A Rose for the Crown (82 page)

W
HEN THE GORSE BUSHES
were a glorious gold and the hawthorn splashed the fields with their pink and white blossoms a month after
Clarence’s death, Margaret made her first visit to Chelsworth. Jack was in France again. Edward had sent him on yet another diplomatic mission. His time as a hostage in Paris had given him credibility at the French court, and Edward trusted him implicitly.

“’Tis pleasant to have the king’s trust, dear Kate, but I would as lief have Jack home with me,” Margaret confided to her friend one evening as Kate demonstrated her newfound skill at the loom. Margaret absently fingered the finished fabric. “He has been gone three times in the last year, and he never takes me with him.”

“Do I understand Jack was not in London at the time of Clarence’s execution, then, Margaret?”

Kate was unprepared for the response to her innocent question. “No he was
not.
He was sent to France two days after Twelfth Night. Imagine, he had to cross the seas in that inclement weather. And we now know why, do we not?” Margaret was clearly angry. Kate shook her head and tried not to smile at this picture of indignation. “’Twas to have him out of the way for the Mowbray wedding! The king generously bestowed on his son what might have been Jack’s one day—the duchy of Norfolk. God’s nails, the child is already duke of York. What could he want with this dukedom as well, answer me
that!”

Kate rose from her stool, guided the red-faced Margaret to a chair, and sat her down. She poured some wine for both of them and then sat herself down on a footstool. “Calm yourself, Margaret. You will boil your brain if you rail so. I see why this has upset you so, but what can you do about it? ’Tis for the king to command.”

“Aye, you are right, more’s the pity.” Margaret shrugged. She saw Kate’s raised eyebrow and said, “I know, I know! I promise I will drop the subject. Now, pray give me news of your children—all three of them.”

Margaret watched her young friend glow with pride as she talked about John’s progress in writing and Katherine’s happiness in her new home. However, a sadness crept into Kate’s voice when she spoke of Dickon. “I know very little, Margaret, and it pains me greatly. However, ’twas my decision to allow Johnny and his wife to take charge of him. I still have bad dreams about the poor child, and I have tried to make my peace with God for leaving him. I believe my penance is this sadness that is my daily burden. To answer your question, Geoff tells me the boy is
not big, has my color in hair and eyes and happily embraces Johnny and Margery as his father and mother. He has a ‘brother’ now. Do you not think ’tis droll that he is called John?”

“Shall you ever tell him you are his mother?” Margaret was fascinated. She admired Kate’s insistence that this child be raised as if one of the Bywoods’ own and yet disapproved of her action to deprive him of his real mother and his place in a higher echelon of life. She had not dreamed, when she encouraged Kate to go to Kent in the last months of her pregnancy, that the young woman would make the choices she had.

“The child is happy where he is, Margaret. Perhaps one day the truth will be told him. We shall see.” And that was all she would say.

A
TRIP TO
L
AVENHAM
was always something to anticipate with pleasure. Martin had business with his lawyer, and although he could have summoned the man to Haute Manor, any excuse to see his grandchildren was welcomed. Kate accompanied him, with Simon leading a packhorse loaded with cloth Kate had woven. She found immense satisfaction in weaving, unlike the hated embroidery. For a year after Philippa’s death the loom had stood idle, a cobwebbed reminder of its deceased owner. Philippa had shown Kate how to use it, but she was so skilled and could turn out a length of cloth so quickly that Kate was content just to spin the thread that fed Philippa’s flying fingers. When Martin suggested Kate might help augment the family income by making cloth for the Jacob shop, she said she was willing to try, and to her surprise, she found she enjoyed the occupation. In the next few years, Kate’s proficiency progressed to the point at which she could deliver several bolts of cloth to the Jacobs in a month. One such load was being delivered this day in August of 1479.

A stoat ran across their path, its dark brown fur shining silver in the sun. Indeed, the sun had shone on the land for too long, and the crops were badly in need of rain. Flies buzzed around the horses’ heads, and Martin swatted at them impatiently. A cloud of dust accompanied them all the way, parching their throats and sticking to their perspiring faces, until the cobblestone streets of the town were reached. The stench of effluence was riper than usual. It rotted in alleyways and in piles next to doorways. The carters who were required to rid the town of its refuse
were nowhere to be seen. Few children were out playing in the hot sun, and even the beggars hid themselves in shady spots and were too lethargic to solicit alms. Dry, hacking coughs were borne on the fetid air, floating through casements to the street below. Martin frowned. He had heard coughing like that in Calais when he was garrisoned there. He said nothing but urged his horse faster to the Jacob courtyard on Shilling Street. He had sent a message with a carter passing through Chelsworth earlier in the week to say he and Kate would be paying a visit. He was surprised when no one came to take their horses.

“Ho, there!” he called, as he slipped his stirrup and gingerly eased his foot to the ground. He cursed that he was no longer nimble and an hour in the saddle stressed his joints. A face appeared at an upstairs window. It was Magdalena. She opened the casement.

“Go you home, please! Much sickness here,” she cried in her broken English. Then she said the word Martin had dreaded: “Plague.”

“Plague!” Kate cried. “Sweet Jesu, are you ailing, Magdalena? The children?” She thanked God Maud had been sent to Ightham a year since.

Magdalena wrung her hands. “Grandfadder Adam is bad, Kate. And Grandmudder Amelia also. I much afraid.”

Without thinking, Kate clambered out of her saddle and slithered to the ground. Martin put his hand out and grabbed her by the arm.

“Nay, Kate! I forbid you to enter. ’Tis too dangerous. We do not want to take plague to Chelsworth.”

“Fiddle-faddle, Father! We cannot let our family die without our help.” She wrenched herself from his grasp. “Perhaps we can take the children home with us, if they are untainted.”

As long as I do not touch the boils, I should be safe, Kate thought as she wound strips torn from a piece of cloth around her fingers. She protected Martin’s hands and persuaded him to enter the house with her. The first thing she did was to open all the windows. Even with the outside air so hot, she thought it might decrease the stench inside. It was obvious the servants had for the most part deserted their masters, and no one had bothered to empty the chamber pots for days.

Magdalena met them at the foot of the stairs. She looked frightened but otherwise healthy. Kate was glad to see she was wearing gloves.

“How long have they been ill, Magdalena?” Martin asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell in the house.

“Tree . . . four days maybe. Master Jacob go to London and come back like dis. But many peoples in de town sick also. Oh, vat I do, Father Haute? Martin go to Calais last veek. Not here. De children, I am afraid for de children.” Her tiny body was trembling. Kate put her arm around her.

“Where are they—the children, I mean? Are you sure they are not ill?”

“Nay. I keep safe in my room since Father Jacob come home. He not see dem.”

“Good. Now take us to the Jacobs,” Martin instructed.

Adam and Amelia lay side by side in their tester bed. Adam was thrashing his arms about and moaning, while Amelia lay as still as an effigy. An angry boil was visible in Adam’s armpit, blackish-purple and pus-laden. If it burst and released the poison, chances were the victim lived. But if it turned inward and spread the infection internally, a person would surely die. Magdalena whispered that Amelia’s buboes were just beginning, and when she was awake, she coughed incessantly. She had tired herself out with coughing and had fallen asleep moments before Kate and Martin had arrived. Kate took a wet cloth from the basin at the bedside and gently wiped Adam’s forehead. His face was bright with fever and his eyes glittered. He did not recognize Kate and tried to push her away. She moistened his parched lips with the wet cloth and sent Magdalena to get him something to drink.

“Hush, Grandfather. ’Tis only Kate. I am here to help. You will get well, you’ll see.”

Martin went to Amelia’s side and unwound his bandages to feel her head. It, too, was dry and hot, but she did not stir at his touch.

“Father, have a care! Do not touch her skin, I beg of you!” Kate whispered.

After doing what they could for the couple, they closed the door to the bedchamber and all stood quietly outside.

“I have decided that you shall take Magdalena and the children to Haute Manor, Kate. I will stay here and take care of Adam and Amelia.
You are all young, and I am at the end of my time . . .” He trailed off as Kate glared at him.

“Father, I will not listen to such nonsense. I would not dream of leaving you here. We shall find someone to take care of them—there must be someone who has survived the sickness and is not in danger.”

“Kate! For once in your life listen to your elders. I have allowed you to disregard me too often of late. I am your father and you will obey me, do you hear!” Martin was not angry, but he was firm.

Kate was surprised to be thus thwarted, for indeed she had had her own way with him over household matters for some time. She opened her mouth to say something else, thought better of it and clamped it shut. “As you wish, Father,” she muttered.

Magdalena trembled, alarmed by Kate’s indifference to Martin’s status as head of the family. She would not have thought to speak to him as Kate often did.

Kate took her hand. “Come, Magdalena, please get the children ready to go to Chelsworth. I shall visit the apothecary and get some theriac for you, Father. ’Tis certainly too late for the Jacobs, but it may protect you. I shall need money—a lot of it.” Martin gave her his money pouch, and she was down the stairs in a trice.

When the children were in the courtyard with Magdalena, Kate returned with a tiny amount of theriac. Its treacly consistency was to be mixed with rose water or wine. Made from mashed aged snakeskin somewhere in the East, it was the most valuable of all potions. In a rich town such as Lavenham, she was not surprised that the apothecary had an adequate supply. She found Martin in the bedchamber and gave him instructions on taking the medicine. He promised her he would wait long enough to be sure he was free of the sickness before returning home.

“But if something should happen to me, my dear. I pray you make yourself known to Master Poynter, my lawyer.” Kate briefly wondered if Master Poynter would connect her with the veiled woman seeking an annulment all those years past. “My will is in order, and you will be allowed to remain at Haute Manor for as long as you wish. You have been a merry companion, Kate, and ’twas a happy day when George brought you into our lives. Nay, do not weep, daughter. I do not expect to die, but
’tis possible. Give my love to Young Martin and Maud. My will provides for both of them, and my wishes for Maud’s future are laid out. Come, let me kiss you.”

Kate offered a wet face and Martin kissed her. As she turned to go, a rat scuttled out from under the bed, and Martin kicked at it. “Disgusting creature.”

“God is my witness to your kindness, Father,” she said from the doorway. “I shall pray to him that you return to us whole.” She took his face in her hands and felt the soft beard under her fingers. “I have loved you more even than my own father. I shall take care of Magdalena and the children until Young Martin’s return. God keep you.”

She stumbled as she turned to take the stair rail, and Martin caught her to him. They embraced for a moment, achingly aware they might never meet again, then he released her, and she ran down the stairs without a backward glance.

A
MONTH LATER
, a lone horseman turned into the courtyard of Haute Manor. Wat and Simon were clearing the stable to bring in the fresh hay for the winter ahead. The rains had finally let loose on the parched ground, but not before the meager harvest had been cut and stacked. Apple-picking was in full swing, and every available man, woman and child helped. All the apples on the ground were salvaged as well. Kate and Magdalena were in the small orchard, their overskirts tucked into their belts, culling the best fruit for eating and throwing the rest into vats to be pressed for cider. Molly was up a ladder, loading the basket, and the two Haute grandchildren were playing tag at the foot of the tree.

Wat saw Martin first. He crossed himself, certain he was seeing a ghost. He nudged Simon, who glanced up. A look of disbelief suffused his face.

“Master! We did think you dead,” Wat said. He ran to the horse, grabbed the bridle and looked into the haggard face with its unkempt beard and overgrown hair. Only Martin’s piercing eyes showed the spark of life still left in him.

“Nay, Wat. ’Twas a near thing though—a damn near thing. Where is Dame Katherine, pray?”

“She be with Molly, picking apples, sir,” Simon said, creeping forward. He was unconvinced Martin was not a spirit. He put his finger out and poked the horse, giving a sigh of relief. “Sure, it be real!”