“Come quickly, my dear. We have a visitor, and he is impatient to meet you.”
Philippa’s voice had an excitement to it Kate had not heard before. Her chamber was at the back of the house, and she had not noticed a horseman arrive in the stable yard, though she remembered hearing the dogs. She pushed her hair back under her cap, pulled on her soft leather shoes, and flew down the stairs with such speed that she missed the final step and fell straight into the visitor’s arms. Her hastily donned cap fell off her head and her hair spilled in all directions.
“I pray you d-do excuse me, sir!” Kate stuttered, as she looked up into the weather-beaten face and brilliant blue eyes of the master of the house. She gasped.
“Master Haute . . . I mean, Father . . . I beg your pardon! I did not mean . . .” She broke off, tongue-tied for once. She had imagined this moment many times in the past few weeks. She would greet him proudly as a woman and an equal, no longer a young girl without prospects. She had rehearsed a dignified “Well met, Father” or some such formal greeting that would surely impress him and make him glad she was one of the family.
Martin frowned as fiercely as he could and was mollified to see Kate’s usual bold demeanor leave her for an instant—he well remembered her character from their two previous encounters. She extracted herself from his steadying grasp, bobbed a dutiful curtsy, and lowered her eyes to the dust on his brown leather boots.
“So, this is George’s bride, our new daughter-in-law.” He smiled at Philippa over Kate’s bowed head. “I am happy to see how eager you are to get acquainted, Kate. But I doubt your race down the stairs would have won the approval of Dame Elinor, had she been alive to see it,” he teased, cupping her chin in his calloused hand and lifting her head. Kate saw that the frown had disappeared and a smile, buried in the fine hair of his beard, had taken its place. She gave an audible sigh of relief.
“Aye, sir. I doubt it would. I am right glad you are returned, sir. And your lady must be very happy.” She turned to Philippa, who was gazing adoringly at her husband. Martin stretched out his hand to his wife and touched her cheek. A pang of envy struck Kate, and she looked away.
After supper, as the candles guttered and the household yawned from a hard day’s work, Martin stretched out his long legs and surveyed his family. Philippa was busy wiping Robert’s upturned face with a napkin. Maud was winding a stray lock of hair around her finger and sucking her thumb. Kate was dipping her hands in the washbasin held by one of the servants. Martin slowly twirled his cup between his fingers.
“’Tis good to be home,” he murmured, and Philippa smiled. “The garrison at Calais is well stocked and as comfortable as it can be, but there is nothing like one’s own hearth and home. And a new daughter-in-law! Certes, what could be a nicer homecoming? Except perhaps to have been greeted by my son. Philippa, Kate, where is young George?—at Framlingham, I’ll be bound.”
Kate finished wiping her hands, looked at Philippa and understood she had not dared mention George to Martin yet. She held her breath, wondering if Philippa would lie. Her mother-in-law pulled at her nose and gave a noncommittal “hmmm” to the question, rising at the same time to signal the servants to begin clearing the tables. Maud slipped off her seat, shyly sidled up to her father and looked longingly at his lap. Her father set down his cup, bent down and swung her up onto his knee, where she blushed with pleasure and pointed to his hat. He removed the jaunty feather from the small jeweled pin in his hat and gave it to his curious daughter. Then he turned his attention on Philippa.
“Now, wife, what are you hiding from me? Where is young George? Is he not at Framlingham where he should be? Tell me true, is he in trouble?”
“Aye, our son is not at the castle. I know not where he is at this moment, husband. And that is the truth.” Philippa was direct but there was apprehension in her voice. She turned to Kate, who was trying to look invisible. “What of you, Kate? Know you where George is?”
Kate looked from one to the other as they waited patiently for her reply. “An it please you, Mother, he is with his friends in Lavenham this evening. He told me nothing more.” She lied. George had told her he was going to attend a cockfight and hoped to win a lot of money on it. Despite her rancor, she could not be disloyal to her husband.
“But why is he not at Framlingham!” Martin roared suddenly, and Kate was instantly reminded of another Haute man whose anger rose quickly. “I am beholden to Jack Howard for taking the boy on as squire and, God willing, knight. How dare he leave his patron’s service without his permission to go and wed Kate! I know he did not have his permission, for I saw Howard at Calais when the Mary Grace took shelter from a storm. He did not know about George’s contract with Kate, and so I know George lied to me about that in his pretty letter asking my leave to wed.” His cheeks flushed pink as he raged on.
Kate was shaking with fear now. Maud was beginning to whimper because Martin’s words were bellowed in her ear. Kate did not understand all the ramifications of being in service to a knight, and she alone knew for a fact that George had lied to everyone in order to get at her money. She was present in this house under false pretences, and she felt humiliated. She also understood that without her money, George’s father might not have given his consent to the marriage, despite her Haute connection.
“I . . . I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea of all this. George told me all was in order, and he showed me your letter giving us leave to marry. I thought everything was correct. But I see now that I have upset everyone . . . and perhaps am not welcome.” She stood and would have walked out had Philippa not risen and taken her by the hand, swinging Kate around to face her.
“Certes, you are welcome, my child! Martin did not mean to say you were not. He is justifiably angry at George’s deception, that is all. You must not mind my husband, for he is a good and generous man—most of the time.” She gave Martin an arched eyebrow. Martin responded with a loud “Harrumph,” leaned across Maud and drained his cup of ale.
“I will settle with George when he returns, do not fret about that.” He banged the vessel down on the table with his final word, but he softened as he addressed Kate. “Nay, Kate, ’tis not your fault. Sit by me and give me news of my kinsman Richard.”
Martin turned his attention to his wriggling daughter. He kissed Maud full on the lips, causing her to giggle and wipe her mouth involuntarily. She caught her mother’s eye and knew it was time for bed. Philippa led the two reluctant children from the hall.
“Tell me, daughter, is Richard well? And Anne? I heard she was wed early in the spring.”
“Aye, sir, Richard fares very well now that he has been named a member of the queen’s household. He is carver to the young Princess Elizabeth. He spends much time at court these days and leaves the running of Ightham to Anne and her husband, John. This very day, sir, I had a letter from Anne to say she is with child.”
Kate was no longer afraid and rattled off the news. Once again Martin was fascinated by this young woman and envied his son his bed. His lustful idea instantly shamed him as he thought of Philippa and the loving she would give him later that night in their own soft bed. He did not hear Kate’s next remark.
“Would you like for me to sing to you, Father? I have my harp at hand and would be happy to entertain you.” She looked expectantly at him. She hoped that by singing she would not have to answer any more awkward questions about George.
“What? What did you say, my dear? I fear sleep is catching up with me, and my mind drifted for a moment.”
“Would you like me to sing to you?” Kate repeated. “But perhaps, as you are tired, ’twould not be a good time.”
“Nay, Kate, ’twould be a capital time. I remember your song at Westminster. It was very beautiful. Can you sing that one for me now?” Martin was cheered.
Kate ran swiftly through to the solar and unwrapped the harp from its velvet cover. She returned carrying both the instrument and her favorite three-legged stool and sat down a few feet from Martin’s outstretched legs
. The dulcet notes wafted over him, and he closed his eyes to listen more closely as she began to sing.
Neither of them noticed George creep past the doorway at the far end of the room, his eyes riveted on Martin’s inert form in the chair, thankful that his father appeared to be asleep. He made it to the staircase and started up, knowing he would be invisible in a few seconds. But he had forgotten about the third stair. Its ominous creak sounded like a tree branch cracking under a heavy weight. George froze, hoping the music had covered it. But his bad luck at the cockfight still dogged him. He stared glumly into his father’s glittering eyes, now very wide open and boring into his, and his shoulders sagged in resignation. Kate turned to see what had caught Martin’s attention and folded the harp to her when she saw her dejected husband.
“George! Come here, sirrah! What craven have I sired that you creep about and avoid your father? By Christ, you had better have some fair explanation for your conduct before I whip you to within a hair’s breadth of your life.”
Martin rose imperiously from his chair, sleep chased from him. He looked every inch the soldier: his back straight, his fists clenched at his sides, his head thrown back, ready to do battle. He pointed to a spot a few feet from him.
“Do you come here, boy, or do I have to pluck you from your perch?”
George shrank back against the wall, the bread he had taken from the kitchen now a doughy mass in his sweating palms, and slowly descended the two last steps like a crab. Kate quietly rose from her stool, picked it up and walked past George without even looking at him.
“Kate!” he whispered, “help me! Please!”
“I will see you upstairs, husband” was all she said and left father and son facing each other in the rushlight.
Martin waited until Kate had returned her harp to its proper place and mounted the stairs before he directed his attention to George. He could not see Kate sit down on the top stair to eavesdrop. Martin railed at George for several minutes, and Kate could hear him pace up and down on the rushes. George’s responses were barely audible.
“No, sir.” “I don’t know, sir.” “I thought . . .” “If it please you, Father . . .” He stammered his apologies, but Martin was not to be appeased. His reputation with John Howard was now seriously damaged, he told his son, and he feared George might not be able to return to his duties at Framlingham, so displeased Howard must be.
“He is now in residence at Tendring Hall, I know. Tomorrow we shall ride to see him and hope he will give you another chance. Maybe we shall take Kate with us. He has an interest in her, so it seems, and he may take pity on her, if not you,” Martin finished with disgust. “Now get you gone from my sight. You reek of wine, your hair resembles a haystack and your cote is soiled. I pity my poor daughter having you for a bedfellow.”
George bowed stiffly, turned on his heel and fled from the room, arriving breathless at the bedchamber seconds behind Kate, who had picked up her skirts as she heard the dismissal and run on tiptoe to their room. Molly was nonchalantly hanging Kate’s hastily thrown off gown on a peg when George pushed open the door and leaned his back heavily on it as he shut it, like a fugitive protecting himself from certain death.
“Get you to bed, Molly,” he said curtly, and began unbuttoning his doublet. Molly pulled the truckle bed out from under the tester bed and dragged it to the farthest corner of the room.
“I have not finished with Molly yet.” Kate went to the polished copper mirror and held out her comb to Molly. The maid hurried over and began relieving Kate’s head of the tiresome hairpins and untangling a few knots with deft fingers and the comb. George uttered some expletive as he fumbled with his hose points and wondered where Gareth was.
“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.
A Rose for the Crown: A Novel Page 22
