went through Montreuil to Boulogne and then on to Calais where vessels from England were waiting to carry the King’s body home.

  It was a calm crossing and soon the white cliffs were in sight. Crowds of sorrowing people were waiting on the beaches and when the Queen stepped ashore she was greeted by fifteen bishops, and abbots and priests who were too numerous to be counted.

  Katherine looked very young and desolate and won the sympathy of the people. They cheered her fervently. ‘Long life to the Queen,’ they cried. ‘God bless her and our baby King.’ She lifted her hand as she passed along in acknowledgement of their feeling for her but she was longing now for the dreary business to be over.

  She wanted to be at Windsor, to see her baby, to assure herself of his well-being. She who had lived through the troubled reign of her father knew that she would have to be very careful now.

  But for the time being she would go to Windsor. They would not attempt to stop her doing that. First she must see her little son, hold him in her arms. She must never forget that although he was only a baby – and very much like all other babies – he was the King of England. She was apprehensive. To be nine months old and King, surrounded by ambitious men, was a matter to be regarded very seriously; and although the baby sleeping in his cot was unaware of this … just yet … understanding would soon come to him.

  In the meantime there was his mother to fight for him.

  She was deeply moved as the castle came in sight. She had always loved it best of all her homes. To her it represented peace and security and her early life had instilled in her a need for both. The castle, grand and imposing with its Round Tower standing on an artificial mound surrounded by the deep fosse, the strong stone walls and battlemented towers, filled her with pleasure as she advanced. She could see the great forest nearby in which she and Henry had hunted together – not often for he had rarely time for such pursuits, but those great oaks had been the background of her first weeks in England when she had been so happy and young and innocent enough to believe that life would go on like that forever.

  It was in that castle that her baby had been born and when she thought of that she felt a qualm of uneasiness for Henry had expressed the wish that his son should be born anywhere but at Windsor. Why had the impulse come to disobey him? She could not be sure, but it had been irresistible.

  He had said: ‘I do not wish our child to be born at Windsor.’

  ‘Windsor is a beautiful castle,’ she had replied.

  ‘Ah, you love it well and that pleases me. I too have a fondness for the place.’

  ‘It should be the birthplace of kings,’ she had said.

  Then he had taken her hands and looked very serious. ‘Not for our child, Kate. Not Windsor.’

  No more had been said and they had revelled in the beauties of the forest and returned to the castle and partaken of the fine buck which they had proudly brought back with them. And they had laughed and frolicked together while briefly he forgot to think of war.

  And when her time was near she had been at Windsor. I must leave here, she had told herself. It is the King’s wish. But she delayed leaving and the snow came. There were high snowdrifts everywhere and ice on the road. ‘It is no time for travelling, my lady,’ said her women.

  And she was only too ready to agree. Henry would not wish her to take to the roads now. Who knew what would happen to a pregnant woman on a journey fraught with the dangers of winter travel?

  It had been just a whim; she had always been one to shrug aside that which was unpleasant. It had been the only way to live through a childhood such as hers had been.

  So in Windsor Castle her little Henry had been born.

  With what joy she had sent messengers to France. How delighted Henry would be to learn that he had a son. And when the messenger returned to her she had sent for him and eagerly had asked: ‘How was the King? What said he to the news that he has a son?’

  ‘My lady,’ was the answer, ‘first he shouted his delight. He said it was the happiest moment of his life. And then …’

  ‘And then?’ she had asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘He wished to know where the child had been born, my lady.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her hand had flown to her throat and she had said quietly: ‘And what said he when you told him?’

  The messenger had hesitated and she had gone on quickly: ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He turned pale. Then he said a strange thing, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘’Twas something like this:

  ‘“I Henry born at Monmouth

  Shall small t
ime reign and much get

  But Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.”

  ‘Then my lady, he added with great melancholy, “But as God will, so be it.”’

  For a while she had been uneasy but she refused to be depressed. It was only now and then that she remembered; but as she rode towards Windsor it came into her mind again more forcibly than ever, because the first part of the prophecy had come true. Henry had gained much and reigned such a short time. Henry the Sixth would reign long. Yes, he should; she would cherish him and love him, and see that no harm came to him.

  Her brother-in-law Humphrey of Gloucester was riding out to meet her. With him was Henry of Winchester, the baby’s great-uncle, who was one of the child’s godparents. They were accompanied by a retinue of knights and squires.

  The two parties drew up and faced each other. Humphrey of Gloucester rode up to the Queen and taking her hand leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Then she was greeted by Henry of Winchester in like manner.

  ‘Welcome to Windsor, dear sister,’ said Humphrey. ‘This is a sorry occasion.’

  He was handsome like his brothers but already the signs of the profligate life he lived were apparent on his face. He was a man of overwhelming ambition and even at this moment when he genuinely mourned a brother whom he had loved and admired he could not help wondering what advantage to himself could come out of the circumstances.

  The Bishop – son of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford, beginning life as a bastard and later being legitimised – had always served the crown with loyalty. He was deeply disturbed by the death of the King, for he knew that with a child heir there was certain to be jostling for power and strife between various factions which was no good for any country.

  ‘Bless you, my lady,’ he said to the Queen. ‘May God guard you.’

  Then they rode to Windsor.

  First she must go to the royal nurseries.