A Rose for the Crown (32 page)

“Abed, I should think. You told him this afternoon not to wait up for you,” Kate retorted.

George waited until Molly had completed her task and was wrapped in her cloak in her cot before he removed his hose and doublet and climbed into bed. Kate splashed some water from the ewer on her face and rubbed her teeth with a liquorice root, its pungent flavor replacing the nastiness she had tasted since George’s return. She drew the heavy curtains around the bed, wished Molly a good night and climbed in next to George.

“What am I to do, Kate? If Sir John refuses to keep me with his household, I know not what I can do. You say you know Howard? You must plead for me. You cannot refuse to help me. If I am undone, then you are, too.” George’s pleas turned into a feeble threat.

“You expect me to flutter my eyelashes at the gentleman and all will be well? What fiddle-faddle, and what a fool you are! Doubtless Sir John
is angry and doubtless he will punish you in some way, but he needs your father’s goodwill.” Her mind was clear, and her next question surprised even her. “Are you not, as my Cousin Richard is, kinsman to the queen?” Politics were not anything she had taken an interest in, but now she remembered hearing discourse between Cousin Richard and Elinor about who could help them achieve Richard’s goals at court. Who had the king’s ear? The queen’s? And which relative could best be used to advance Richard’s cause. It was good to be “connected.” She remembered the word now.

George was paying attention now, she could tell, even in the gloom. His nervous fussing with the bedcovers stopped, and he lowered his body onto the feather mattress.

“You speak sense, Kate. I hope you are right. My father is determined you shall ride with us on the morrow. I do not think he will brook refusal. ’Twould please me if you came.” His tone was more conciliatory, and she knew he was trying to make amends.

“Aye, I will ride to Stoke. It will be diverting to see Master Howard again and see if he recognizes me.” She snuggled down under the covers, feeling a connection to George for the first time since their marriage. After the most civil of goodnights for many a day, they turned away from each other to sleep.

A
STEADY
DRIZZLE
accompanied the riders the next day. The countryside was at its dreariest, with many trees either devoid of leaves or in the ugly brown stage before finally relinquishing their foliage to the soggy earth below. Sheep huddled together in the corners of fields, and cattle stood disconsolately under bare branches. Not far along their path, Kate spotted the turret of a small fortification poking its battlements above the trees on a hill. Martin told her it was Lindsey Castle, but he was not disposed to talk much that day and so Kate got no more information from him. She pulled her heavy wool cloak closer around her and sank back into its voluminous hood. Even the birds, usually so noisy and profuse in the Suffolk countryside, seemed to have sought shelter from the dank day and were invisible. She did see two magpies flying together, and she hoped indeed they would bring her joy, as the old saying went,
although the family’s mission did not bode well for it. She held her thumbs and sent a quick
ave
for an easy time with John Howard.

It was hard to tell what time of day it was without the sun to guide them. Their path led them through Kersey, its church tower dominating the landscape at the top of a steep hill. The hamlet boasted an inn and two substantial houses but for the rest only a few one-room cottages in need of repair and one that had recently burned. Cornflower put on her brakes down the hill and splashed her way through the ford at the bottom, soaking Kate even more. Four miles on, Martin spurred his horse over the tiny River Box and up the hill that led to the village of Stoke. Kate and George followed dutifully. The road climbed gradually through a thick forest to the few houses and handsome new church that formed the village.

Kate was puzzled. “’Tis a large church for such a small village.”

Martin gave a short laugh. “Aye, that it is. Perhaps you now understand the vastness of John Howard’s wealth and the power he wields in this region. His money built it so grand.”

Keeping the church on their right, the horses continued south onto the road leading to Tendring Hall. An avenue of big oaks and chestnuts marked the driveway to the house and was flanked by large fields, some lying fallow, others ploughed and readied for winter, and yet more full of sheep or cattle. One housed the kennels, and the hounds bayed at their approach. Kate was a little disappointed, however, when she saw the Hall. It was not as large as Ightham, and she was surprised that it had the same half-timber and plaster walls as Haute Manor, though workmen were building an addition with bricks on the north corner.

“Ah, Jack told me he was building a tower house,” Martin explained. “George! Lead on. Do not skulk behind me like some cowardly custard! Let Howard see you come bravely for your punishment.”

George gritted his teeth and kicked his horse into a fast trot past Kate and his father. All three rode up the muddy drive and to the stable yard to the right of the house. The stables themselves were impressive, and attached was a large dovecote. Under part of the building, a smith beat busily on a red-hot horseshoe. He paused and stared at the visitors before touching his forehead in salute and returning to his task. Several grooms
were currying the horses tethered to posts in the long, open stable. One laid down his brush and came running to catch the newcomers’ reins, while four lean rache hounds leaped out of nowhere, barking happily around the three strangers.

“Sergeant! Sergeant, you noisy dog,” George called to one. “Down, boy, down!”

“Who is there?” an amiable voice called from an upstairs window. “Show yourselves! I would see who is there?”

The sodden trio was now on the ground, Martin groaning as he straightened out one leg and then the other. The nine miles from Chelsworth had not tired the young couple, he noticed. He turned at the sound of the voice.

“Sir John! ’Tis I, Martin Haute, bringing my wayward son back to your care an you’ll forgive him. He wishes his new bride to be known to you.” Martin pushed his soggy hood off his head and looked up at Howard, who was leaning precariously far out of the window.

George followed his father’s example and pushed his hood back in deference to his master and bowed his head. Kate stood back a few paces and hoped they would soon be invited inside to the fire, the smoke of which was blending in with the gray clouds still draining their contents onto the landscape.

“Haute! My dear fellow, well met! Andrew, Wat! Take the horses and feed them our best,” he ordered his grooms. “Come in, come in, good friends.”

Kate could have sworn she had seen Wat before, but she could not place him. Jack Howard waved them back towards the main portal and disappeared from view. Kate gave George a look that said “I told you he knows me” and accepted Martin’s arm in negotiating the muck in the yard and the mud around the door.

Her rain-soaked skirts weighed a ton, and now they had an added two inches of mud at the hem. She hoped she would spend the night there and she could have dry clothes by morning—being wet was not one of life’s pleasures, she thought. So busy was she in looking at her filthy shoes and dress that she did not notice Jack Howard’s entrance until she was taken in a bear hug and a large kiss planted on her unsuspecting mouth.

“If it isn’t Mistress Kate herself!” Jack’s black eyes twinkled merrily as he released her and stood back a pace to look at her. Martin was astonished at Kate’s reception.

“Well met, Sir John,” Kate greeted the recently elected knight of the county, also astonished. “I am indeed flattered you remember me.”

“Mistress Lackseat? How could I forget?” he teased her. “I rescued your daughter-in-law these many years since, Haute. She had fallen on hard times and was sorely bruised. Not so, Kate?”

“Aye, sir. ’Twould best be forgotten and does not need to be repeated here, I beg of you. ’Tis a beautiful arras, sir. Is the scene biblical?” She pointed over his left shoulder to a large, elaborate wall hanging, making him turn away from her and, she hoped, the embarrassing topic of her fall from her horse. Sir John was circumspect in his reaction to the sudden change in conversation.

“’Tis well said, Kate. The arrival of the Queen of Sheba, I do believe. ’Twas a gift to my new bride. You have not yet made her acquaintance, Haute.” Martin shook his head. “Ah, Rose.” Howard was addressing a woman mounting the staircase. “Pray find your mistress and announce our visitors at once. And take these cloaks away and dry them.
Séches-les! Comprends-tu?
”

The woman nodded, her mouth pursed, as she walked stiffly down the stairs to gather up the rain-heavy garments and disappear to the back of the house.

“Odd woman—a favorite of my dear departed wife, Catherine. She’s from Burgundy,” he said, as if that would explain her peculiarities. “And this is my squire, Tom Moleyns.” He introduced a tall, lanky young man, who had followed Jack down the stairs. “He is kin to Catherine.” The young man, who had been hovering in the background, came forward and bowed, giving George a surreptitious glare as he did. “Tell the steward we shall be three more for supper this evening and to find bedding. You will stop the night, my dear Haute?”

Martin thanked his host, accepted the invitation graciously and asked about the new tower. Jack’s eyes lit up with passion.

“I have designed the tower myself. After dinner I will show you the plan, if you are interested, Martin. ’Twill be near three stories high!”

“Aye, Jack, I would be interested. It looks to be a handsome addition.”

“But first I must deal with young George.” Jack turned to George, who was fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. “I would speak to you alone in my chamber, sirrah.” Howard’s tone had changed. Kate looked anxiously at him and saw his mouth, framed by a long black mustache, harden. George looked appropriately fearful.

A step was heard on the staircase. Howard’s face softened again when he saw his wife. “Margaret will see to your comforts, friends—not so, my love?” The tenderness returned to his eyes as he stretched out his hand to present his wife to the Hautes. Then he motioned to George to precede him to his office, his long blue surcote swirling around him as he marched through the doorway.

Margaret Howard was very pregnant, and her tiny form was almost doubled by the child she was carrying. A pretty woman with rosy cheeks and a vivacious expression, she radiated a warmth impossible to ignore. She waddled forward, beaming. Two young children followed her, peeping out from behind her skirts.

“Welcome, friends! You must dry yourselves by the fire. Some mulled wine would not go amiss, I’ll be bound. Such a miserable day, and to think Jack has not thought to bring you to the fire yet.” She shooed Kate and Martin to the roaring hearth set in a side wall, and the travelers gratefully lifted their hems to warm their legs and dry off. Kate removed her shoes; their bright green dye had stained her stockings. Margaret called for Rose to take the children away to play.

“I suspect they are hers with her previous husband, John Norris,” Martin muttered to Kate, who watched them leave with curiosity. During the ride, Martin had explained that Margaret had been the child bride of Nicholas Wyfold, lord mayor of London. Wyfold had died ten years ago, leaving his young wife a wealthy woman. Margaret’s second marriage—to John Norris of Bray—was not fulfilling except for the birth of her two children.

“My little ones, Lettice and William.” Margaret waddled closer to the fire. She eyed Kate’s wet hem and green feet. “I would pass a dry gown for you to wear this evening, Mistress Haute, an you desire. You shiver so, and I would not want you to catch cold. ’Tis the time of year, is it not?” She was mothering Kate, a worried frown on her face.

Kate smiled. “Nay, madam, I am warned now, but the hot wine does
sound inviting.” Before Margaret had a chance to respond, there was an eruption from the office.

“God’s bones!” The angry expletive was heard clearly through the thick oak door, though the rest of the sentence was muffled as Jack lowered his voice. All three by the fire stopped talking and stared at the door. Margaret broke the silence by readying a small pot suspended over the fire and pouring wine into it from a pitcher on the hearth. She selected a few cloves and a nutmeg and added them to the pot. Kate and Martin watched her, each imagining the scene in the other room.

“Fear not, Kate, my husband is most tolerant of young people in love at present.” She blushed modestly. “I am sure he will show utmost benevolence in his dealings with George.”

“Thank you, madam,” Kate said, glancing up at Martin.

He looked grim and then shocked the gentle Margaret by saying, “I hope the young good-for-nothing gets what he deserves!” He strode off to the foot of the staircase and stared up at the Queen of Sheba on the wall. Margaret patted Kate’s arm and was rewarded with a smile. No wonder the lad had fallen head over heels, she told Howard later.

After what seemed like an age, the door to the small chamber flew open, and Howard strode back into the hall with a wan George trailing behind him. George gave Margaret a small bow, Kate a look of anguish and went to his father. Martin turned when he heard the two men reenter.

“I do humbly beg your pardon, sir.” George was on one knee, his blond head bowed. “Sir John is gracious. He has not dismissed me from his service, but I must return to Framlingham and my duties there immediately. Do I have your leave, sir?”