A Rose for the Crown: A Novel

by Anne Easter Smith

  “I have been thinking, Kate,” he began in what Kate recognized as his earnest voice. “Your welfare is weighing on me, and I find I cannot abandon you without knowing you will be happy and protected.”

  “Happy? I shall never be happy without you. And Martin will protect me.”

  “Nay. Your father-in-law is a good man, but you should have the protection of a husband, Kate.”

  “Pah! George could not have protected a flea, least of all me.”

  “Ah, yes, George. But he was not a wise choice of husband. I cannot order you to marry someone I may propose, but I would expect you to consider him carefully.”

  Kate was shocked. “Richard! How long have you had my ‘welfare’ in mind? And pray who is my intended? I shall be in seclusion at Haute Manor, raising our children and looking after Father. I have no need of a husband.”

  “Please, Kate. You must think on it. The children will need a father, and I shall choose carefully. I do not have anyone in mind at present, but when I do, I shall want you to consider him. Promise me you will.” A determined note superseded the earnest. This was the quiet voice of authority that had persuaded the king to reverse his position on a marriage with Anne Neville.

  “Richard, do not ask me to promise this, I beg of you. I will think on it in the next months, but I will not be commanded to marry against my will.”

  Richard, in his turn, heard the note of determination and replied, “I have said my piece, and now all I wish for is to sleep in your arms. Am I welcome, love?”

  In answer, Kate reached out and pulled him to her.

  ALL TOO SOON Kate’s time with Richard drew to a close. He had been commanded to spend Twelfth Night with his family at Westminster, but first he took her to mass with him at St. Helen’s Priory just over the garden wall from Crosby Place. Kate hung back from Richard as he greeted neighbors and merchants, who stood aside to allow him, Rob and Francis the front pew. Kate slid into one behind him with several other members of the household. The nuns’ voices rose in a chorus to the glory of God and in celebration of the Epiphany, which moved Kate to tears. She stared steadfastly at the figure of the Virgin set on a pedestal close to the altar and prayed fervently that something would happen to prevent Richard from marrying Anne. She observed Richard’s profile from her seat and committed to memory the strong nose, jutting chin, long upper lip and fine cheekbones. At one point during the service, he felt her watching him and turned slightly to send her a quick smile. She almost choked with love for him.

  Later, Richard sent his squire from the room and instructed him to let no one in. Kate stood facing the window, her face as sad as the January day outside. Richard came to her and rested his head on her back, cupping her breasts in his hands.

  “Let us not be sad today, my rose. Let us remember how happy we have been. Then we can cry.”

  She gave a little sob and raised her hand to caress his head. “Aye, love, I shall try.”

  Her back was irresistible, and he rubbed himself along it, feeling the pressure mount in his codpiece. “I want you, Kate. I will always want you,” he whispered. “And I really want you now.”

  “Oh, Richard,” she cried and turned into his arms. He kissed her hair, her eyes, her nose and finally her lips. As if he were drowning, he lost himself in her sweet mouth. He pulled up her skirts, and his fingers found her sweet spot, now wet with anticipation, and he aroused her to moans of pleasure. And as though reliving their first encounter at Tendring, they began to discard their clothes all over the room in their impatience to make love. Like then, he carried her to the bed, her hair tumbling out of her cap. This time, however, there was a desperation to their loving, a need to make it last forever, a need to savor every inch of each other and every sensation together.

  Later she helped bathe and clothe him herself. She sponged his body with rosemary water as if she were tending a precious piece of sculpture. He watched her every movement, and neither said a word. Occasionally, he sighed with pleasure. Kate did not trust herself to shave him, and so she called for Robert. The squire wielded the knife with dexterity, and Kate stroked the smooth skin afterwards and gave it her approval.

  She dried him with fine linen and fingered the French coin he still wore around his neck. Coyly she asked, “What will you tell Anne Neville of this?”

  “That it is a keepsake and a talisman from a dear friend, and I shall wear it always,” he said, raising her fingers to his lips. “It accompanied me through Barnet and Tewkesbury and kept me safe. It must be lucky.”

  “I thank you, Richard,” she said simply, and hung the wet towels on the chair.

  Despite his usual cautiousness on other matters, Richard spared no expense on his wardrobe. All three York brothers took pleasure in fine clothes, taking advantage of their looks and the rich materials available to them as royal princes. For the gathering at Westminster, Richard donned a short doublet of blue cloth of silver sewn all over with seed pearls, its wide sleeves slashed to reveal a silver-and-black-striped satin undershirt. Kate stood in front of him and counted off the thirty pearl buttons as she fastened them. Each was the size of a large pea, and the price of one would have gone a long way to feeding a peasant for a year. She helped him on with his azure hose and tied all the points neatly. He bent his head down to her, and she placed a gold collar on his shoulders. The White Rose of York at the center of it was encrusted with rubies and pearls. She brushed a stray strand of hair back from his face, her fingers lingering on his cheek. He took them and kissed each tip. Then he sat on the chair to pull on immaculate thigh-high boots of brushed leather and turned down the tops to show the white silk lining. Kate took the jeweled garter with the cross of St. George from its special box and fastened it around his thigh just above the boot. When he was ready, Kate stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  “In truth, you are a prince, my love. You will outshine even the king, I have no doubt. ’Tis as well I cannot go with you, for I would be fighting every woman there for a chance to be noticed by you.” Kate smiled at him. How she longed to ride with him, to walk into that magnificent hall on his arm, to be acknowledged as his. But she had made her decision a long time ago. She sighed. “Here are your gloves and hat. Robert is fetching your warmest cloak. It will be cold on the river today. Now, let us show the children their splendid father.”

  Richard took her in his arms and kissed her long and hard. “I shall miss you, Kate. Sweet Jesu, with all my heart.”

  She forced a smile for him and muttered, “Fiddle-faddle.”

  Then it was Richard’s turn to weep as he bade farewell to his children. Katherine sensed her father’s sadness and lavished kisses on him during their final hour together in the nursery. John stomped over to him and chattered incomprehensibly, knowing exactly what he was saying but leaving the adults bewildered. It made them laugh, and Richard chose the happy moment to rise and leave his family.

  “I will provide for the children, Kate. John shall receive the same annuity as Katherine, and when you think they are ready, I am determined to have them come to me. I shall do right by them, please believe me.”

  “I do, Richard. I shall wait until John is six. Let me enjoy them until then. But,” she said awkwardly, “how do you know that Anne will accept them?”

  He was confident. “I shall not force them upon her, but I think she has a fondness for me and will not deny me.”

  “Hmmm” was the skeptical response.

  “Tant le desirée—for so long I have desired it,” Richard said absently. Kate could not tell if he was practicing a future conversation with the Neville woman or was referring to his continued determination to wed her. She decided not to ask.

  During their last private moments together, Richard gave Kate a velvet pouch that contained a rolled scroll confined in a gold ring of exquisite filigree. He drew the ring off and showed her the inscription carved on the inside.

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

&nbs
p; “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.

  NEWS OF RICHARD’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.”

  * * *

  MARGARET WELCOMED KATE 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.”