And today I was in my lord your father’s company too and spoke right merrily with him and your uncle, my lord of York.
Now she, too, stared at the carter open lipped.
‘Did he tell you anything more?’ demanded Grandmother Bonville. ‘When, for instance?’
‘A week since, my lady, outside Sandal Castle, near the town of Wakefield. Up north.’
A week ago!
Haccom was fidgeting for his usual jack of ale and Lady Bonville nodded to the butler to draw it for him. ‘York and his second son both slain, my lady,’ Haccom continued, ‘an’ I know naught else save Queen Margaret had the duke’s head lopped off and stuck a paper crown on it. Maybe we’ll ha’ peace now.’
The cursed knave knew the Bonville men had declared loyalty to the Duke of York, so the remark was offensive, but he escaped a reprimand. Kate’s mind was still shaken at the news and Grandmother Bonville, who rarely showed emotion to lesser folk, did not drop her mask of control.
‘And the other lords with the duke?’ she demanded. ‘The Earl of Salisbury, for instance?’
Kate’s head jerked up.
‘Ah yes, now you remind me, my lady, there was summat.’ The carter’s gaze swerved to meet Kate’s with feigned candour, as if he had forgotten he was in the presence of my lord of Salisbury’s daughter. ‘Captured and taken to Pomfret Castle. I believe there was mention of one of his sons bein’ wi’ him.’
Her father and Tom, her second oldest brother, were still alive, thought Kate, breathing out. Prisoners but alive!
Haccom’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve brought the lute strings for you, my lady. Best qual—’
‘Not now. See he is paid,’ Grandmother Bonville said calmly to the steward, then she was taking Kate’s arm, and the kitchen was left behind.
‘No, we don’t need the chaplain or anyone else,’ she was saying over her shoulder as she hurried Kate through the great hall, but her stern demeanour cracked once they reached the privacy of the great chamber.
‘Jesu, Kate!’ She let go the latch and leaned back against the door, the gris trim on her bodice heaving and her mouth a downturned horseshoe as though luck had suddenly poured out.
Will’s father and Will – O God, had they been slain?
‘We should have asked,’ Kate said.
‘Haccom would have told us,’ Lady Bonville muttered. ‘Drawn it out like a torment. No, that’s all that loathsome wretch knew, I’d swear to it.’ Her hands spread as though she was letting hope free into their midst. ‘They probably got away. That’s why he didn’t know. Maybe they’ve all been taken to Pomfret with your father.’ She stared across at Kate with concern. ‘Kate?’
‘I’m all right – at the moment.’ She had sat down upon the window seat, her hands very still in her lap. ‘Do you think they will execute Father and Tom?’
She read the possibility in the straight line of Lady Bonville’s mouth. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, swallowing. Her mind began to flick in panic – turning the pages of a book she did not want to read. She imagined the horror of her uncle York’s head nailed to the stonework. There were other gates, other walls…
‘Oh, my dear.’ Will’s grandmother crouched before her, her crimson skirt lapping the toes of Kate’s shoes as she took her hands with a gentleness that was rare for her. ‘Battles are never orderly, child. There is every chance they’ve survived, and Will has his his father to stop him doing anything too hot-headed. Why, we cannot suppose they were still at Sandal when the duke was slain.’
Or they could.
‘They’ll be back. You’ll see.’ She rose stiffly and went to stand before the fire. ‘Men!’ she scoffed, tossing her head in disgust. ‘You know the number of times my old fool of a husband gets himself in the thick of things. If it isn’t some battle, it’s a petty skirmish down the road and he’ll come home with a bloody nose, grinning like a dog that had been off rabbiting. Remember Clyston Moor two years ago?’
Kate tried to smile, but it was her family who had talked the Bonvilles into treason.
‘Haccom said York’s second son was killed, didn’t he?’ she whispered. ‘That must be my cousin Edmund and…and he’s my age and he used to play Robin Hood with us and he’d…he’d have been better armoured than Will.’
‘We need some strong wine.’
Instead of calling for one of the servants, Grandmother Bonville swept across to the aumery herself. Her words might have been heartening but Kate glimpsed the telltale, grim line of her mouth as she let down the board. The chamber was silent save for the crackling of a log upon the fire. The older woman set out two mazers and after searching out a flask from the back, snapped the lead seal that bound the stopper. ‘Grandsire’s favourite,’ she announced, ‘but he’ll not mind.’ She took a good gulp and ran a cleansing knuckle across her lips before she carried a generous cup across to Kate. ‘To think that York is suddenly no more. All that rhetoric, all that posturing, pfft! For sure, Queen Margaret will be in ecstasy to have her greatest enemy dead. Stupid man, to get himself killed. Pah, he always was one not to think things through.’
Kate took a mouthful, spluttered and found her eyes watering at the strength. The liquor certainly kicked her insides. ‘There’s still my brother Warwick’s army,’ she reminded Will’s grandmother. ‘And my cousin Ned has an army down near Ludlow.’ Ned, who she must think of as Duke of York now. ‘Surely if the two of them put their force together, they should be able to hold London against the queen?’ Not encouraged by the older woman’s frown, she added briskly, ‘Well, they’ll have to, won’t they, or else make peace with her. I hope Will has escaped to join them.’
‘Humpf, I hope to Heaven that brother of yours has his head screwed on tight,’ muttered Grandmother Bonville and then pressed apologetic fingers to her lips. ‘I am sorry, Katherine, foolish choice of—’
The vigorous banging on the steel platter downstairs summoning them to midday dinner staunched her apology.
‘I am not sure I can eat.’ Kate announced honestly.
Grandmother straightened her collar and tidied her lawn veil. Even inside the house, she dressed as though she was about to welcome guests. ‘We must show our people nothing is of concern, mustn’t we!’ With a spine that generations of her family, the Courtenays, had straightened through adversity – Crécy, Poitiers, Agincourt, not to mention years of armed scuffles with the Bonvilles – she raised the latch, and sallied forth.
*
‘Master Gylle’s eldest girl bore a living babe last even – a son.’
Joan’s sudden babble next morning made Kate look up at her in wonderment from the blanket where she was playing with Cecily. That was at least one piece of cheerful news after a sleepless night of worrying whether Will would come back safe. Kate watched the girl’s nimble fingers spooling the strips of freshly laundered swaddling cloth. The face above carried a knowing smile. Was there some mischief in the telling?
‘That’s the family over at Cockes’ Croft, isn’t it, Joan?’ she murmured, leaning down to plant a huff of warm breath on her babe’s small belly. The tiny legs jerked and two dimples appeared aside the little mouth. ‘I didn’t think any of their daughters were wed.’
‘Lovidia ain’t.’ The snide emphasis on the verb explained why it was gossip to be savoured at the village well.
‘Oh, it’s Lovidia, is it? I remember her. The one with lovely dark ringlets. She was working here at the hall. I thought she left Shute to wed a farmer north of Axminster?’
‘Aye, my lady, but he changed his mind though he was courtin’ her nigh twelve month.’ A common story. Clearly the farmer had been doing more than squeezing Lovidia’s hand, unless, of course, some local fellow had robbed her of her virtue. ‘Wed a bailiff’s daughter up near Chard,’ added Joan. ‘More dowry, see.’ Kate watched her brush the stray threads from her skirt as though more could be said but wasn’t going to be.
Considering how beautiful Lovidia was, Kate had no doubt that most of the young women in the
village would be snickering at their rival’s ill fortune.
‘She be callin’ the babe William in the hope the young master may stand godfather, my lady.’ Joan was watching her face with such anticipation that Kate wondered if she was either a close friend or else an ardent foe of Lovidia’s.
‘I think it might be more appropriate if Lovidia’s father broaches the matter with my husband on his return,’ Kate answered, frowning. She could make no promises on Will’s behalf.
‘That’s as maybe, my lady, but her da, Stephen Gylle, be with the young master up north. ’Sides, the babe needs to be shriven.’
‘Of course.’ Kate crossed herself, remembering how anxious she had been to have Cecily safely baptised. Babies were so vulnerable; only last March the blacksmith’s infant son had died in the cradle for no apparent reason, not a mark on him.
Joan took a ball of swaddling from the basket. ‘Want me to wrap the little one now, madame, afore she catches her death of cold?’
‘Pray do so.’ Kate scrambled aside and sat back on her heels watching Joan bind Cecily close. The babe had grown so much since Will had left, but thinking of him, the night’s fears rose again like demons to pinch at her heart. How soon would it be before she knew that he was safe? Did Mistress Gylle, cuddling her first grandchild, also fear the worst? Had Joan’s tittle-tattle been a hint that the Bonvilles should show some patrimony to the Gylles?
‘One of the grooms can take a basket of provisions to the Gylles’ cottage,’ Kate decreed, wriggling her toes free of her hem. ‘Or maybe I shall bear it there myself.’ Something to take her mind off listening for a messenger.
‘That’s right gracious of you, my lady.’ Joan, with the babe neatly tucked in the crook of one arm, helped her mistress to her feet. Kate disregarded the satisfied expression lurking in the girl’s eyes and knew she had been tugged into the offer as though she was Cecily’s wooden duck on a string.
Her mother’s voice came back to her. Always behave like a great lady for the right reasons, Katherine, not merely because of duty or with the selfish hope to have Heaven’s door open to you, but because your heart is stirred to compassion by another’s need.
Well, she would show herself ‘stirred’ and she just prayed that Queen Margaret might be stirred to mercy, too.
Judging by its large barn, capacious byre of wintering cattle and plentiful supply of firewood, the Gylles’ farm boasted prosperity as well as hard work, and the last thing the daughter of this prosperous homestead looked to need was a basket of provisions, decided Kate, wishing she had consulted Grandmother Bonville first. Together with Will, she had visited most of their tenant farmers but he had not yet brought her here.
The old gatfer from the stable, who had accompanied her, was clearly thinking the same thing. His hand had hesitated on the straps, which held the pannier and the bed-ale.
‘Are you sure you want to take this in, my lady?’ he asked, careful to salt his presumption with a straight face.
‘Yes, of course.’ But Kate’s face was burning, not from the lash of cold wind either.
How could Stephen Gylle afford a stained cloth painting on the wall and even a chair, she marvelled, as she was welcomed in. A well-stacked fire burned cheerfully in the central hearth of the crux-beamed hall and there was even a book on a wooden stand before the window.
Mistress Gylle’s clean waistcloth and wimple impressed Kate. So did the quality of her gown and the cleanliness of the half-dozen young children who clustered round her. Clearly Master Gylle must be a good husbandman and stand in high favour with Grandfather Bonville. Yet why, Kate wondered, did her arrival (not to mention the hefty goodwill pannier of delicacies) astonish the woman so? Of course, there was no ‘we really don’t need your bounty,’ no hauteur, but too much the reverse; the flustered, tongue-tied housewife bestowed upon her guest more curtsies than even a queen deserved as she backed before Kate towards the sound of squalling.
The room, where the young mother rested, was shuttered and cosy. It was probably Master Gylle’s own bedchamber, judging by the excellence of the yellow and green striped bedhangings, and likely had been added onto the older hall for it also boasted a stone chimney. Beeswax candles flickered in the wall brackets. Certainly well-to-do.
The young mother lay upon a featherbed with the babe sucking lustily at a nipple. Dark ringlets streamed across the pillow, and tendrils, lustreless with sweat from yesterday’s birthing, framed a vibrant, heart-shaped face. The wench’s eyes widened in astonishment at her visitor.
‘Why, here’s my Lady Harrington come to congratulate you, Lovidia,’ cackled the village midwife, rising from the stool on the other side of the bed where she had been nursing a leatherjack of ale.
Kate hid her displeasure at the old woman’s tone. She felt out of her depth, as though she was providing some sort of amusement for these underlings. ‘Leave us, if you please,’ she requested with a dignity her lady mother would have approved, and the midwife withdrew, the puckered cheeks a tad sucked in.
Kate waved aside the offer to bring in Master Gylle’s chair and took the vacated stool instead, hoping the midwife had left no lice. As she began the small talk, encouraging Lovidia to share her experience, she found herself increasingly warming to the details of last night’s labour. Giving birth made them equals just as the inevitability of death would one day dissolve the difference of rank between them. The girl was euphoric at the tiny miracle that lay within her arms and any mother of a living babe could understand her joy.
Only as Kate rose to leave, did Lovidia set a hand upon her sleeve and revive the fears shared by both families. ‘Is there any news, my lady. Your pardon, but you would be telling me, wouldn’t you? Word is the Duke of York is slain. Is—’ The unasked question hung in the air between them. Had the Bonville retainers survived?
‘I don’t know, Lovidia. We are still waiting to hear. I’m sure your father will come home safe. I feel for you, believe me. My lord father was also with the duke.’
The farmer’s daughter raised her head, fixing her intense blue gaze upon Kate. ‘And all the lords from Shute, them as well?’
‘Yes. Is…?’ Kate faltered, deciding whether to ask if the father of the babe was fighting alongside Will. Of course, Lovidia might not know who the father was. Mind, she did not look like a creature ready to hoick up her skirts at every opportunity.
‘Is your child’s da with them, Lovidia?’
Long-lashed eyelids shuttered slyly as the girl moved the infant to her other nipple. ‘Yes, my lady, I believe so.’ So, she was not prepared to name him.
‘Then I shall light a candle for his wellbeing.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ The pointed chin rose proudly and the glint of something that had been in the midwife’s eyes flickered for a second. Perhaps they were all amused at her attempt to behave like a grand lady, thought Kate, a trifle hurt. It was so typical of lesser folk, the exchanged, secretive glances that reminded Kate she was not one of them but something tolerated because they had no choice.
‘Ill news travels fast,’ she declared, turning at the door. ‘I’ll send a messenger with good, I trust.’
‘God’s blessing go with you, my lady, you have a good heart.’
‘And remain here with you and yours, Lovidia.’
Another visitor had arrived; the wise woman of Shute. A seer, some said. Neatly wimpled, gloved and gowned, with southerly bosoms bedecked with a rosary, the woman looked incongruous company beside the shrivelled apple-skin midwife.
‘Mistress Alice reads fortunes,’ piped up one of the children and refused to be hushed. ‘Has she read yours, my lady?’
‘Not yet,’ said Kate, and bravely thrust out her right palm. ‘Is he coming home?’
‘The young lord?’ The woman took her hand and drew her to the candle flame. Because a caul blinded one of her eyes, she bent over Kate’s hand like a master goldsmith assaying a piece of jewellery. Then she straightened and, gazing into Kate’s eyes, spoke solemnly
, as though each word was being weighed out with scrupulous care.
‘Your husband will be famous and much loved.’
So Will would live. The reassurance so delighted Kate that she ignored the midwife’s snigger. Fumbling in her beltpurse, she pressed a coin into the wise woman’s palm. Generosity was her weapon against their conspiratorial winks. ‘And here’s for your services, too, old ganmer.’ She held out a coin to the midwife who bit into it as though Kate was a market-day stranger.
‘Thank’ee, I might not be a fine physician, my lady, but I’ll warrant I’ve delivered more livin’ babes than any long-gowned dawcock with his fancy scholarship.’ Her gaze slid to Kate’s belly as though she guessed her condition.
‘Hush now, Mab. Perhaps you should leave before the weather sours, my lady.’ Mistress Gylle punctuated the suggestion with a further curtsey next to the door. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Lady Harrington.’ They wanted her gone.
Kate nodded and left the warmth of the farmhouse to face the chill shadows of her own life. The sky was leaden and streaky, and the wind had swung round to the south. The old groom was edgy, anxious to get her home out of the cold. Because of the babe within her, she rode sedately, her knee hooked over the saddle pommel, her rabbit fur-lined cloak and riding skirt shielding her belly.
The rain began as they came within sight of Shute House. Eleanor, her dauncell, was waiting to greet her. Beneath her simple white coif, the girl’s normally cheerful face was red-nosed from the ague and full of concern.
‘I am pleased you are on your feet again,’ Kate called out cheerfully, dragging the soles of her riding boots across the outside scraper. ‘By the saints, Lovidia Gylle’s babe is a hungry little mite.’ Coming in, she heeled off her boots and shrugged off her cloak into the girl’s waiting arms. ‘I swear it will plummet down before cockcr—Why, you’ve been crying. Oh Lord! There’s been news, hasn’t there?’
‘My lady desires you to join her straightway.’
Kate clutched her wrists. ‘Oh, Eleanor, tell me!’
The Golden Widows Page 2
