A Rose for the Crown (24 page)

A window opened below her, and a tub of dirty water was thrown onto the herb garden underneath. Kate frowned but soon returned to watching the morning mists slowly dissipate in the distance and tried not to think about the dreadful night of Thomas’s death. It would haunt her, she knew, because she felt indirectly responsible.

It was a scorching August, and three days ago Thomas had become intoxicated at supper. Kate had dreaded what would come next. His sexual appetite never matched his performance, and he would spend what seemed like hours becoming aroused enough to attempt penetration. Kate would lie drenched in his sweat, sickened by the smell of him and his fetid breath as he attempted to reach a climax. He never did, and so Kate believed she was still a virgin in the literal sense. She knew she remained one in the spiritual sense, for she never gave herself to Thomas completely. That fateful night was the hottest England had seen for many a year, and the heat coupled with Thomas’s exertions to get Kate with child were a deadly combination. He suddenly went rigid, clutched at his throat and took a hideous rasping breath before collapsing onto her chest.

Kate was petrified. She gently shook her husband and tried to move him off her, but his dead weight was smothering, and it took all her strength to roll him over to one side and extricate herself. Thomas’s mouth hung open, his eyes were locked on the ceiling and he breathed no more. Kate cried out to him and shook him, but there was no response. She pulled on her shift and ran to the door, screaming for help. The household woke up with alarm, and within moments, her maidservant, Molly, and Thomas’s servant came running to help. They both stared at the inert figure on the bed, his exposed loins telling the tale, while Kate wrung her hands and asked over and over again what was wrong.

“He be gone, mistress,” Hugh reported. He put his cheek up to his master’s wide-open mouth to see if he could detect a breath. He closed Thomas’s eyes and mouth and discreetly pulled the nightshirt down to hide his master’s nakedness. It was obvious to the two servants what had caused the heart attack. What a fine way to go, old man, Hugh thought to himself.

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“He be dead, mistress. Heart, I’ll wager, eh, Molly?” Hugh looked at Molly, who nodded in agreement and took Kate in her arms. Kate cried like a baby. Her tears at that moment were mostly for herself as she wondered what would become of her.

How selfish of you, Kate, she muttered to herself now. She gazed out of the window, recalling Thomas’s many kindnesses. Then Molly was at the door, asking if she was ready to be dressed for the funeral. Kate looked once more over the fields, where sheep and cows were emerging eerily from the haze, and nodded at her servant. Life had to move on.

At sixteen she was no longer a child bride, and it was as a widowed woman that she knelt in the front pew of St. Peter and Paul’s a few steps from the house and prayed for the soul of her departed husband. Henry, the journeyman, had worked day and night to make a mourning gown for Kate in time for the funeral, one that his master would have commended. It was done at Kate’s bidding. She knew Thomas would want her to show off his finest fabrics on such a public occasion. He had taught her well.

Next to her knelt Anne, who had ridden down from Ightham with Geoff as her escort as soon as she heard the news. Kate found Anne’s presence a relief. Kate’s family from Bywood Farm had also come to support her, although John was not well and Joanna fretted over him. Johnny and Geoff had exchanged an awkward salute. It was a year since Geoff had visited the farm, and the brothers’ different circumstances left them little to talk about. Geoff had grown tall and now outstripped the stockier Johnny, adding to the elder brother’s discomfort.

The four older Bywoods had two half brothers, and their antics made Kate smile during the feast following the ceremony. Young Matty gazed in awe at her sister. Although Kate was kind to her, the closeness they had shared during childhood was gone forever.

Over his ale, John looked in astonishment at his elder daughter. In the past two years, she had filled out and grown taller. Her tawny eyes still dominated her face and were her best feature—if one was not lucky enough to see her waist-length russet hair free of its cauls and headdresses. But it was her poise that gave him the most pride. He watched as she greeted the gentry of Tunbridge one after another as if to the manner born. Thomas Draper had been a well-respected member of the community and a member of the powerful Mercers’ Guild, and many citizens had turned out to honor him. Some of the men present were eyeing Kate with more than passing interest, and it occurred to John that she was now a desirable commodity—a wealthy widow. He noticed that Kate handled the leers with a coolness that spoke volumes, and he was reminded of Martha’s ability to stay calm in a crisis. He no longer knew his daughter well enough to know that panic lay behind her cool exterior.

But Anne knew how Kate really felt. During their midnight conversations after Anne’s arrival, Kate confessed that she was sad that Thomas was dead, but even more she feared what life would bring to a sixteen-year-old widow without a protector. Anne told Kate of her impending marriage to John Gaynesford, a Wiltshire landowner, whom Anne had met on one of her visits to Westminster and whose connection to the mighty Stafford family pleased Richard. She was truly in love, she told Kate, and after his unhappy marriage to Elinor, Richard’s aspirations for his daughter had mellowed into a wish for Anne to be happy. And truthfully, Anne’s liaison with a retainer of the Stafford family would not hurt Richard’s chances of advancement at court. Young Harry Stafford was grandson to the first duke of Buckingham and had inherited the title and land, including Tunbridge Castle and adjoining forests, upon his grandfather’s death five years before. He also had royal blood.

Kate was sincerely happy for Anne, knowing that her goodness would be rewarded. But a deep sadness for her own circumstances tempered the joy, and the imp on her shoulder asked, “What will become of me?”

The two friends curled up under the bedsheet together as they had done so many nights at Ightham, Anne in the crook of Kate’s taller body, and the nightmare of Thomas’s last night in that same bed diminished slightly with the familiar touch of Anne’s back tucked into her stomach.

“He died on top of you, my sweet Kate? How perfectly dreadful.” Anne shuddered involuntarily at the morbid scene. “’Tis sad for you not to have had a child to console your loss. Do you think”—she hesitated to bring up such a delicate subject—“that perhaps you are barren?”

Kate gave a hoot of laughter and then, remembering she was supposed to be grieving, turned it into a sob in case Molly was still awake in the trundle bed.

“You jest, Anne, surely!” Kate was glad that she could finally tell someone the truth. “My aged husband never succeeded in his lovemaking. I am no longer virgin, ’tis true, but Thomas never spilled his seed. Not once!”

Anne tightened her grip on Kate’s hand, which she had clasped to her chest, and tears of pity welled.

“I am so sorry, Kate. ’Twas my mother who sent you to this hell, I know. Why she hated you and Geoff I will never understand. Now that we are older, I am persuaded it was jealousy for the time Father spent with the two of you. Can you forgive her, Kate?”

“Aye, Anne. She paid for her unkindness with her life. I cannot think badly of her now—well, not for myself, but sometimes for how badly she hurt Geoff. He was just a boy. I think she feared your father would transfer his affection from you to me. She never saw how much he adores you.” Kate spoke thoughts she had not shared with anyone before. “’Twas doubly difficult when Geoff came into the house. He was a daily reminder to Elinor that she had not provided her husband with a son.”

“Father said the same to me one evening not long ago. He believed that her ill temper was due to her barrenness after I was born and that in some way she blamed me. He regretted he had not been kinder to Mother, but she tried his patience so. Poor Mother . . .” She tailed off sleepily.

“Aye, that she did, poor man. What more did he say?”

There was no answer. Anne was drifting off to dreams of John, leaving Kate to wonder.

T
HE
NEXT
FEW
MONTHS
passed quickly enough with Kate running both the household and the business. She had a way with the customers, who were curious to see how a woman would survive in a man’s world. The guild members named executors of Thomas’s will watched her carefully,
but even they had no quarrel with her management of the profitable business. Her taste was impeccable, and as long as she consulted with her patrons and the apprentice Henry kept the books, business went on as usual. Several eligible bachelors became regular customers, but mourning gave her the luxury of keeping her distance. Her nights were lonely, but she did not miss Thomas’s snoring, his groping hands or his lustful attacks in her bed. Kate asked Molly to sleep regularly in the trundle at the foot of the bed for company, and the maid made herself comfortable, happy to be near her mistress, whom she adored.

Molly was one of twelve children born to a miller on the western side of Tunbridge. Hugh had made inquiries at the market soon after Thomas’s marriage, asking on behalf of his master if anyone knew of a young woman suitable to be a lady’s maid. The miller was the second person he approached.

“Do I indeed!” the miller responded with glee, thinking that now there would be one less mouth to feed. “My girl Molly be looking for work now Mistress Brown has kicked the bucket. She were that lady’s personal servant for five years. A hard worker be my Molly. I’ll be sending her along to your master, young sir.”

Hugh gave him instructions, thanked him and moved on, pleased with his morning’s work. He was confident that anyone who had worked for old Mistress Brown for as long as five years would certainly have patience with his young mistress. Kate seemed content looking after her own needs, assuring Thomas that she was unused to being waited on even in a great house such as Ightham. But Thomas was adamant that his wife should have the best of everything. So Molly came to live with them, sharing one half of the garret with the cook and a serving wench. Hugh and Henry had their own tiny space in the other half.

The bond between Kate and Molly formed quickly, and Kate was soon depending on the servant for more than just assistance with her dressing ritual, hair brushing and housecleaning. She enjoyed the gossip Molly brought from the town and took Molly everywhere with her so that Molly could teach her where to buy in the market and how to bargain. There was a forthrightness in the older girl that appealed to Kate, who had no patience for simpering, a trait she detested in Jane, the kitchen maid.

For her part, Molly was grateful than Kate did not stare at her in horror upon their first meeting, as many did. An ugly birthmark that spread its purple projections from the middle of her left cheek to her mouth marred what looks poor Molly might have had.

“One old hag accused me of stealing her blackberries. ‘See the juice left on your face, girl!’ she screamed at me. I was six.” Molly laughed at her own story, her green eyes flashing. Kate was in awe of Molly’s nonchalance and resolved not to complain so much about her freckles. In truth, they were disappearing with time, and she was not surprised. She had been convinced that she would be a lady, and ladies did not have freckles. But for good measure, Molly showed her how to make a paste that would conceal them. Molly had never seen anyone as beautiful as her mistress, and she made it her purpose in life to make sure Kate always looked her best—it was such a welcome change from dressing bloated, balding Mistress Brown. The two spent an hour every morning closeted in Kate’s chamber, Molly combing Kate’s chestnut tresses and winding them into plaited knots ingeniously piled on her head or encased in cauls that covered her ears. Kate was amused by some of the styles, but she enjoyed the attention. Molly had learned much in the employ of the old dowager, and she passed on her knowledge willingly to her new young mistress.

Once dressed and primped, sixteen-year-old Kate managed the daily running of the house, tended to her customers, and dictated correspondence to Henry, whose penmanship put hers to shame. The November after the funeral, Kate supervised the buying of two hogs and curing of the meat for the winter months, and she made sure the wood was piled high, the root cellar filled and the house had a good supply of candles and rushlights for the long winter evenings. Her respect for Richard’s calm management of his large estate grew with each passing week as she ran from one task to another.

On Sundays she gave her people a day to themselves, and after matins, she hurried home, put on her plainest dress and ran through the meadows to the riverbank. Her mourning clothes thrown off and her hair loose about her shoulders, she took pleasure in watching kingfishers swoop, otters play and large fish glide by. In a quiet stretch far out of town, she found a fallen tree where she could sit and daydream to her
heart’s content. When the weather turned cold, she stayed in her chamber by the fire, playing her harp and singing.

She still dreamed of George. His handsome features were etched on her brain; he was the epitome of her ideal man. But during those months after Thomas died, she became more and more convinced that George must now be married to some heiress and had forgotten all about her.

H
E
HAD
NOT
. There he sat a few seats from Kate at Anne’s wedding feast a week after Easter. George was now many inches taller, his face still beautiful and his eyes like dark sapphires.