Not all the dancing was stately. Kate, whirled by her royal cousin up the line of clapping nobles, arrived breathless and happier than she could remember. Dancing with a king, even if he was a newly minted one and almost twice her height, was very flattering. Ned, with two battlefield victories behind him and no doubt, a trail of lovelorn girls – was truly the King of Hearts, a cheerful, comely young giant. There was gossip that he had once been overfond of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter but no matter, soon Richard would be finding him a princess. That was a very levelling thought! It was not only any unwed Nevilles who might be pushed into marriage beds by Richard but the king as well!
Rewards, I promise you.
Well, she was not going to be pushed.
The flowerdelice in the next dance with the two little royal dukes, Clarence and Gloucester, holding her hands, was less amusing. The older boy kept gleefully prancing the wrong way to confuse everyone. That was until the royal chamberlain, Lord Hastings, at a nod from Ned, removed him and poached his place. A well-favoured youngish man, Hastings did not make conversation, but since the threading beneath arches of arms required some concentration and he was probably worn out by organising the entertainments, Kate forgave him.
By the time the candles were down to stubs once more and she had kicked her heels in a salterello, glided in a sedate pavane, threaded, hayed, skipped, spun and clapped, the number of noblemen and knights she had touched hands with was beyond her sane reckoning. When she finally kicked off her leather dancing slippers and collapsed back spreadeagled on her bed, with the four posts spinning from too much wassailing, her self-esteem was nicely shined.
The rest of the week passed blithely with no potential husbands shoved in her direction, but behind the lilting melody of the viols and flutes, the sweet anthems of the choirs of St Stephen’s Chapel and St Peter’s Westminster, the cries of the children being spanked on Holy Innocents’ Day and the shouts of the lords and commons hurling snowballs, the discerning could hear the continual drumbeat of rebellion. Ned might sit in the royal audience chamber beneath his canopy with a collar of expensive ermine and a jewelled sceptre across his knees but his power, stretching out like a thin web to all the corners of the kingdom, was by no means secure. There were still skirmishes with Queen Margaret’s supporters in the Welsh and Northern Marches and the deposed king and queen had taken refuge at the Scots court and were enjoying the hospitality of the Dowager-Queen of Scotland and attracting the interest of the King of France.
Kate did not like to criticise her royal cousin, but attending in the audience chamber with the other members of the court, she saw clearly that it was Richard who was ruling the realm. Ned might have more to say in the council chamber but here in the common eye, he seemed too languid.
As each matter was brought before him, Ned invariably had a whispered exchange with Richard, who always stood behind his chair of estate, before making a decision. Even when he seemed about to draw breath and make an answer straightaway, Richard would touch him on the sleeve and offer a suggestion. Ned seemed not to mind neither the interruption or the instruction, although occasionally Kate glimpsed a frown before he nodded and made a public reply to the matter before him. Sometimes he even directed Richard to step down and make a direct answer to a messenger or embassy without any consultation. Mind, Richard always couched his words with tact. He might begin with: ‘His grace has decided…’ or ‘His highness wishes me to say…’ but it was clear who was making the decisions. Or was it?
Of course, she could see that the two men needed each other. The royal blood and military laurels belonged indisputably to Ned; the political skills belonged to Richard. To the less observant, it might seem a satisfactory situation but if she was sitting on Ned’s cushions, she would be wanting to stretch her kingly wings, wave the royal sceptre with a lot more decisiveness and tell her brother to pipe down.
Was Richard expecting Ned to be meek and mild like old King Henry had been? If so, he was being really stupid. Surely he realised that the youth who had won the battles of Mortimer’s Cross and Towton wasn’t going to be fobbed off forever on a diet of crown wearings in the mornings and pretty girls in the evenings? And if she was thinking this, Heavens, what on earth was going on in Ned’s head?
Lordy! Her royal cousin had caught her staring at him but she didn’t dip her gaze. She was a Neville and she felt safe and mischievous enough to send him a commiserative grin. In return, she glimpsed the shrewd glint in Ned’s eyes and it confirmed her suspicion that he knew exactly what he was doing. So who was manipulating who? And where would it leave her and Cecily?
Was the Queen Dowager of Scotland as deft at diplomacy as Richard?
He was clearly determined that the Scots lords would carry back a message to her that no invasion could topple Ned and he surprised everyone by declaring that there would be a great supper at Erber, his London house in Downegate, on the feast of the Epiphany. Kate was delighted. It would give Richard plenty more to think about other than husbands for her and she had no doubt it would be splendid. Another chance to wear one of her new gowns and maybe flirt a little.
Richard spared no expense. He invited Ned and all their kinsmen, the foreign emissaries and the leading dignitaries of London, who were still hopeful of seeing a return on the money they had lent to Ned’s campaign earlier in the year, and anyone else worth bothering with. It would be two fingers up at any fool who thought to back Queen Margaret.
Thames Street, Downegate Street and all the lanes and alleys near Erber were already clogged with dismounting dignitaries when the king and his retinue arrived. Kate was pleased to be part of his company rather than making her own way there. It took a great amount of blowing on horns and ripe invectives to clear a path through the chaos. In her robe of mulberry velvet over a rose-hued underskirt, Kate had to step carefully to keep her hem unmired by the steaming clumps of horse dung as she accompanied the king’s young brothers across from the stables.
Inside Richard’s house, the benches lining the great hall on either side were so packed that only starving fleas could have squeezed in. The seating at the high table proved a tight peapod as well; the unfortunates at each end had to lean forward to let the pages with the ewers of perfumed water inch past to serve the guests of honour.
Richard was generous with his hospitality. Nothing was stinted. Malmsey, claret and bastard wines, mead, hypocras, perries, cider and the best of ales washed down the slabs of beef riall, the slithers of peacock, crane and partridge, the morsels of fishes à folie and Yuletide rosetts, fritters of crispy sweet batter.
From her privileged position on the dais, Kate watched the mercers and goldsmiths below the salt growing rosy with wine while their wives cooed with painted smiles at each other’s finery. As the hubbub increased and pages kept refilling the goblets and tankards, so the more brazen among the wives bit their lips and ogled the nearest nobleman.
On the high table, the Nevilles outnumbered the Plantagenets and even most of those were half-Nevilles. Had any of the foreign dignitaries noticed? Kate tried counting all her relations between courses of flampayene royal and subtleties of almond-flavoured roses and saffron-tinted sunnes. Apart from Richard and Bishop George, there was her older sister Joan, and her husband, Arundel; John and his wife, Isabel; Eleanor and her husband, Lord Stanley; Thomas’s widow, Lady Willoughby; Kate’s aunt and godmother, Catherine Neville, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk; Ned’s mother, the Duchess of York; Uncle William, the new Earl of Kent and…well, a lot. She wondered if Cousin Ned had done his sums in that direction, too, for her siblings seemed to have married into every wealthy noble family in the realm, but the king seemed unbothered, listening attentively to a story that her brother George was telling him.
Richard had been busy squiring the king through the Twelve Days of Christmas but tonight Kate trapped him looking down the table at her and he was wearing his ‘I must remember to do that’ expression. Suddenly the comfits on the plate she was sharing with Lady Willou
ghby lost their appeal and she unwittingly splayed her hand across the low triangle of embroidered silk that drawbridged her cleavage.
O Jesu, surely he wasn’t going to offer her in marriage to one of the Scots or give Cecily’s wardship as a reward to ‘Black William’, the new Earl of Pembroke, who was galloping around Wales besieging castles of Queen Margaret’s allies? She should not have mentioned the Courtenays either, he might give her as a peace offering to Henry in return for a change of loyalty.
Damnation! She would need to outwit him somehow.
Richard had always been a chess player. Even her happiest memory of him carrying her on his shoulders at Bisham Fair had been tainted some years later when one of her sisters told her he had only done it to evade being recognised by his tutor.
‘It was this big.’ Ned’s voice carried along the table, crashing through her thoughts. He was stretching out his hands.
Next to Lady Willoughby, the Duke of Clarence giggled dirtily.
‘Ned is talking about fishing, my lady.’ Nine-year-old Gloucester, on the other side of Clarence, twitched his mouth disapprovingly at his brother’s manners.
‘Didn’t you catch a perch bigger than that in the Axe, Katherine?’ Richard called out to her. Fancy him remembering their fishing trip on his brief visit to Shute two years before! The row of faces jerked round in her direction like folk watching the ball at tenez. She felt her skin scorching but she was not going to be embarrassed. This time at court had already strengthened her spine and she was the mother of a very wealthy heiress.
‘Yes, brother,’ she answered, her mind trying to out-guess his strategy.
‘Truly, cousin?’ prompted Ned, looking genuinely impressed, but male obsession for proof made him add, ‘Did you weigh it?’
‘A three pounder, your grace.’
‘I think,’ exclaimed King Ned, sucking in his cheeks and sending her a delicious smile, ‘that we need to have a fishing contest. Would you be party to that, cousin?’
‘On the Thames in January!’ exclaimed her godmother, Aunt Catherine.
‘No, Kate, you can’t possibly consider such a thing,’ agreed her sister, Joan.
But Kate could. She was nineteen now, the same age as Ned. Hardly in her dotage. ‘Of course, I accept your challenge, your grace.’
‘Bravo!’ He leaned out to address his new chamberlain down the table. ‘Arrange it, my lord!’
Kate
7th January 1462
Westminster Palace
Insane, thought Kate, rugged up in so many layers that she felt like a she-bear as she followed a torchbearer across the wet cobbles of the palace courtyard towards the watergate. Her cloak, lined with rabbit-fur had sensible slits for her arms. Beneath it, for further warmth, she was wearing a stomacher of budge – a lamb’s wool fleece laced tight from neck to thigh – extra petticotes under her gown, and scarfing her throat (on Joan’s insistence) a veil rolled thick as an eel. She did not have fishing gloves, so for now she was wearing her riding gauntlets.
It was a moisty morning. A light fog obscured the beacons of Lambeth Palace across the river and wreathed misty auras around the flambeaux that burned above the walls behind her. Somewhere a dog barked and men’s voices, sharing some jest, reached her from the royal barge, which was waiting for her at the wooden quay below the steps. A lantern dangled on the vessel’s ornate prow, and on tall poles along its sides spluttered torches, each sending reflections dancing out in a set across the black water, constantly fragmenting into glittering shards and melding until they vanished where night and river were indistinguishable.
One of the bargemen hastened up to welcome her. ‘Good morrow, my lady. His grace has not yet arrived.’
But it seemed he just had. The sentries at the gate were stamping their halberds to alert and she heard several heavy footsteps approaching. Aboard the barge there was a sudden, swift rattling of oars as the rowers scrambled into their places.
There was no mistaking Ned because of his height. He was flanked by two companions (no doubt, dragged forth from their beds out of duty) and two young torchbearers. Four servants were at his heels carrying an assortment of baskets and fishing rods.
‘Here she is! Well done!’ Damp fur and strong cousinly arms embraced Kate and swept her onto the cleated plank bridge ahead of the rest.
‘Up river, then, lads,’ Ned ordered, once the last pannier was safe aboard. Within the instant, the tethering rope, freed from the capstan by one of the linkboys, was flung on deck, and at the helmsman’s shout, the oars rose in precision and dipped. The barge surged smoothly forwards but the royal hand beneath Kate’s elbow made sure she was steady as he urged her towards the curtained heart of the barge.
There was a whiff of vomit from the planking but the small pavilion – cered cloth on the outside and silken stripes within – was fragrant with freshly strewn herbs. Kate had never been in one of these before. Hmm, rather like being within a giant four-poster bed, she decided, save that the two oil lamps suspended on a rail beneath the canopy revealed an unlit brazier, a low fixed trestle and two benches set at right angles to a luxurious settle large enough for two. The Yorkist insignia of sunnes-in-splendor and falcons-in-fetterlock glinted upon the plump bolsters arranged along the wooden back but the seat cushions, worn and shiny at the edges, still bore Queen Margaret’s crown-necked swan device. She wasn’t sure what lay beyond the scarlet curtain behind the settle, a close-stool for a queenly bladder?
‘Make yourself comfortable, cousin,’ Ned exclaimed, gesturing towards the royal seat. ‘And these are for you.’ He plucked a pair of gloves from his belt.
‘Why, thank you, your grace,’ she exclaimed, discovering they were proper winter fishing gloves, the sort that ended at the joints and freed the fingertips for delicate work.
‘Your pardon but it will take a while to reach my favourite spot and I didn’t order the brazier to be lit yet but say if you want it. Hey, here’s the rest of the competition, Kate. She’s here, Tom.’
‘Brave lady.’ The Irish lilt to Thomas, Earl of Desmond’s voice was a delight. ‘Mind now, in Ireland this is nothing. We send out the colleens every morning to blow away the clouds before the break o’ fast.’ He kissed her gloved hand with great charm. She had met him during the feasting, a short, lithe and boyish nobleman, with dark, fey curls escaping from beneath his fur hat.
The other man, a good deal taller, drew the curtains before he turned. Now his face was lit, Kate recognised Ned’s chamberlain, Lord Hastings.
‘Lady Harrington.’ He removed his hat and bowed with the serious grace that he had shown when he had danced with her. If he was supposed to accompany Ned everywhere as part of his duties in organising the royal leisure, she felt rather sorry for him.
‘We had the rods prepared last night, my lady,’ he was saying. ‘They each have a four-fold horse-hair line, so I’m told, but if you prefer to set up your own…?’
‘No, that sounds excellent.’ She sank against cushions meant for royal backs, feeling very privileged.
‘Do not get too comfortable, sleepyhead,’ grinned Ned, flicking her nose.
‘Your pardon, your grace,’ she laughed, rising to her feet again. ‘So what bait did you plan for us to use?’
For some reason, Ned glanced silkily at his chamberlain and she sensed her question had raised some old jest between them. ‘Red worms, Kate. Worms of Lancaster.’ He pushed out through the curtains and Desmond followed.
She relaxed somewhat, admitting to the thrill of being in such illustrious company, but deep down her sense of propriety was rampant, censoring her for being the only woman out here with a handsome king who was unmarried, not to mention two other good-looking men whose marital status was unknown to her. Don’t worry, her reason counselled, you are no unwed virgin. Besides, you are clothed like an apple dumpling and you do have two rows of oarsmen to chaperone you. And even if the king were to be interested in you, which would be as miraculous as a woman becoming Holy Roman Emperor,
your brother would put a dampener on it instantly. Anyway, what can you do about anything? Ask the king for the barge to be turned around?
‘Are you hungry, Lady Harrington?’ The lord chamberlain summoned in the servants. Kate watched the activity with growing delight. They clothed the table, brought in squat candles floating in small ewers of water, unswathed several flasks of mulled wine and set out covered platters. She leaned across and peeped under the lids. Cheeses, viands and fresh, warm bread rolls.
‘Hmm,’ she sighed, breathing in the yeasty smell with a smile.
‘Help yourself, my lady.’ Hastings waved the servants out. ‘Mead or wine?’ He took up the flask of her choice, poured them both spiced wine and sat down on the left bench, nursing the warm mazer between his palms.
Kate ripped up a roll and helped herself to the repast. Noblewomen were supposed to eat like sparrows but her appetite was definitely owl-size. ‘This is excellent,’ she told him, assuming that he had been responsible.
His half-smile was a courtesy. He lifted off the mazer lid and sat staring pensively at the wine’s surface. Perhaps it was just the lamplight which made him look weary or maybe he disliked early rising.
‘I don’t fish,’ he said by way of conversation. ‘This is something new for me. The king’s passionate about it so I imagine I shall have to learn fast.’
‘Well, there must be a copy of Dame Juliana Berner’s treatise on fishing in the royal library, sir.’ Then she added mischievously, ‘You can learn all about whether to use cankerworms, cowdung grubs or…’ she added, eyeing the table, ‘cheese, tallow and honey.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he replied dryly. ‘I can see I’ve been missing out on an entire new world.’ He downed the rest of his wine and set the vessel back on the table. ‘Truth to tell, there hasn’t been much time to sport this year, what with the Scots and French funding Queen Margaret against us. I have no doubt she’ll create more havoc, come the spring. I believe you lost your husband at Wakefield?’
The Golden Widows Page 19
