A Rose for the Crown (13 page)

“Thomas Draper, mistress. I am come from Tunbridge as a guest of Dame Elinor. May I know your name?”

“I am Kate—Katherine Bywood, an it please you, sir, companion to Mistress Anne Haute. I live here,” she said proudly, expecting the smelly old man to be impressed.

“Ah, yes, Dame Elinor did mention you. May I compliment you on your choice of gown, Mistress Kate? I am a mercer, you see, and I know quality when I see it.” He was pleased to see the effect his flattery had on his young partner.

In truth, Thomas had been staring at Kate all evening, unnoticed by her. There was something about the combination of innocence and sensuality that had caused his heart and other parts of his anatomy to come out of the doldrums. And he could swear she was flirting with him. He was right. Kate felt so safe with the old dodderer that she could not resist trying out some of the looks she had observed passing between other ladies and gentlemen at the feast. It was amusing to have someone ogle her, even someone of his advanced years, and soon her good intentions to Martha’s memory were forgotten as she flashed a smile here and fluttered her eyelashes there. Thomas was enchanted. The dance was over too soon for him. She flitted away like some emerald bird.

There was movement now at the doorway. Stamping snow off their boots, a group of mummers advanced into the hall. Edgar banged his staff on the flagstones and begged the company to “Make way for St. George!” A cheer went up as the players pranced around the hall in their costumes—a youth dressed up as a fair maid, a knight in white armor emblazoned with a red cross, and two men in a dragon suit, the front one rearing up and pawing the air. To set the scene, Will and his musicians began to sing the carol of St. George.

“Enforce we us with all our might,
To love Saint George, our Lady’s knight.”

The company listened to the story of the knight who became England’s patron saint by saving a fair damsel from the dragon’s teeth. Then the mummers began to enact the tale, the dragon frightening the children with its roars and St. George receiving verbal encouragement to slay the beast.

But as the player held his sword aloft, ready to do the fabled deed, there was a pounding on the great oak door. A cold blast blew into the hall, a breathless messenger in its wake. All eyes turned to him, and the mummers ceased performing.

Richard, who was seated with Elinor on a small dais, rose to his feet. “Sirrah, you interrupt our play! Pray take some sustenance and give my guests leave to continue in their entertainment.”

The messenger, understanding Richard was his intended destination, ran through the mummers and made a sketchy bow.

“My lord—sir. Are you Richard Haute of Ightham?”

“Aye, I am Richard Haute.” Richard’s displeasure at being interrupted was replaced by curiosity, for he did not recognize the messenger’s badge. “You have news for me?”

“Aye, sir. News from the north. His grace of York is dead, killed in battle through treachery at Wakefield a week ago. His son, Rutland, was butchered in cold blood and—”

Richard jumped to his feet, put up his hand and stopped him with a warning frown and a soft “You are too bold, sir.” Then he raised his voice to address his guests. “Friends, good sirs, ladies, I pray you allow me to have discourse with this fellow in private, so you may continue with the play. I will return anon.”

Some of the male guests were looking curiously at Richard, Kate thought, as she wandered around the room trying to understand the implication of the messenger’s words. Richard was leading the young man through the door and into his office. Kate heard the owner of a neighboring manor mutter to a companion, “So that’s the way the wind blows at Ightham. Haute is York’s man.”

“Was, my good fellow, was,” answered the other, grinning sardonically.

“I cannot say for sure, but it would seem we should be rejoicing for the king, if York indeed be dispensed with. I, for one, have been loyal to King Harry all these years, although his mate does turn my stomach.”

“Aye, in truth. But, sir, we cannot know Haute’s mind in this matter. He has done nothing wrong. He has not taken arms against his sovereign.” Richard’s champion turned and walked away.

The subject of their discourse was sitting in the high-backed chair in his privy chamber, stunned, as he read the damp parchment the messenger had handed him.

“York dead. Can it be possible?”

He rose and went to the window, thoughtful for a few minutes before turning and thanking the weary rider.

“Sir, you must be hungry. Go to my steward. He will provide refreshment. You shall have an answer to carry on the morrow. I thank you for your swift report. Go now.”

The man bowed and left, passing Elinor on her way in. She was frowning.

“Richard, the company is full of whispers and I do fear you have shown your colors. You must come back and be the gracious host. The news must not seem that important to you. I beg of you, look to yourself and your family. The king may not look kindly on those following the White Rose if indeed he has won a victory at Wakefield. Your cause may be dead.”

“I had such high hopes for York,” Richard said dejectedly addressing the wall. He turned back to Elinor. “This is indeed a blow, but our cause may not be dead yet. You and I shall return immediately and pretend this news affects us not one whit.”

Taking her arm and putting on a smile, he reentered the hall.

A
FTER
THE
LAST
of the guests had taken their leave, the Mote went into mourning. Although Martha was honored in the masses and Kate lit a candle to her mother’s memory every day for a week, Brother Francis was instructed to pray primarily for the souls of the duke of York, his murdered son and the earl of Salisbury.

The account brought by the earl of Warwick’s messenger soon circulated throughout the towns and villages in the south of England still enshrouded by snow. Kate and Anne shuddered to hear that the heads of the slain Yorkist leaders had been cut off, stuck on pikes and mounted on the battlements of the Micklegate in the town of York. Someone had even thought it amusing to plant a paper crown on the duke’s head in mockery of his aspiring to the throne. They gasped in horror at the account of the brutal murder of seventeen-year-old Edmund at the hands
of the bloodthirsty and vengeful Lord Clifford, who struck the young man down in cold blood as he was led away from the battle a prisoner.

The one beacon of hope was that Edward of March was safe. York’s heir had spent Christmas at Gloucester, mustering troops to bring to his father’s aid. Richard’s relief was great that the cause might still be successful if young March proved an able leader.

Kate asked what had become of York’s two younger sons. Richard was puzzled but pleased that she even knew of their existence.

“Why, sweetheart, George and Richard are safe enough with their mother at Baynard’s Castle in London, I warrant.” He understood her childish need to relate to someone her own age, but he did not wish to frighten her with the rest of the story. Although the city of London was untouched so far by the strife between York and Margaret of Anjou, rumors had already reached the capital of the queen’s assent to the pillaging and burning of the countryside as her armies marched southwards, following their victory at Wakefield.

Richard turned to Elinor. “I have been summoned by Warwick to muster troops to help stop Margaret’s rampage south. It may come to naught. Have no fear.”

He patted his wife’s hand and assured her he would be in no danger, as he was fully convinced that March would stop the queen’s progress before ever he arrived on the scene. Elinor’s response was matter-of-fact and unfeeling, Kate thought.

“Indeed, husband, you must go where you must. Edgar, Brother Francis and I shall manage your affairs while you are gone, as usual.” She rose, tired of all the talk of fighting and bloody deaths. “Come with me, girls, you have work to do.”

Kate and Anne followed her out of the room, but not before Anne had run to her father and put her arms around his neck and whispered that she would sorely miss him. His hawk-like features softened, and he stroked the loose hair flowing from her bonnet.

“Aye, sweeting, as I shall you.”

His thoughts, however, were far away from the comfortable, sunny solar. They were already marching north.

5
London, June 1461

T
he woods thinned out, and the road became more crowded. When the incessant buzz in the air became a hum, rising and falling, Kate rose in her saddle and took notice. Coming from the quiet of the country, the sounds she was used to were birdsong, droning bees and lowing cattle. This humming certainly did not come from bees, she thought, as she rode beside Richard and Elinor towards London.

The first buildings on the outskirts of Southwark peppered the flat land on either side of the widening road. Individual sounds began to stand out and intrigue her: tapping, banging, rumbling, squealing, barking, clanging, pealing, shouting and singing, all jangling together in a cacophony of noise that made her put her fingers in her ears.

“What is it?” she asked Richard, her eyes bright and as round as the silver pennies she carried in a leather purse at her waist.

He turned and laughed at her, his eyes beginning to water from the dust churned up by the cart in front of them. “London,” he cried. “You hear London!”

The Haute party was now almost to the river, and the noontime traffic was slowly making its way through the Southwark streets to London
Bridge. On their left soared the tower of St. Mary Overie, paradoxically juxtaposed with the Clink prison. The busy inns, brothels and shops of London’s spillover borough filled the view to the right. Kate’s country-sensitive nose—used to newly ploughed fields, manure and wet hay or the sweet scent of wildflowers and herbs—was assaulted next. The stink that now insulted her nostrils was a fetid combination of rotting garbage, horse urine, chicken droppings, dead rats, unwashed people and their excrement and the entrails of slaughtered animals illegally left to decompose outside the butchers’ shops. Despite the mingling with more palatable aromas of wood smoke, baking bread and pies, roasted meats and heady perfumes worn by the higher-born members of the crowd, the total effect now made Kate unplug her ears and hold her nose.

“Ugh! What is that smell?” she asked through her fingers.

“London!” came the reply from an amused Richard.

“You mean people really live here all the time and do not smell it?” Kate was thoroughly disgusted and quite unimpressed by England’s largest city.

Then London’s vibrant colors filled her vision and overpowered the other senses. Carts laden with colorful vegetables and fruit rumbled through the brightly clad crowd. Each tradesman sported his own trade colors. Retainers of the gentry wore their master’s livery. Aldermen were in blue. The customers at market stalls favored muted browns, rusts and greens. Here and there a garishly gowned lady made her leisurely way through the throng, attended by her servants. The clerics hurrying in and out of St. Mary Overie and the elegant Winchester Palace just visible beyond stood out in their various colors; not permitted to wear anything striped, they were permitted to wear any color except cardinal red and green, and they took full advantage of this.

Kate spotted a couple of pigs rooting through a pile of steaming variegated ordure, itself adding to the kaleidoscope of color spread before her.

Ahead of her, Elinor was complaining about the crowded street and wondering if they would ever get over the bridge in such a melee. Richard told her to ride ahead and those on foot would move out of the way of the horses. Anne was terrified. She had chosen to ride with her father,
and she was cowering in his protective presence on the big black horse. Ralph rode a respectful distance behind Elinor, ready to guide her horse if the occasion arose, and Mary rode pillion behind her mistress. Another groom was in charge of the mule cart laden with the Hautes’ trunks of clothes and bedding for their weeklong stay with Elinor’s kinswoman. Kate had chosen to ride a quiet jennet by herself instead of riding pillion with Ralph. She clutched the strings of her purse tightly in one hand and the horse’s reins in the other as the small convoy made its way to London Bridge. She had never seen so many people—all, she presumed, also coming to see Edward of York crowned king. Kate thought back to what she had learned of Edward’s accession in the six short months since Wakefield from her reliable source, Mary.