Root of the Tudor Rose by Mari Griffith Page A

him. She would like to have a companion of her own age and social status. There was Margaret, of course, but she was old. Nevertheless, Margaret stayed close by Catherine’s side and nothing would dissuade her from visiting Leicester and spending Easter there, particularly while her husband Thomas was still in France, looking after his brother’s interests. So the women travelled together in some style though Catherine did wonder why Margaret thought they needed a retinue of over a hundred people, including knights, baggage handlers, four choristers, and ten priests as well as Anton, the royal chef.
    As the royal party rode through the magnificent Turret Gate of Leicester Castle on the eve of Palm Sunday, Catherine was overjoyed to find Henry waiting for them. Royal protocol precluded an emotional reunion in public but she had no doubt of his pleasure at seeing her again. At every turn she saw him gazing at her with hunger in his eyes and he lost no opportunity of touching her hand, of whispering an endearment or squeezing her thumb as the secret sign of their physical need for each other.
    So it came as no surprise that he strode through her dressing-room and into the bedchamber just as Guillemote and Les Trois Jo-jo were unpacking her boxes and coffers and helping her change out of her travel clothes.
    â€˜Out!’ he ordered them, clapping his hands loudly and with a broad grin on his face. ‘Go, get out of here at once. I can no longer endure the parting from my wife, no, not for one moment longer. Out!’
    He chased them out of the room and they went, squealing with laughter, still clutching combs and mirrors, dropping shoes in their hurry, leaving their mistress clutching her shift to her breasts, her hair un-braided and falling over her shoulders. Henry turned the key in the lock behind them, then leaned back heavily against the door.
    â€˜Catherine, it’s only been a few weeks … but …’ He looked at her dumbly for a moment, his smile fading, shaking his head in wonder, his need for her draining the colour from his face. She held out her arms to him and he moved towards her.
    He buried his head in her shoulder. ‘I have dreamed of this moment, Catherine. I have lived it, re-lived it.’ With his face against her neck, the dear familiar scent of lavender almost overwhelmed him.
    â€˜Don’t talk, Henry, please. Just let me feel you close to me. Close to me, Henry. Please, Henry, please …’ She pulled him towards the bed.
    It was with great urgency that he took her and, though she arched her back and responded to him with a desire that matched his own, he wondered afterwards whether he had been just a little brutal, hurting her perhaps.
    â€˜Catherine, I’m sorry. I have never felt so great a need. Did I hurt you?’ He was lying on his back still panting slightly, his forearm on his forehead, his passion spent. ‘My sweet love, please forgive me. Soldiers can be rough brutes.’
    Lying naked beside him, Catherine breathed a dramatic sigh and smiled an age-old female smile as she looked up at the pattern in the fabric of the canopy above them.
    â€˜My Lord,’ she said solemnly, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to walk in tomorrow’s Palm Sunday procession!’
    The royal family spent much of Holy Week on their knees in full religious observance of Easter in the little stone church of St Mary-de-Castro.
    At Henry’s side, Catherine watched the consecration of the holy oils and the commemoration of the Blessed Eucharist and by Easter Sunday she permitted herself the sacrilegious thought that, surely, God was at last satisfied with her devotions. She had said ‘ Attende Domine ’ so many times that she felt sure she had persuaded the Almighty to attend to her most fervent prayer and grant that, before too long, she should conceive a child, a male heir to the throne of England.
    All too soon Guillemote and Les