Root of the Tudor Rose by Mari Griffith Page B

Trois Jo-jo were packing her clothes yet again because Henry, who always found it difficult to relax, was impatient to move on. The court was to be based next at York while the King and his Queen, with a smaller retinue, made pilgrimages to Beverley and Bridlington. Henry’s father had placed him under the patronage of St John of Bridlington when he was a young boy and it pleased him greatly that the date of St John’s day of translation, the twenty-fifth of October, was also St Crispin’s Day, the very day on which he had won his most celebrated battle at Agincourt six years previously. Though he would vehemently deny that he was at all superstitious, Henry felt he owed a great deal to St Crispin and to the intercession of St John. He was always keen to go to Bridlington.
    What Catherine looked forward to most was a few days’ rest since, never the best of travellers, she had found the jerky movement of the royal carriage had given her a feeling very akin to seasickness and she was very tired. She awoke in York the following morning to the sound of Henry’s squire coming into their bedchamber to rouse his master. She had been sleeping deeply. Henry dropped a kiss on her forehead and followed the squire into his dressing room. Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the great bed, Catherine reached for the little bell she kept by the bedside which would bring Guillemote to her at any time and for any reason. When Guillemote arrived moments later, she heard her mistress being violently sick in the latrine.
    â€˜Dear God, Guillemote,’ she said in a weak voice. Guillemote held her forehead as she leaned forward and retched again. ‘I have never felt so ill.’
    Guillemote’s mind was racing. The oldest of thirteen children, she had often observed that when her own mother vomited before breakfast, there’d be yet another baby later in the year. But she didn’t want to raise Catherine’s hopes, not just yet.
    â€˜Can it be that you have eaten some English food which has upset you, my Lady? Or I wonder if it could perhaps be the effects of the long journey?’
    â€˜I wish I knew. But until I feel a great deal better, I won’t be making any more journeys, not for a few days, anyway.’
    â€˜Come, my Lady. Let me help you back to your bed.’ Guillemote was fussing with cloths and rosewater, trying to clean Catherine’s mouth. ‘I’ll fetch the Lady Margaret. She’ll know what to do.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Catherine agreed, climbing back into the great bed and pulling the covers up under her chin. ‘Margaret will know what to do.’
    Coming back into the bedchamber, Henry was alarmed to see her looking so pale. He took the maid to one side. ‘What is it, Guillemote?’ he asked.
    â€˜I don’t rightly know, Your Highness. She seems calm enough now but she has been quite ill.’
    â€˜Then I won’t leave for Beverley until tomorrow. There’s no pressing need.’ Henry turned back to the bed and stroked a tendril of damp hair away from Catherine’s forehead. ‘Don’t worry, my sweet, I’ll tell Alnwick to send a messenger to Beverley and Bridlington to inform them of the delay. But perhaps we should consult a leech-doctor. I’ll have one sent for.’
    The Duchess of Clarence found Catherine sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows with her knees drawn up to her chin, drinking a hot posset which Guillemote had made for her.
    â€˜So, Catherine, my dear. Might it be that you are with child?’ Margaret greeted her, getting straight to the point.
    â€˜With child, my Lady?’ Catherine looked stunned. ‘But surely …’
    â€˜Well, you have been very sick this morning, Henry tells me; he’s even asked Bishop Alnwick to send for a leech doctor.’
    â€˜Yes, but …’
    â€˜I have every hope that a leech doctor will not be needed, though it will do