“In November, I think. Nine months from February is November by my counting,” Kate said innocently.
“Aye, November. A gift from St. Valentine! And have you written to tell George? George a father! Certes, ’tis hard to believe. Could be it will curb his wayward spirit.”
Kate chose not to respond.
A WEEK FOLLOWING the visit to Lavenham, Kate was planting seeds in the herb garden, her skirts tucked into her girdle and her feet into clogs. Molly came running from the house with a letter, and Kate guessed from her expression that it was from Tendring. Wat must have carried it, Kate thought with a smile. She thanked Molly and told her to fetch ale and bread for Wat.
“But that is all, mind,” she called after the flying figure. “For I shall want Wat to return to Tendring immediately.”
Her fingers fumbled as she broke the seal, so she sent up a prayer to St. Paul, who, she remembered, wrote many letters. Her supplication was rewarded when a folded letter slipped out of Margaret’s covering note. She ached to tear it open, for she was certain it was from Richard. Instead, she tucked it into her bodice and read Margaret’s first.
“My dearest Kate, I am sending this as fast as I can. I pray it is good news of our mutual friend. I yearn for your company, and I know Cat misses your music. I await your response and will pass it to Howard as arranged. I wish you well with your penmanship! Blessings and love from your friend, Margaret Howard.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, Kate called to Philippa, who was weeding at the other end of the bed, that she would be back in a while.
Philippa nodded. “Who is the letter from, Kate? I hope ’tis not bad news.”
“Nay, ’tis from Margaret. She misses me and asks that I send a response with Wat.”
“Then you could be a merry while, daughter,” Philippa teased.
Seated in a chair by the open window of her chamber, Kate pulled out the second letter and examined the outside. The parchment was fine and the seal impressive. More impressive was the small, ordered handwriting of the address, which revealed a disciplined, careful mind. She broke open the seal and smoothed out the folds. Her heart leapt as she read the first words: “My rose, my own true love.”
She read them again, whispering the words reverently, and then read on.
“’Tis many weeks since we were together at Tendring, and I regret this late letter. My days are filled but are empty without you. I would rather be hawking with you in the woods at Nayland or lying there with you again. My soul aches for you, and my body cries out to own you.
“Send me word, I beg you. I cherish every sweet memory together and will soon come to you. Until then, I remain your everloving—”
He had signed it. “R. Gloucester” but then inked it out and written simply, “Richard.”
For a first love letter, Richard had done well! Kate marveled at his openness and felt proud she had won such a man’s heart. She wondered fleetingly if he would be angered or pleased that she was carrying his child, but she had no compunction about telling him. She ran down to the solar; she could still see Philippa in the garden. The room was deserted, so she sat down at the table and began sharpening a quill, thinking about her reply. She took a parchment off the pile and dipped the end of the quill in the inkwell.
“God’s bones!” she cursed as the first stroke she made splattered ink across the page. She blotted it as best she could with the pummice bag and tried again.
“My dearest love,
“I too yearn to be with you again. And more so now that I am with child by you. ’Tis a joy I find hard to describe, but I pray you will feel it, too. My mother Haute knows, but she believes it to be her son’s. Tell me what more I should do. And when I shall see you. You are with me awake and in my dreams, my love, mon âme.”
Kate was pleased she remembered the French word for soul. It made her feel more like Richard’s equal.
“And fear not, for I am well. Your faithful Kate.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as she underlined her name with a flourish. Perhaps writing would come more easily to her now that she had a reason to use the skill. She used the pummice bag carefully, folded the vellum and took a candle over to the tinderbox to light. She held the flame to the block of sealing wax and aimed for the center of the fold. Removing Richard’s ring, she rolled it quickly across the hot sealant, hoping he would recognize it. Then she remembered she must respond to Margaret and enclose Richard’s letter, as arranged. She grimaced as she picked off another piece of parchment and started anew.
Soon Wat was galloping over the bridge and up the hill with her packet, and she sauntered back to the herb garden to join Philippa.
THE FIELDS AROUND CHELSWORTH were bursting with life. Lambs frisked around their dams. Horses plodded up and down furrows, dragging field hands at the ends of the ploughs. Farmers held baskets in the crook of their arms and flung the seed onto the overturned earth. April was in full bloom. The bright green grass was a brilliant backdrop for pale yellow primroses and cowslips or sky-blue periwinkles and the darker bugle. On the heaths, the gorse and broom drew the eye to their golden blossoms in full glory. The air smelled of spring and was filled with birdsong and bleating.
This year, Kate felt a part of nature’s renewal, and every day she rejoiced in her pregnancy. All the maternal instincts that had been with her while caring for little Matty and then Robert and Maud were centered on the tiny being inside her. She had already decided to call the baby John, if it was a boy. It seemed fitting to name her son in her father’s memory. She hoped Richard would agree, though she was certain it would not be an important decision for him, given that the child would be a bastard. However, she was determined to pass the child off as George’s and prayed her husband would agree to play father in exchange for her silence.
It was midafternoon and Young Martin was expected home. Kate could hear Maud’s high-pitched voice somewhere in the garden, followed by her mother’s laugh. Philippa was awaiting her eldest son’s arrival with impatience. Kate had rarely seen her mother-in-law in such good spirits, even before Robert’s death.
“You do not talk about Martin very much, Mother,” Kate had said one evening when the two were sitting by the fire and getting to know each other. “George does not talk of him at all. I thought perhaps he was a black sheep.”
Philippa laughed and then looked wistful. “As a mother, Kate, you will learn not to become too sentimental about your children.”
“Tell me about Martin, Mother, I beg of you. I imagine him a taller version of George.”
“Nay, Kate. Young Martin has not George’s stature, even though he is three years older. My father, Adam Jacob, has entrusted some of his business to Martin in Calais. You should know ’tis in Calais that the wool and cloth is traded from England. Martin showed a fascination for the trade from a young age.” Philippa explained that when Martin took his son to Calais for a spell, the boy had so impressed Adam’s partner there that Martin made the decision to leave Young Martin with him to learn more. “So it was that Young Martin was taken from me without even a proper farewell. I think on him daily, and he is always in my prayers, but I cannot be sentimental. Children are taken from you—one way or another. After all, they are God’s children first.”
Now Kate ran lightly up to her room to change her plain cap for a more elaborate headcovering. She wanted to look her best for Young Martin’s homecoming and his first chance to see George’s wife. Then she went to find Philippa and Maud in the garden.
“Ho, there! Philippa, Maud, Kate! Our son is home!” Martin’s voice carried across the river, and the two women each took one of Maud’s hands and flew her down the path to the riverbank to wave as the men wheeled their horses around and cantered to the bridge.
In a very few minutes, Martin, his son, and Simon rode into the yard, dogs barking around them. Philippa opened wide her arms and her son went into them, kissing her heartily on both cheeks and then on the lips. He swept little Maud off her feet and threw
her up into the air as if she were a down pillow, causing her to squeal with delight. He was a good-looking man with a smile that reached his eyes and spoke of a warm, friendly nature.
“Ah, this must be Kate, my new sister.” He returned Maud to the ground and greeted Kate. “We meet at last. Right welcome, Kate!”
“And you, brother!” She was warmly embraced and held at arm’s length to be inspected.
“Aye, Mother, you were right. George has found a beauty. Lucky George!”
“Fiddle-faddle! Your mother exaggerated. I am sure you must see more beautiful women in Calais than in Chelsworth. You are just being kind, sir.”
“And right again, Mother. I see my sister does indeed have a quick tongue in her head! No bad thing for George, I’ll warrant.” He released Kate and turned back to his mother and father.
“Being a father will be no bad thing for George either.” Martin laughed and winked at Kate, who lowered her eyes and blushed at her father-in-law’s implication.
Young Martin’s eyes widened, and he slapped his thigh with his glove. “Certes, I am to be an uncle! ’Tis good news indeed. And you, Maud, you will be an aunt!” He took Maud’s hand. The little girl looked puzzled, and her family laughed at her.
* * *
THE NEXT DAYS FLEW BY. Young Martin held his audience captive with tales of his eighteen months in the staple town. He left out the brawls he had seen—or been involved in—and the couple of brothels he had frequented. He painted pictures of business deals, important visitors, ships and storms, fairs and festivals until Kate could swear she had been by his side the whole time. One evening, he invited her to walk with him as the daylight faded and the burgeoning trees were cast in a golden light.
“Kate, I must talk with you about my brother.” He began a little hesitantly, but Kate encouraged him to continue. “My father told me of George’s deceit with regard to your betrothal and that Howard pardoned him. I saw George, albeit briefly, when he was in France with Sir John in November. He was his usual self with me—that is to say, uncommunicative and sullen. He bears me jealousies, I know, and I am sorry for him. But dare I ask if he has treated you with . . . respect?”
Young Martin turned anxiously to her. Kate looked into his eyes and saw immediately that he suspected George’s character but doubted he knew of George’s leanings. She kept her word to George and said nothing. Instead, she sighed and nodded.
“Have no fear, brother, I am not such a ninny as to allow George to mistreat me. He is more difficult than I was led to expect from our first meetings, but we go along well enough.” She changed the subject. “Has anyone told you of the house Sir John would give us? He will move it from Sir Anthony’s acreage here to Tendring park in these next months.”
Martin had been astonished when his father had told him about Sir John’s offer. It was explained that it had more to do with Margaret’s fondness for Kate and her wishing Kate to be nearer her than with George’s value to Sir John.
“I know my mother will miss you when you are gone. She told me you are of great comfort to her during our father’s long absences and that you were so kind during Robert’s tragic ordeal. I thank you for that.” He picked up her hand and brushed it with his lips.
“I believe your mother suffered more than Robert did. I do not know what I should do if my babe does not survive me.” Kate put her hand on her stomach tenderly. “I cherish the child already and it is not even born.”
Young Martin looked fondly at her. “I hope to be as fortunate as George is in a wife, Kate. I wish I would meet her soon.”
“Oftimes ’tis better not to meet the person before you are wed, Martin. For she may not turn out to be exactly what you dreamed,” Kate said softly.
“BY WHOM, MAY I ASK?” George shouted at her, his words tossed over the river by a strong gust of wind. A storm was brewing, Kate could tell.
“Nay, you may not ask! Just as I would not ask how many others you have bedded besides the groom!” Kate flung back, holding on to her cap with one hand and her skirts with the other.
They faced each other on the riverbank not far from the spot where George had made his confession to her in September. The slate sky sent forth a few warning drops splattering into the stream, and the wind turned the leaves over, their silvery backs a sure sign of rain.
“You will tell me, wife, or I shall beat it out of you!” George’s brow was thunderous, his voice splitting the air. “I have the right, you know.”
“Aye, I know you may beat me. I also know you will not because you are not only unmanly, you are a coward!” She spat the last at him, her claws showing.
She reeled as he struck the first blow across her mouth, and before she could right herself, he hit her again. She felt something running from her nose and into her mouth and then tasted her own blood. Tears of pain sprang unwilled to her eyes, and she fought to hold them back so that he would not see her cry.
“Coward!” she cried and stood her ground. “Go on, hit me again!”
George took hold of her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.
His face was barely six inches from her face. “How dare you! How dare you speak to me this way!”
Kate was torn; she wanted to flee from him, yet every sinew in her body told her to scream abuse at him. To be thus insulted, violated—how dare he! But one of us must be reasonable, she thought. So instead, she clenched her fists at her sides, set her mouth in a hard line and spoke as steadily as her shattered nerves and bruised mouth would allow.
“George Haute, if you ever hit me again, I swear you will rue the day. Do you hear me?” The menace in her voice made him take a step back. George was still shaking, his face white. He nodded once sharply and looked away. Kate breathed more easily. “You have a right to be angry, I grant you. But without a doubt you have brought this on yourself.”
They stood facing each other, the unheeded rain a damp curtain between them. It was then that George noticed Kate’s bleeding nose and offered her his kerchief.
“But you goaded me, in truth,” he pouted. “You deserved it. ’Twas a shock to know you have made a cuckold of me. Certes, ’tis natural for a husband to be angered by his wife’s infidelity, and you cannot gainsay me that.”
He groaned inwardly when he saw the welt on Kate’s cheek and her swollen lip and wondered how they would explain it to his mother. Kate was still seething, but she was also afraid. She turned from him and gingerly patted her streaming nose with the kerchief. She needed George on her side if she was to carry off her ruse that the child was his. She took a few deep breaths, swallowed her pride and the nasty-tasting blood and turned to him.
“You have denied me loving that was rightfully mine when we wed, and you have denied me my right to be a mother. All because of your . . . nature. I have kept my end of our bargain. Your family will not know of this from me. And if you would only think with your brain instead of your fists, you would realize my condition is a boon to you.”
“Do not mock me, wife!” George raised his arm again, and Kate flinched. Then his curiosity got the better of him. “How is it a boon?”
“Because I have timed the conception for your visit at the feast of Valentine, and if the babe is earlier or later, ’tis only nature’s course. Your mother and father know of it, and they are expecting their first grandchild with much joy. They believe you are the father, and that is all that matters.”
“So, they were apprised and I was not. ’Tis strange Mother said nothing to me upon my arrival.”
“Certes! She wanted you to hear the news from me, you addle-pate! And now I have told you, and she will wonder why it made you angry enough to strike me.” Kate dabbed at her nose. “We shall have to think of something to explain away my face.”
George hung his head. Kate despaired of him. Did he not have any brain at all? What a contrast to Richard, she thought, with his intelligent gray eyes and grasp of the world, though four years younger. As it did every time she thought of Richard, her
hand came to rest protectively on the child inside her. She paced the riverbank, the cool rain soothing her burning face. She came up with a solution. She dirtied her hands, skirt and face with mud and deliberately broke the strap off her patten.
“Unless you have a better idea, what think you, George? Do I look as though I tripped in my broken patten while running from the rain?”
George’s relief showed plainly. “Aye, Kate, in truth you do. Maybe a little more mud on your face. There, that’s better.” George smeared the dirt to hide the welt better, took her shoe and put his arm around her waist as if to support her weight. Together they hurried to the house, where Philippa threw up her hands at the sight of Kate and called to Molly to bring a bowl of water and some bandages. George fussed around Kate, and she presumed he was trying to atone for his violent behavior, for his manner with her was now more deferential.
“Mother, Kate has just told me the happy news,” he said brightly. “I am overjoyed that I shall be a father. She tells me you know, too—and Father?”
Maud tugged at his sleeve. “And me, George, and me! I am going to be an aunt—whatever that is.”
“So you shall, my poppet.” George lifted his sister and kissed her full on the lips.
Kate let out a relieved sigh followed by an “ouch” as Philippa sponged her nose. The worst is over, she thought. Now, if only I could hear from Richard and know what he thinks of fatherhood, I should indeed be happy.
14
Suffolk and Essex, June 1468
Wat sprang from his horse, relinquished the animal to Simon and hurried to the house. Gareth opened to his knocking and bade the messenger enter and wait for his master. Wat suppressed a smirk as Gareth’s portly figure waddled across the hall to the solar, crunching the rushes under his feet. As the servant disappeared, he tiptoed to look through the kitchen entry to see if Molly was engaged there. He was hoping he would stay overnight and have her company in the stable again, but Sir John had been explicit.
A Rose for the Crown: A Novel Page 33
