A Rose for the Crown (73 page)

“Loyaulté me lie,”
she read, turning the ring. He placed it on her finger.

“If ever you need me, send this. I will not let you down,” he told her. “And this letter is a safe conduct in my name for any and all times you have need of one.”

He took her face in his hands and looked long and hard at her. “My first and only love, my dear heart, I shall keep this happiness with me always. I know not what life holds for me, but God has blessed me with two healthy children and allowed me to bear witness to a love not many men experience. I thank Him and I thank you, my rose—
ma belle
Katrine.” He drew a parchment from his sleeve. “I have an unworthy gift for you. ’Tis a paltry effort at poetry, but ’tis heartfelt. Read it when I am gone, I pray you. I would not see you laugh at my poor words.”

She could not see him for tears. She reached her arms around his neck and kissed his trembling mouth. He could not believe the pain he felt in his heart as he held her familiar body to him for the last time. He briefly wondered what it was that ran down his cheek and realized he was crying for the first time since he was a boy. His chest heaved on a sob, and he pulled himself away and bolted from the room. Kate collapsed in a heap on the floor, her arms outstretched to the door, tears making their mark on her skirt. “Richard! Oh, Richard, my dearest love. Do not leave me, I cannot bear it!”

But he was gone. Her only consolation was his assurance that it was duty that was sending him into Anne Neville’s arms. After watching him and his small entourage ride out of the courtyard, she locked her door and unrolled the parchment.

“My heart is yours, mine honor thine,
The joy that makes me love you true.
Our hearts entwined eternally
’Though duty now parts me from you.”

She dropped it in her lap, picked up a cup and proceeded to consume the entire contents of a jug of wine.

N
EWS OF
R
ICHARD’S MARRIAGE
to Anne reached Kate four months into her pregnancy. So much for the sponge-and-vinegar protection Margaret had sworn by. The news doubled her melancholy and sent her to bed yet again. Molly fretted over her mistress’s ill humor, and Martin called in a physician to bleed her. Kate knew she was pregnant but had to hide it from Martin. It was unfair to bring his name into disrepute.

“You must keep this to yourself, Molly, do you hear me?” Kate was severe with her servant. “Between us we can hide it from the household until I think of a plan.”

The news of the marriage came from Rob Percy, by whom Richard sent a letter.

“Richard bids me greet you and the children and tell you he is removed to Middleham. Francis and his wife and I are to reside with him there. He speaks of you when we are private, and you can take heart he has not forgotten you. Neither have I. God speed.”

Kate grieved for Richard as if he were dead. Martin was sympathetic after his recent loss, and the house was plunged into a somber mood despite the coming of spring. Katherine was old enough to reflect her mother’s disposition, and the little girl became sullen and angry in a shake of a lamb’s tail. Even placid John was showing signs of succumbing to the pall, whining and crying at the slightest discomfort. Molly grumbled to Wat that life at Haute Manor was like living under a growly November sky. Molly herself was jealous of Kate’s new pregnancy, and Kate received very little sympathy from her maidservant for her morning sickness. Molly was certain she was barren following her first agonizing delivery, and she had resigned herself to being nursemaid to Kate’s babies.

Martin had been relieved of his post with the queen at Richard’s request, and he immersed himself in the management of his lands. He was finding Kate’s melancholy hard to bear, and one evening he broached the subject.

“Kate, you know I am heartily sorry that you have lost your love. ’Tis no easy thing to let go of such love, but I must tell you that you are failing in your duty as a mother. You are not giving your children, or indeed any of us, of yourself these days, and we are are suffering for it. ’Tis time for you to go and visit Margaret. Perhaps she will bring back your good humor.”

Kate was astonished. She had had no idea of the effect she was having on the entire household. She stared at Martin over her needlework, and even these not unkind words caused a tear to escape and run down her cheek. “I am sorry, Father. I have not been myself, ’tis true, but I did not think I was shirking my duty in the house.”

“You have not shirked your duty and are carrying out your side of our agreement without fault,” Martin said kindly. “It is of your humor I speak. Why, I have not heard you say ‘fiddle-faddle’ for months now.”

Kate smiled and brushed away her tears. “In truth, I long to be with Margaret again, Father. If you think you can get along without me, I shall gladly write and ask her if we might visit. She writes that she will be some time at Tendring this summer when Calais becomes insufferably hot.” She went to him and kneeled by his chair. “Thank you for your patience with me. You are much too kind.”

“Pah! I have to confess this is not entirely my idea, Kate, though I do heartily agree with it. ’Twas Magdalena who spoke to me the last time they visited. I suppose it takes a woman to notice these things, and perhaps I tried to ignore your melancholy. But I want to do right by you. Philippa would have wanted that.” He took her hand, stroked it and stared absently at the chair Kate had recently vacated. “You know, I sometimes think she is still here, sitting quietly weaving or reading her book. She loved Master Chaucer’s stories you know. When I look up, I could swear she has only left the room for a moment.”

It was Martin’s turn to look sad. Kate immediately felt guilty, and some of her old spirit surfaced. “Come, Father, enough of maudlin thoughts. Let us play a game of backgammon. I may be generous tonight and let you win.” She fetched the board. “Tomorrow I shall write to Margaret, and Wat shall carry my request to her. I pray she is at home and will not refuse.”

*   *   *

M
ARGARET WELCOMED
K
ATE
with genuine delight. It was a full nine months since they had seen each other.

“You looked a trifle peaked, my dear, I have to say.” Margaret looked anxiously at Kate. “Come, let us go to the tower solar. We should not be disturbed there.”

Jack was in conference with John Bliant and another man when they passed through his office, but he rose when he saw Kate and enveloped her in his arms. He smelled of sweat, wood smoke and fish, but Kate enjoyed the embrace. She always felt safe when Jack was near. His heavy robe bunched between them succeeded in masking her slightly swollen belly. He, too, looked concerned when he held her away from him and studied her. The hated freckles dappled her pale face like autumn leaves upon an early snow, and the expression in her eyes matched her downturned mouth.

“Why, Kate, sweeting, what is it? You look unwell.”

“’Tis naught but an ill humor, Jack. I caught a chill and I am just now returning to health. I thank you for your concern,” Kate said, dismissing the subject. She saw he was completely gray now, but it suited him. “You, if I may say, have never looked better.”

“Aye, Margaret looks after me too well.” He winked at his wife. “But I am forgetting. Thomas, I believe you have not had the fortune of meeting our neighbor and friend, Mistress Haute.”

Kate’s eyes lit up. “Oh, am I to meet your son at last, Jack?” She stepped out of Jack’s shadow to greet the third man at the table. “Your servant, Master Howard! And Master Bliant, I give you good day.”

The steward bowed. Kate dropped a polite curtsy as Thomas Howard went to meet her.

“Aye, Kate, this great brute is Thomas, my oldest child—for my sins.”

Thomas took Kate’s hand. He brushed his lips over it and appraised his stepmother’s young friend. He had heard rumors of Richard of Gloucester’s leman and was curious to see her. A little scrawny, he thought, but pretty, very pretty.

“Your servant, Dame Haute. I have heard of you from my father and stepmother. Your musical gifts are much talked of here. You must sing for us this evening.”

Kate did her own appraisal and decided he did not resemble Jack much except in stature.

“I fear I will not compare with the court musicians, sir. But if it be your pleasure, then I will gladly sing for you. I shall speak with Thomas Harper and ask for the loan of his instrument. Forgive me, sir, but I would congratulate you on your recent marriage. I shall be happy to meet the Lady Elizabeth.”

Thomas beamed. “You are kind, mistress. Bess, I am certain, will be as happy to meet you.” He had been married but a week and was still unused to the idea. Jack had waited until his son was almost thirty before he arranged a suitable match. Elizabeth Tylney was the widow of the late Lord Berners’s son, Humphrey Bourchier, who had lost his life at Barnet. Thomas did not love the lady, but he was well pleased with her.

“Sirs, forgive me for chattering on, I see you are busy,” Kate apologized.

“Never too busy to see you, my dear,” Jack said. “I shall look for you at supper, and Thomas can tell you all the news from London. Mine is but of Calais and quite boring, not so, my love?” He blew a kiss to Margaret.

Kate was impressed by the new glass in the tower solar. It was so uniformly clear. It was as though the countryside was in the room with her. To the west she could see the spire of Stoke church and to the south the chimney of her old house. Another family had been granted tenancy, and she resolved to speak with the new residents during her visit.

“Jack will eventually install this glass in every room in the house. He is also arranging for a chimney to be put in my solar in the other wing. I shall be happy to see the last of the brazier, in truth.” They settled themselves as Margaret chatted on. “My dear Kate, I am so very happy to see you. You can have no notion of how dull I find most of the gentlewomen of Calais. How are you? It seems to me you are sick with more than a chill. ’Tis more like sadness. It cannot have been easy to learn of Richard’s marriage, I know. But he will be back from the wild north before long, and you shall see him then.”

“Not so!” Kate’s response was swift and impassioned.

“Nay? Why? Oh, Kate, now I do see your pain. Richard has abandoned you!” Margaret knelt in front of Kate and pulled her into her
arms. For the first time since her return to Chelsworth, Kate released the flood of tears that, as mistress of the house, she had had to dam up. Her body heaved with uncontrollable sobs. Margaret did nothing to stem the flow of gibberish that was let loose.

“Richard had to . . . he truly loves me, he said . . . he loves the children . . . ’tis his duty to marry her . . . no bedding me after wedding Anne. I love him . . . I love him with my very soul . . . ’tis too cruel . . . Oh, woe is me! I am lost without him . . . especially now . . . now that I am . . . Oh, Margaret, I cannot tell him—” She broke off to spill more tears.

Margaret digested all the information and sat back on her heels. “Sweet Mary, so that’s the way of it,” she muttered to herself. To Kate she said, “But I heard he entertained with you at Crosby Place at Christmas.”

Kate blew her nose and calmed down. “Richard was all kindness, Margaret. I pray you forgive me my foolishness. ’Twas to be expected—Richard’s marriage, I mean. He is the king’s brother. We had an understanding all these years, but I did not consider how hard it would be to say good-bye.” Her voice rose again in anguish.

“Hush, hush, child. You do not want Jack and Thomas to come and see what ails you, do you? We shall talk about this as two sensible women and plan how you can best cope with your loss, and”—Margaret paused, staring knowingly at Kate’s waist—“your gain.”

Kate found herself smiling. “Aye, you guessed, as I knew you would. I used the sponge, just as you told me, but I fear I must not have used enough vinegar.”

“That’s better,” Margaret nodded. “’Tis not the end of the world, and you know Richard will provide for it.”

“Nay! He must not know, Margaret. He is newly wed, and he promised himself he would go to Anne with a clear conscience and our liaison behind him. ’Twould be cruel to tell him or to have her find out. She must acknowledge John and Katherine, everyone knows about them, but this one—this one will be for me.” A wistful expression settled on her puffy face. “No one but Molly—and now you—knows of this, Margaret. I beg of you, help me with this. I cannot tell Martin. He has been so good to me, and I know he would not turn me out, but I honor him too much to thrust another bastard upon him or cause the village to gossip.
I was so happy when he suggested I visit you, in truth. For you are my dearest friend, and”—she began to sniffle again—“I knew I could count on you to think of something.”

Margaret patted her hand firmly. “There, now, Kate. Do not begin again. You will see, unburdening yourself to me will help you bear this more readily. And while you are here, we will laugh and play with the children as we used to and come up with a plan, have no fear. ’Tis well you are not showing much. Have you been unwell?”

“Aye, this babe does not sit well with me. I had the morning sickness with all three, but never for so long as I have with this one. It could be it will not survive, and then all our worries will be at an end.”