A Rose for the Crown (59 page)

“Kate, ’tis no matter that Richard has a bastard,” Margaret said kindly after listening to Kate’s story. “I have told you before, even the king has bastards. And other mistresses, unlike you, bask in the glory of their position
at court. You are unusual, my dear. I know ’tis important to you to keep your royal liaison quiet, and Richard honors you by respecting that wish. ’Tis not the kind of information that can be used against Richard, believe me. So, if George is granted an interview with Richard, ’twill serve only to make your husband even more of a laughingstock.”

Kate sat in her favorite spot in the window embrasure, her knees clasped to her chest. “Aye, you are right, Margaret. I am so afraid I may dishonor Richard—and my Haute family. Thank you for your words. But wait ’til George returns. He shall rue the day he plundered my private property, I promise you!”

W
AT’S NOSE WAS BLOODY
and broken as were several ribs when he rode slowly into the stableyard at Tendring ten days later, leading George’s horse. Slung over the horse’s back, his hands and feet tied by a tether that was secured under the animal’s belly, was George’s inert body. His blond hair was matted with blood. His cloak concealed the wounds on his back. Several grooms and other yeomen came running out to greet Wat, exclaiming at his appearance and staring open-mouthed at the body on the horse.

Molly was helping the laundress hang out the wash when she saw Wat ride in. “Wat! Wat! You be hurt. Oh, what has happened. Sweet Jesu! The young master . . . Oh, dear God, how shall we tell my mistress?”

“I be all right, Molly, don’t fret. But I could not stop them from murdering—” he broke off. “Fetch the mistress here, Molly. I would tell my tale to Sir John and Dame Katherine together.”

Molly took off running down the drive. Margaret had been in the upstairs solar and heard the commotion in the stable yard. She appeared around the corner of the house and gasped when she saw George. Her face crumpled and she ran to the body, fussing with the cloak and stroking George’s hair. “Dear God, do not say he is dead. How did this happen?”

Wat climbed wearily down from his horse to address his mistress. “If you please, madam, I would wait until Dame Katherine comes to tell my tale. Be Sir John at home?”

“Aye, he is in the tower room. Come, Wat, wash your face and someone will fetch you ale.” Margaret led him to the pump and worked the
handle herself. A kitchen lad brought out a cup of ale, and Wat downed it in one swallow. He allowed Margaret to dab at his face with a kerchief, wincing as she touched his swollen nose.

Fifteen minutes later, he was seated in a place of honor before his master and mistress, Kate and several other members of the household. Kate’s face was ashen, and she held tightly onto Margaret’s hand. She thought of the last time she had seen George—when she had run up the stairs with Richard’s letter. He had not said good-bye when he left for Nottingham, and she knew the reason full well. She had been relieved really. He did not fit into the new house, and his rough handling of the servants made for an unpleasant atmosphere. But dead? She never wished for his death.

Wat began his story. “We came to Nottingham in good time. Master Haute was lodged in the castle and me in the royal stable. The next day, we began back. He told me we would take a side road to Fotheringhay.”

Kate took in a sharp breath, and Margaret squeezed her hand.

“’Twas not my place to question him. But the road took us through the forest.”

“Sherwood Forest?” Jack asked. “’Tis a dangerous place, I hear.”

“I know not the name, master, but it was dark and seemed haunted.” Wat shuddered, remembering. “It seemed to me that a ghost was behind every tree. Many times I thought I saw the very trees move.”

The company looked fearfully at one another, and some crossed themselves.

“When we were in the midst of the wood, we were attacked by thieves. Two ruffians with long hair and wild beards. They must have lived in the woods many years, in truth. One had a knife and the other a big stick. One knocked me from my horse with the stick and stood on my face. I wrested his foot off and unbalanced him, sending him to the ground. I grabbed his stick, hit him on the head and he went down.”

Wat had warmed to his audience and was now standing and acting out the fight.

“What of George?” Kate cried. “Did you see what happened?”

“Aye, mistress. He had no chance to defend himself. He was not wearing his short sword. He had put it in his saddlebag, for he said he did not like the feel of it slapping on his leg as he rode.”

Someone coughed to smother a spiteful laugh as Wat continued. “He only had his dagger, and ’twas no match for the man’s long knife. He pulled Master Haute from the horse and . . .” He hesitated, looking at Kate and Margaret. “’Twas gruesome and over very quickly, God have mercy.”

“God have mercy,” Jack reiterated and put his arm around Kate. She was still in shock, and Wat’s words seem to come to her from far away.

“What did you do, Wat? The man had committed murder, and you were witness to it.” Jack was anxious.

“I had the stick, and I hit him hard. When he went down, I took his knife, but I could not make myself use it. Instead, I tried to help the master. When I turned round, the two had come to and were running away with the master’s saddlebag. I was too shook up to follow them, master. I be sorry, but they got clean away.” Wat looked shamefaced.

Jack strode to him and clasped both his shoulders. “You did well, Wat. You have no need to be ashamed. Even with the knife, they might easily have overpowered you, and you, too, would be lying dead in Sherwood Forest. At least you have lived to tell the tale and return Master Haute to his home. For this we thank you. And now I must look to see if George brought me new messages from the king. Margaret, see to it that Kate is housed here for the night. She will be in need of company, I have no doubt.”

The rest of the household stood about exclaiming and discussing the grisly details. Margaret led the stunned Kate downstairs, through the hall and up to her solar, where Kate finally broke down in tears.

“Poor George,” Kate said, between sobs. “He was such a troubled man. This death will release him from all he could not understand in himself. He was not always a good man, but he did not deserve to die such a hideous death. I am sorry for him, God rest his soul.” It seemed impossible she would not see George again. Life was such a fragile thing, she now understood. She was distraught he had died for such a stupid reason as greed. Richard’s letter was probably thrown to the winds once the illiterate vagabonds had taken everything of value from George’s bag. Margaret left her friend to cry and sat at the table with parchment and pen to write a letter to Philippa at Chelsworth. She would let Kate rest tonight and then dispatch her with George’s body home on the morrow.

Poor Philippa, Margaret thought, she has lost two sons in two years.

The next day, Kate left for Chelsworth, riding Cornflower behind Wat and the cart that contained her husband’s body covered by a fine cloth. Someone had sprinkled wildflowers upon it, and those standing in the courtyard doffed their hats as the sad cortège moved past them.

B
Y THE END OF JULY
, Kate knew she was pregnant. The familiar nausea was afflicting her, but the knowledge that this babe had probably been conceived in the waters of the River Lark made her smile through her sickness. Once again, the death of someone close had been followed by the start of a new life within her, and her mind wondered at the coincidence. Ironically, no one would question who the father was. George had been seen laughing and talking with her happily at the guildhall of Norwich at exactly the right moment. Kate dreaded having to lie to Philippa and Martin again, but at least she would not have George’s anger to deal with. Her pregnancy might bring them comfort after the terrible fact of George’s death. Chelsworth had gone into mourning, and Kate found herself in a widow’s veil once again. A baby could help with the loss, she thought.

However, Kate’s pregnancy was of little importance in comparison with the turmoil in which England found itself during those hot summer weeks. Violence had erupted everywhere, especially in London, and Jack had been in and out of the city many times, trying to stabilize his position and his business. He was at Stoke when he learned of the return of Warwick and Clarence from Calais. They had gathered quite a force in Kent and were prepared to march on London. Because of the earl’s popularity with Londoners and the mayor’s wish not to risk bloodshed, the rebels gained easy access to the city and from there marched north to join forces with Robin of Redesdale.

Jack was shocked when he heard that Edward’s forces under the earl of Pembroke had been defeated at Edgecote.

“Where was Edward?” he railed at Margaret and Kate one evening after supper. “He is our greatest commander. Why was he not there? He would have crushed them.”

The two women listened but had nothing to say. They, too, were astonished by this turn of events. Astonishment turned to incredulity
when news arrived of the king’s capture a few days later. Jack turned white. Margaret tried to reassure him that Edward would be safe but without much conviction.

Kate’s thoughts were all of Richard. “Is he taken, too?”

“I think not, Kate. Warwick undoubtedly thinks he has Richard’s loyalty and will leave him be. He may believe Richard will join his cause eventually. In truth, my intelligence is that only Edward is taken. You may see Richard here yet. But for me, I know not what to expect. I have served Edward faithfully and Warwick may seek retribution on all who follow Edward.”

However, it seemed the earl was not bent on overthrowing Edward but only controlling and containing him. He showed his contempt for the new royals, the Woodvilles, by executing the queen’s father, Lord Rivers, and her brother, John. For safekeeping, he moved Edward to his stronghold, Warwick Castle. It appeared the earl had no wish to seize the reins of government, and Jack was relieved to find that he was still expected to serve as a minister of the council, though he was untrusting.

“’Tis all very confusing,” he murmured. “Very suspicious, in truth.”

16
Suffolk, 1470

W
arwick’s coup to control the king backfired. He believed that by keeping Edward under house arrest in Pontefract Castle in Yorkshire, he could bend Edward to his will. His mistakes were to think the affable king was amenable to this arrangement and to leave Richard and Lord Hastings to their own devices. By mid-September, they had gathered an army, and when the wily Edward summoned Richard and loyal members of his council to Pontefract for a meeting, which Warwick was unable to prevent as Edward was still king in name, they came—with an army. Faced with this show of force, Warwick had no choice but to let Edward go. Also, Warwick’s treatment of the king had cast him in a bad light with the commoners, and Edward’s subjects were ready to cheer their sovereign back to his throne. All that was left was for Warwick and Clarence to make motions of friendship and loyalty to Edward, who, with foolish magnanimity, forgave them yet again.

While Warwick had been in charge, Jack was bidden to continue to serve on the king’s council. But still the king’s man, he responded to Edward’s secret summons to York along with other lords and ministers. Once the king was shielded by the some of the most powerful men in the
land, Warwick was powerless to prevent Edward from walking away. Jack’s loyalty to his king had been demonstrated, and the Howards breathed easily again. Richard’s loyalty, too, was rewarded substantially by his grateful brother: He was appointed constable of England and lord chief justice for Wales. It was a slap in the face for Clarence.

Kate’s heart was filled with pride when Jack told her of Richard’s successes.

“You have much to tell young Katherine of her father, Kate.” With a broad wink he added, “and the next little Gloucester bastard.”

Kate smiled up at him and cradled her swelling body in her hands. “Aye, I do, Sir John. ’Twould be nicer if he could tell her himself. He would be so proud of his daughter. She is beginning to take her first steps.”

“Ah, now you will know no peace, my young friend.”

T
WO DEATHS
, one more significant than the other, brought sadness to Tendring in the new year. Word came to Jack that his son, Nicholas, had been stricken by the plague in London and had died within a few days. The house was plunged into mourning, and Jack left immediately to ensure that his son was buried in the Stepney parish churchyard and not thrown in the communal pit with other plague victims. In Kate’s small household, a tiny soul took wing to heaven not a day after its birth. Molly’s arduous early labor lasted a full day and a night, and the baby only whimpered as it was smacked into life outside the womb.