A Rose for the Crown (97 page)

Kate, whose recent loss meant tears were never far, listened to the cheers and turned her head away so that no one would notice them. The company slept under the stars that night, wrapped in their cloaks. It was still and warm. Kate lay listening to the snores and grunts, low talking and laughing, clinking of tin cups and crackling firewood and knew for a brief moment the camaraderie of an army before battle. She shivered, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The bloodied knight of her dream lifted his visor, and she awoke with a cry. She had clearly recognized Richard’s face, despite several wounds,
and his eyes were wide and staring. She sat up and clutched her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, trying to eradicate the memory of the dream. Please God, don’t let Richard die, she prayed. He is the rightful king. He is Your anointed!

All was still around her, although Edith stirred and stopped snoring for a minute. Kate stood up and stepped over sleeping men to reach the hedgerow. Thanks to the light from the stars, she found a gap into the lane and gratefully relieved herself behind the leafy screen. She wanted to walk, to run away from the nightmare, but she curbed her impulse and went back to her cloak. After offering prayers for Katherine’s soul and Richard’s safety, she went back to sleep.

T
HEY ENTERED
L
EICESTER
through the east gate on the fourth day and asked the way to Master Roger Wygston’s house. The streets were not as crowded as in Cambridge, but Kate saw groups of men in different liveries idling in the market square and outside taverns, waiting for the king’s main force to arrive. She was happy she was ahead of it. The lanes were narrow and winding and many went in circles, adding to the confusion. Within the city walls, Leicester boasted a castle, a hospital, several fine churches, a monastery and chapel of the Grey Friars. Close by the Wygston house were the impressive guildhall and St. Martin’s church.

Roger Wygston and his wife welcomed Kate as Philippa’s daughter-in-law. Adam Jacob and Roger, both successful wool merchants, had met each other at a guild meeting in London many years ago, and each had visited the other over the years. Young Martin had spoken of Roger to Kate and had said the Jacob family would always find a welcome there in Leicester. The house was new and very large. Roger was anticipating having to house some overflow gentry from the castle once the king arrived, but he gave Kate and Edith the tester bed in his daughters’ chamber. Kate was grateful to be lodged comfortably. She knew she might have had to endure sleeping on straw with many others in an overcrowded inn.

The following day, she and Edith explored the Newarke, visiting St. Mary de Castro’s beautiful interior and walking along the Soar riverbank and onto the marshy islands. Fields as far as the eye could see rolled off to the west; Leicestershire was a rich agricultural county, and Kate understood
why. Barley, wheat and pulse fields were juxtaposed with sheep-and cattle-grazing meadows as far as the eye could see. However, as thriving as the region seemed to be, Leicester was mired in an older time of one-roomed cottages, unpaved streets and lack of sanitation. Animals roamed freely, and Kate had to fight off a tenacious goat that was determined to eat her dangling sleeve. As the two women headed back past the castle, an odd sound attracted their attention. Others stopped and turned their heads towards it, puzzled. The thrumming swelled and with it a noise like coins jingling in a purse or the contents of a tinker’s cart jangling over cobblestones.

“’Tis the king’s army!” a man shouted. “King Richard is here!”

A cheer went up, and as the news was passed from street to street, more cheering erupted. Kate felt her skin thrill to the trumpets, shawms and drums. She took Edith’s hand, and they ran to a grassy mound opposite the entryway to the castle and waited. Several others joined them at this vantage spot, excited to see their king. It would not be the first time, for Richard had journeyed through Leicester more than once during his short reign.

“Poor lamb, lost his wife and his young son all in a year,” one woman told her companion. “And now like a pestilence, this rat Richmond sneaks over from Brittany to inflict himself on us and add to King Richard’s woes.”

“I hope he sends the invader packing!” a man answered. “I have no quarrel with Richard. Seems honest enough—for a lord.”

These tidbits warmed Kate’s heart. How can Richard lose, she wondered, when he has the common people on his side? The roaring crowd helped foster this conviction, and when the cavalcade turned into Church Lane and rode in front of her, she found herself shouting as loudly as the rest, “God save King Richard!”

Richard had put his moroseness aside, Kate could see. He smiled and waved at the people lining the lane and accepted a posy of poppies and daisies from a child who ran forward unafraid. Before he disappeared through the archway and into the castle yard, he turned and urged his horse up onto its hind legs. White Surrey, the big courser on which Richard would ride into battle, snorted and pawed the air. Its rider doffed his hat and flourished it about his head.

“I thank you for your welcome, good people of Leicester!” he cried. “God’s blessing on your fair city!”

He whirled White Surrey round as easily as if the warhorse were naught but a pony and cantered into the castle yard. It was then that Kate saw John. He was riding alongside Francis, wearing the badge of Lovell on his sleeve. Kate was torn between attracting John’s attention and not drawing it on herself. She chose to remain silent, and John followed his lord into the courtyard. She was then struck by such a hideous thought that she groaned aloud. Edith stopped talking and put her hand on Kate’s arm.

“Are you well, madam? How foolish of me to chatter so when you must still be sick with grief. I beg you to forgive me.”

“Nay, Edith, ’tis I who should beg your forgiveness. I am afraid I was not listening to you but listening to dark thoughts of my own making. I saw my son in the king’s train. It had not occurred to me he might go into battle. He is only fifteen. I cannot believe they will allow him to fight.”

The narrow streets were thick with soldiers now. The two women held tight to each other’s hands so as not to be separated, eventually reaching the Wygston door. Kate sent a servant for parchment, quill and ink and, armed with these, mounted the stairs to her chamber. An hour later, the same servant was pushing his way through the throng and along Church Lane to the castle. Secured in his jacket was a letter addressed to his grace, King Richard of England. His instructions were to seek Sir Robert Percy and deliver the letter into his hands alone with a message it was from Dame Katherine Haute.

Tucked inside the letter once again was her precious gold ring.

A
LL DAY LONG
, the tramp of soldiers’ feet and chinking of metal dominated the sounds of the city, drowning out the vendors’ cries from the Saturday Market Place. Kate waited in her room, listening.

It was John who came to take her to Richard. The lady of the house was surprised and flustered when he was announced, for she knew John of Gloucester was the king’s bastard. She was even more surprised when her houseguest was picked up bodily by the young man and covered with kisses. She withdrew discreetly, knowing it was none of her business,
although she was consumed with curiosity. Surely, they were not lovers. Mistress Haute was old enough to be the youth’s mother. . . . And then she knew. She hugged her secret and went back to her work.

“What are you doing here, Mother? I did not take you for a camp-following wanton.” When John saw Kate was not smiling, he apologized. “I am truly sorry, Mother, ’twas rude of me. I am here to take you to Father. He will see you within the hour.”

“’Tis good of him. I did not think to see you here, John. I thought you safe at Middleham or Pontefract. I should have guessed that as Francis’ squire, you would be here. Will you . . . I mean, are you expected to . . .”

“Fight? Nay, I will arm Lord Lovell and stay behind the lines with the other squires. I begged him to let me fight, and I even begged Father. But they both refused permission. I am too young,” he groused.

Kate said, holding his hand to her cheek, “I am glad, my son, very glad, for I could not bear to lose two of my children in the space of as many weeks.”

“What are you saying, Mother? What has happened to Katherine?” He snatched his hand from her and gripped her shoulders. “Is she . . . is she . . . ? ”

“Aye, John, your sister is dead. God rest her soul. ’Tis not a good time to be a bearer of bad tidings, but I must tell your father myself.”

John bit his lip, his eyes full of tears. His self-control was admirable, she thought; the blood on his lip told of his valiant attempt not to cry. He choked on his one-word question: “How?”

She told him and held him as he finally succumbed to bravely disguised sobs. After some minutes, she pulled him to his feet. “Come, lead me to the king. The walk will serve us both well.”

A few soldiers recognized John and bowed as he walked by. However, many were well on the way to getting drunk and made ribald remarks as they passed.

“She be old enough to be your mother, baby boy!” one bold yeoman called. “He must like the experienced ones, comrades!” He laughed uproariously, rotating his lips lewdly. However, his stomach objected to the violent movement, and he promptly lost whatever jugs of ale he had consumed onto the dirt, spattering the hem of Kate’s gown with his vomit.

John leapt at the fellow, grabbing him by the neck. “She
is
my mother, you puking, onion-eyed maggot,” he snarled, unsheathing his dagger. “Apologize, or I’ll cut that batfowling tongue out of your head!”

“John! I beg of you, keep your temper,” Kate entreated. They were beginning to draw a crowd, and all she desired was to see Richard at the appointed time. “Leave him alone. The king has need of every last soldier he can muster, even drunken ones. Come, we must hurry!”

John threw the man down into his own foul-smelling mess, replaced his knife and took Kate’s arm again. He strode away, making Kate run to keep up with him.

“I see you have your father’s temper now that you are a man. That used to be Katherine’s domain, remember.”

“Aye, I remember.”

They walked on in silence, both with their own memories of Katherine.

Rob met them in the great hall. So anxious was Kate now to see Richard that she barely noticed her magnificent high-beamed surroundings or the hustle and bustle of knights and advisors preparing for battle. Her courage was beginning to fail her. Perhaps she should have waited until after Richard had routed Richmond’s army. Was she doing the right thing? It was too late now. Her cryptic note had imparted nothing of her mission. She had simply begged him to see her with all speed. He had acquiesced, as she knew he would. She kissed John, and he left to check on his lord’s armor for the thousandth time. A familiar figure stopped to give him a “good morrow” and slap on the shoulder. It was Jack. Kate excused herself and ran to greet him.

“Your fears were for naught, Jack Howard! I am here safe and sound.”

“I am happy to see you, Kate. On your way to the king? He is in another of his foul humors. Beware. He has just received word from Master Fencesitter—Thomas Stanley, that is—who begged leave to go home for personal reasons not two months ago and has now begged Richard’s indulgence yet again. Why Richard let him and Morton free after the Hastings affair, I cannot understand. He says he cannot join with us at present for he is ailing. God’s bones, the man needs to feel my boot on his neck. I would crush his gullet like a sparrow’s! It will cost Richard several thousand men if he does not come.”

“Surely your numbers are greater than Richmond’s? Who fights with him?”

“Henry fights with two thousand French, three thousand other exiles, and those he has wooed to his flag since his arrival—we know not how many. Aye, we have the greater numbers, but we cannot now count on Lord Stanley, and ’tis said his brother, William, intends to turn his coat as well. Then there is Percy—Northumberland”—he had lowered his voice to a murmur—“who is here, but who knows . . . He has not forgotten that the house of York disgraced his family those many years ago.” He looked about him and said more loudly, “’Tis good that you are here. You are the only one who gives him comfort anymore.”

“Aye, and I must go. God keep you, Jack. Return to Tendring whole, I beg of you. I shall pray for you all.” She reached up and kissed his cheek, giving him an extra squeeze for good measure. She should not worry about Jack, she thought, seasoned soldier that he was. But still . . .

Rob took her to Richard’s private chamber, where he was busily dictating letters to John Kendall, his secretary.

“You may leave us, Rob, John. I thank you.”

Kate sank into a deep curtsy and remained there until both men retired and closed the door. She walked slowly to him, a flush mounting as he gave her one of his sweet smiles. His temper had cooled, it seemed. “I think I shall have to claim this ring now, Kate. I am in possession of it almost as much as you are. God’s greeting, lady. You are a sight for sore eyes.”

He was forcing the lighthearted banter, she could see, and she loved him for it. However, his eyes told the real story. Dark hollows around them revealed he was not sleeping, and their dullness spoke of the suffering of the last eighteen months. The deepened furrows in his thirty-one-year-old brow represented the anxiety he had endured from the mounting tension and the eventual invasion by Henry Tudor.