smile, for if these men snatched her away successfully, then Isabeau would be left alone in this
empty palace, furious and frustrated that Catherine was with Bolingbroke and she, Isabeau, was
left far distant from the machinations of power.
Her smile fading, Catherine turned aside. She walked over to the larger of the two
bedside coffers, raising its lid and lifting out her cloak.
Lord Owen Tudor pulled the hood of the cloak more tightly about his face. He couldn‘t
believe they had come this far this easily. The guards at the city gates had acted as if enchanted,
merely nodding to the group of disguised men who had asked entry, and signalling for the gate to
be opened.
No one had questioned them in the streets as they‘d wound their silent way towards the
palace.
And now, here they were in the palace courtyard itself—and it was deserted.
He looked over at Norbury, and found that Norbury was looking at him with the same
kind of expression that Tudor expected was on his face.
This was too easy.
―It will get easier yet, my lords,‖ said a soft feminine voice, and Tudor‘s eyes jerked
forward.
A woman had walked out from a doorway and now approached them. She wore a russet
cloak about her slim figure. The hood lay across her shoulders, revealing a darkhaired woman of
some particular beauty.
―You are English?‖ she said as she halted a few paces away.
―My companions are English,‖ said Tudor, half bowing. ―But I am Welsh. Lord Owen
Tudor, my lady.‖
She raised an eyebrow. From what she could see of him under his hood, the man was of
considerable comeliness. Perhaps in his late thirties, tall, greying reddish-blond hair and clipped
beard, a weary, kind face with grey eyes. ―A Welshman? But I thought all Welshmen were
uncivilised dogs. And you, sir, do not look like a dog.‖
―And I,‖ said Tudor without an instant‘s hesitation, his eyes steady on Catherine‘s face,
―thought all French women gutter-bred harpies.‖ He pointedly did not continue.
She gave a startled half smile. ―Forgive me, my Lord Tudor. I spoke poorly.‖
―You did that. You are Catherine, Lady of France?‖
―Aye.‖
―My lady…‖ Tudor hesitated, not sure how to continue. They‘d thought they‘d have to
sling the woman screaming over their shoulders, but he, at least, had not thought out how to
announce politely to her the fact of her abduction.
Now Catherine smiled fully, taken with the Welshman. ―I am at your disposal, my Lord
Tudor.‖ She paused. ―And I do not hold you responsible for what your lord has asked you to do
on his behalf.‖
Tudor nodded, then stepped forward and held out his hand. ―The cart is clean, my lady,
and piled with pillows and comforts.‖
She held his eyes a long moment, then raised her arm and took his hand. ―Then I entrust
myself into your keeping, Lord Owen Tudor.‖
XII
Thursday 22nd August 1381
(Evening)
― y lady,‖ said Tudor, ―I am sorry, but I have orders to take you directly to the king.‖
―Of course,‖ Catherine said, trying to pull her gown and cloak straight as Tudor helped her out of
the cart. They‘d travelled non-stop through the night and most of this day, and now Catherine
was tired, grimy and grumpy and her attire creased, stained and ill-fitting.
But of course Bolingbroke would brook no delay in inspecting his prize.
Catherine looked up at Tudor. The weariness on his face had increased dramatically. His
skin was now almost as grey as his irises, and there were deep pouches under his eyes, and lines
in his forehead and about his mouth.
―Will you escort me?‖ she asked softly.
―Gladly,‖ he said, holding out his arm for her to take.
Catherine paused briefly to talk with Norbury and the men-at-arms who‘d attended her on
the cart, thanking them for their care and courtesy, then she nodded to Tudor and took his arm.
He led her into Bolingbroke‘s castle.
―I am surprised Bolingbroke has not yet ridden out to meet my husband,‖ she said,
slightly stressing the word ―husband‖.
She had her reward as Tudor‘s arm jerked slightly. ―The news of your marriage has only
just reached us, my lady.‖
―I look forward to receiving the congratulations of Bolingbroke.‖
Tudor paused a moment, obviously considering whether or not to reply to her remark,
then moved back to the safer territory of Catherine‘s original comment. ―The king will move out
tonight, madam. He has waited only to see you.‖
They were climbing the staircase now towards the royal apartments, and suddenly
Catherine halted, her face white.
―Tudor,‖ she said, ―something has happened here. Something…‖
―Something terrible, madam. Our beloved queen, Mary, fell down these steps almost two
days ago. She was…‖ his voice caught, and Catherine studied his face carefully. This man loved
Mary, adored her as a woman and a queen. There was no lust in his face—he had not thought of
her as he might a paramour—but only grief, respect and devotion.
―She was hurt most grievously,‖ Tudor finally continued in a low voice. ―She is near
death. She…she cannot last for much longer.‖
Catherine‘s hand tightened very slightly about Tudor‘s arm, and he gave her a small nod,
acknowledging the comfort.
―Once I have seen Bolingbroke,‖ Catherine said, ―I would be most grateful if you could
take me to see Mary. I have met her once before, and I honour her.‖
Tudor nodded again, not speaking, then continued to lead Catherine up the stairs.
Bolingbroke waited for Catherine in an antechamber, knowing the fact of her arrival a
few minutes earlier. He was dressed in a leather jerkin over a warm shirt and above wellfitted
leather breeches. A cloak, gloves and a sword lay to one side, ready to be donned.
There was a step outside, a low voice, and then the door opened.
Bolingbroke straightened, staring at the door.
Tudor entered, bowed slightly, then gestured to Catherine to enter.
Bolingbroke took a deep breath. It seemed decades since he had last seen Catherine,
although in reality it had only been some twelve months since Philip brought her to Gravensteen.
She‘d changed since then—grown a little thinner, her face a little wearier, her blue eyes a
little harder.
She also looked exhausted and crumpled, but she still entered the room like a queen, her
chin tilted up, her eyes flashing, her shoulders square.
Lord Christ, she would make him such a wondrous mate.
―Tudor,‖ Bolingbroke said softly, his eyes not leaving Catherine who had halted a few
paces inside the door, ―leave us.‖
Tudor bowed again, and turned for the door.
―My Lord Tudor,‖ said Catherine, her eyes as steady on Bolingbroke as his were on her.
―I would have you stay. I am a married woman, and I would not like evil rumours of solitary
meetings with another man to reach my husband.‖
Tudor halted, hesitant. He looked at Bolingbroke, who shot him a cold look. Go.
Tudor hesitated a heartbeat longer, then quietly closed the door, standing to one side of it.
―I must respect the lady‘s wishes, your grace,‖ he said.
Catherine‘s lips threatened to curve into a smile, but she managed to keep them under
control. ―I have heard of your wife Mary‘s tragedy, your grace,‖ she said. ―You must be
heartbroken.‖
Bolingbroke was still staring furiously at Tudor, but at mention of Mary he looked back
to Catherine. ―Do not pretend grief,‖ he said.
―I pretend nothing, your grace. I am sure that you are as grief-stricken at Mary‘s fate, as,‖
her voice hardened, and she stressed the next phrase very particularly, ―I would be should my
husband meet an ill end.‖
―What did you think to do,‖ Bolingbroke shouted suddenly, taking an aggressive step
forward, ―in marrying Philip?‖
―I loved him,‖ she spat back. ―And still do.‖
Tudor had also taken a half step forward, watching both Bolingbroke and Catherine
carefully, but stopped as Bolingbroke shot him yet another furious glance.
―You have a better future before you,‖ he said, ―than Philip.‖
―And I think,‖ she said, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes glittering with tears, ―that I
could have no better future than Philip.‖
There was a long silence, both staring at each other.
Finally, Tudor cleared his throat. ―My lady has asked if she could see the queen,‖ he said,
expecting Bolingbroke to lash out at him, ―in order to pay her respects.‖
― Someone should pay Mary respect,‖ said Catherine, holding Bolingbroke‘s stare.
―The entire world pays Mary its respects,‖ Bolingbroke said in a hard, ugly voice. ―And
I, for one, am right sick of it.‖
He turned abruptly away, striding to the table where rested his cloak, gloves and sword.
―Tudor,‖ he said, putting on his sword belt, ―I hold you responsible for the Princess Catherine‘s
safety while—‖
―I am a queen,‖ Catherine said. ―Queen of Navarre.‖ Sweet Jesu, she thought. He has
never loved me. He has only wanted me as a desire, as a triumph. He has never even understood the meaning of love.