Save for the crack of the fire, the chamber was silent. He was watching her now like a great cat daring a mouse to run away. Kate kept her chin up but she swallowed nervously. He had to let her leave.
Startled, the slumbering dog sprang to alert as Ned thrust himself from his chair and made use of his great height to tower over her. ‘I require you to marry again, Katherine Neville. I want you compliant.’ The last word was a purr and when she still stood resolute and tiny as she looked up at him, he gave an exasperated snarl. ‘I will have this settled! What in hell is preventing you from obeying me?’
‘I have terms.’
‘Terms!’ Her royal cousin drew breath to add more. Perhaps words like shrew and vixen came readily to his lips but he did not utter them. ‘What terms?’ he asked dangerously.
‘I…I should like custody of my daughter’s inheritance and… and her wardship and marriage.’ That would decide if William Hastings genuinely wanted her or whether he only wanted the profits of administering Cecily’s estates.
‘The devil you do!’ She could hear the male indignation that any mother should demand that right.
‘I am quite capable.’ Her voice could have been stronger. She still felt like a mouse at the mercy of his great paws. ‘You gave such a right to Sir Thomas Kyriel’s widow, your grace.’
‘Did I now?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘God damn it, the boy she is guardian to is not heir to half the West Country.’
Only the candles lighting the January gloom flickered in the impasse between them. Kate lowered her gaze and waited. With an angry snarl, Ned strode to the casement and stood, legs astride, fists on his belt. He couldn’t see out the glass panes. His back, tense beneath the velvet and satin, told her she was dungeon deep in his displeasure. Even the knock on the door did not make him turn.
‘Enter!’
Lord Hastings, seeing her there with the king, halted for an instant on the threshold before he bowed. ‘Your highness, my lady.’
Ned turned abruptly. ‘Entertain yourselves.’ He gave his friend a hard look as he passed, and left the chamber.
‘I am not sure I understand.’ William Hastings came further into the room, unwrapped the chaperone of his hat from his throat and tossed it onto the small table. This morning he was more plainly clad; a short doublet of tempest-blue velvet, slashed hanging sleeves lined with silver-grey taffeta. ‘Katherine, what service do you wish of me?’
Your loyalty. Your love.
For Kate, finding words was difficult, like scooping slippery fruit from a beaker for Cecily. ‘I…I have just asked his grace’s leave to go home.’
Genuine concern surfaced in his face. ‘Is your daughter sick?’ he asked.
‘Yes. A fever.’ She passed him the letter from the small table by Ned’s chair.
‘Then you must leave.’ He read it and glanced defiantly towards the door that Ned had left by as if suspecting permission had been withheld.
‘Yes,’ she agreed bleakly.
‘The roads won’t be good. It may take you thrice as long.’
‘Yes, but I have no choice.’
Hastings nodded, but he seemed at a loss, like a man roughly wakened, not yet in his full wits.
‘It leaves matters between us unresolved,’ he said.
‘I…I am in your debt, my lord, for all your kindness in making my stay here a joyful one.’ Oh, she sounded so frigid but…by the Saints, this was so awkward. ‘My lord, I have to set out now. My servants are waiting.’
But he did not step aside. ‘Katherine?’
She felt tension cinch itself about her ribs as he looked at her. A look that blended the masculine emotions of annoyance, pride and resolve coated by the slightly worried crease of brow that she found endearing. No, he was not going to move. He wanted an answer. He deserved an answer.
She sat down rebelliously on the king’s own chair, pressing her spine against its back and sliding her fingers along the carved arms as though decades of Plantagenet fingers might have left some patina of authority that might transfer to her.
‘You desire to become Cecily’s guardian, my lord,’ she began, prodding the royal footstool with her toe.
‘I desire Cecily’s mother.’ The words pleasured her as though he had touched her in forbidden places and the glint of challenge in his eyes was sufficient for her treacherous body to begin lowering the drawbridge in a shiver of obedience.
Drawing in a deep breath, she decided to be equally forthright. ‘My lord, I do not deny that I desire you as I am sure does every housewife in London, but there are matters and matters, some which matter and some which don’t, if you see what I mean?’ Because he was silent, she lifted her face. He was standing with his hands behind his back.
‘I have not the hell of a notion what you are talking about.’
‘Well,’ she began again, smoothing a crease of her robe. ‘Not to mince words, my lord, it matters to me that Cecily should have a father again but it would seem important to me that he is accessible, not distant, and—’
‘And what?’
‘I believe it would prove very difficult for a man whose life… well, for such a man to be in two places at once.’
‘Serve God and Caesar?’ His tone hinted at irritation and disappointment.
‘That is one way of putting it, my lord. I have seen this last week how burdensome high office can be. I could see such a man tugged in all directions as though his limbs were tethered to galloping horses. His duties, his attendance on the King’s grace, those who take advantage of his time and generosity of spirit, all these would conspire to keep him away…’
‘From the marriage bed?’
Heat burst into her cheeks. ‘Yes.’ It was spoken with a defiant lift of chin.
‘You would be a demanding wife, Lady Katherine?’
‘I would be extremely demanding, Lord Hastings.’ An exaggeration but never mind.
‘And you believe I cannot meet your demands?’
‘I believe you would be torn between your duty and your family. In plain speech, my lord, I am not sure I have the stamina nor the will to explain to my daughter—’
‘Children,’ he corrected, with a look that seared her to her bones.
‘C…children, then, why their father is never at home.’
‘It depends on what you want.’ The statement came from above folded arms. Accusation limned his voice although he did not speak with any vehemence.
‘I should have thought it was crystal clear, my lord.’
‘By Christ’s Blessed body, my lady!’ he exclaimed, unwinding his arms. ‘Is compromise so unacceptable to a Neville? Can you and I not improvise with the cards that Fortune has dealt out to us? Have you no answer, madame? In my lacklustre, humble opinion, compromise is the spine of everything, whether body and spirit or…’ he added, striding over to grab the arms of her chair, ‘husband and wife!’
Ned’s chair was hard against her shoulder blades. She was not aware of flinching but it was like having a magnificent, dangerous leopard inches from devouring her.
His angry breath was clean upon her face and the loving half of her wanted to reach up to draw his face closer and kiss the displeasure from that unsmiling mouth. But the other half? The thinking part of her, wounded by Will’s unfaithfulness, might never fully heal. To be betrayed by this beautiful man would be a hundred times more hurtful than Will’s coupling with Lovidia. Could Hastings not see how tormented she was? Maybe he did. He stepped back, his breath as uneven as hers, putting a careful distance between them.
‘Katherine…Kate…’ Like jewels from a treasure chest, the words were being chosen with the finest of care. ‘Kate, when you lie tonight in your bed alone, think of me, for I shall think of you, my body will grow hard at the thought of you, hard and aching with lust for you.’ He glanced downwards at his body now and then back to her face, as though he expected a reprieve.
She turned her face to the side. ‘My lord, in this p
alace I doubt your body’s needs ever go unanswered.’
There it was, in the open at last. Distrust finally hurled at him, an insult that would soak into everything he was. Irretrievable, having being spoken. As painful to her as to him.
Hurting, she watched anger smash away the seduction in his face.
‘Christ Almighty! You must pardon my stupidity, madame.’ He moved away from the chair, slapping his forehead with his palm. ‘I see now you have other reasons.’
She rose shakily. ‘I mean no disrespect.’
‘But you want perfection?’
How could she answer?
Perfection? Happiness? scoffed her common sense. Go! Chase a rainbow!
Beneath his contemptuous stare, she clapped a hand to her lips with shame. In forcing him away from her, she had smashed her fist through a future that might have been as glorious and precious as costly glass.
‘Madame.’ The rustle of his sleeves and the rattle of the doorhandle compelled her to turn. He was waiting for her like an indifferent servant, his fingers curled into the iron ring. ‘I hope you get what you desire, my lady. Perhaps the castrato Thomas sent you would best suit your needs. Fare you well.’
The door closed behind her and she bit on her forefinger in hurt, in terrible hurt. Life should be full of laughter not tears, not battles and blood and cuckolding and betrayal but joy and togetherness and riding knee to knee and curling up in a husband’s arms beneath the down-stuffed coverlet. And love.
Reeling back against the cold stone wall of the passageway, she could not stop the rush of tears. And love.
Kate
15th January 1462
Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire
The old prioress at Amesbury, Joan Benfield, warned Kate that the weather was unsettled. She could feel it in her bones, she told them, as she farewelled the party at the abbey gatehouse after their overnight stay.
Although it had not rained since they had left London by hired barge, progress from Reading the previous day had been slow and Kate had slept ill at Amesbury, fretting that it might take two or three days more to reach Shute. If she lost Cecily, the light of her world would go out.
Her other concern was that they might get lost and they had few supplies with them. This morning they would cross the southern edge of Salisbury Plain, chalky grassland that would be firm beneath the horses’ hooves. However, it was a way she did not know. Normally they carried spare horse shoes and plenty of horse feed but she needed to journey swiftly and their party travelled light. The carts containing her new robes and other personal items would not leave Westminster until the roads hardened again.
The sky had been fairly clear when they had left the priory but after they had gone about two miles, the clouds to the north-west began to take on a greenish mien, and the wind had strengthened.
Newton waved to Kate to draw rein. ‘My lady, there is a storm coming. We need to turn back. There will be no shelter.’
‘Turn back? No, we must press on.’ She saw him exchange concerned looks with Eleanor. ‘We can outride it if we make haste.’
Her common sense told her they would be caught whichever way they rode. There were no copses, no hedges to shelter them from the force of the wind. Only a stone circle of the ancients eerily broke the horizon, monstrous stones, stark as bleached bones against the tempestuous sky.
‘Mayhap we could shelter there, my lady?’ exclaimed Eleanor, but Newton’s men were having none of that.
‘This be the Devil’s country,’ cried one of them, and they were all crossing themselves.
‘We’re wasting precious time. Come on!’ Kate gave spur and the others followed. The horses, sensing the brooding storm and their riders’ apprehension did their best, but glancing back across her shoulder, Kate saw the massive wall of rain closing in.
‘Faster!’ she exclaimed.
But the storm caught them, stoning their heads with pellets of hail.
‘Close up!’ yelled Newton, herding them into a tight huddle as fat bodkins of icy rain rammed into their backs. Her men nobly did their best to shelter her and Eleanor, but Kate’s horse was terrified, trying to break away.
Her cloak was cered to withstand rain but this torrent was merciless, driving its way in where the seam between hood and cloak had not been greased thoroughly. Rivulets of water sped off the shiny surface and soaked into her riding skirt around her calves and then into her woollen hose above her riding boots. The front of her hood was dripping water down the bridge of her nose and the groves in the cloth draped across her thighs and supposed to keep her lap dry, were puddled and sodden.
As the storm, uncaring, headed remorselessly on and the rain lightened, the company broke apart.
‘Jesu!’ Newton tipped out the gutter of water that had been flooding over his hat brim and rubbed the moisture from his face with a sodden glove.
Eleanor was staring in dismay at the trickles of red dye, spilling like blood, from her sleeves.
‘Don’t grieve over it, Eleanor. You may have as much of my cloth as you please when it arrives at Shute,’ Kate promised. ‘Are you dry underneath?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Good.’ Lucky Eleanor. Kate herself was soaked to the skin but she did not want a fuss. ‘And the rest of you?’ She took their grunts for assent.
‘Master Newton?’ His taut face told her he was holding back a string of curses. ‘Then we press on,’ she affirmed.
‘Aye, to the next inn for to warm ourselves,’ Eleanor muttered.
But there was no next inn and it was as though the Devil indeed had snatched every dwelling from the plain. Only a huddle of beech trees greeted them where the chalk gave way to clay but what was to be gained in tarrying there?
The first signs of habitation they came upon were meagre hovels, scarcely a hamlet let alone a village and there was no inn.
‘We need a goodly sized town,’ grumbled Kate, trying to hide her shivers. A town that would have a choice of inns with fires and irons to heat the ale and roast meat to warm their bellies. ‘How far are we from Salisbury? That’s around here somewhere.’ A good meal and then they could press on.
‘God knows, my lady. I do not know this road. We should have brought a guide from Amesbury. We could still return there,’ he added, his voice acquiring volume.
‘No, we are not going back, Master Newton.’
She sensed resentment from every one of them as they rode on, but they did not have a sick child whom they loved more than all the world. She prayed for an alehouse at the least but they only encountered more God-forsaken farming hamlets that could have scarce boasted a dozen souls let alone a tavern or church where they might shelter.
Kate’s feet were numb inside her boots. Oh, how she longed for a pot of hot, spiced wine. A mile on, her horse stumbled and threw her. It could have been worse. The fall shook her but mercifully nothing seemed broken. Half of her was covered with mud and just in those brief moments the heavy rain had splashed onto the exposed lining of her furred undercloak. Her saddle was wet now and gave her a damp seat as Robert and the groom helped her back onto the shaken mare.
They rode slower now, fearful of further mishap. The rain was abating at last but the wind bit like a flagellant’s whip as her skin lost heat. She felt shivery and began to weary but said nothing; the more miles they put behind them, the closer they were to Shute.
‘My lady, watch out!’ Newton grabbed her horse’s reins as the mare stumbled again. Kate tried to concentrate but the cold was numbing her mind. Her legs were like ice.
‘We’ll stop at the next farm,’ Newton was declaring angrily. ‘Upon my oath, we shall!’
Maybe that was wise. It was as much as she could do to stay in the saddle.
‘My lady said we must not tarry,’ Eleanor argued.
‘Holy Mother of God, woman! Look at her face.’ Kate caught the word ‘corpse’.
‘We…we go on!’ she insisted. ‘D-don’t worry over me. As close to Salisbury as we can.’
But she was not sure that she could. The wind was numbing her mind. Maybe that was best. She could ride without resisting, without thought.
Then she was aware of some half dozen riders overtaking them and then surrounding them and her people arguing. One of the strangers shouted at Newton then at her but she ignored him, trying to rein her horse away but then the man grabbed the lead rein and they were being herded off the road like some hapless sheep.
Kate had a vague notion of the track rising, of being urged from the saddle. Her feet, frozen for hours, collapsed under her. A man – not one of her people – tried to steady her but when she collapsed like a ragdoll, he lifted her up and carried her into a smoky darkness where there were frightened voices and harsh words. She was aware of being set down on an earthen floor and rainwater spitting down on a miserable fire. Was this Purgatory? Her mind was too torpid to panic.
Someone was giving orders but it wasn’t Newton. People took her outer cloak away and a tall fiend thrust a taper into her face. She was too cold to shiver anymore. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep forever.
‘Christ Almighty!’ Hands shook her. The voice was loud. It sounded like Lord Hastings but it couldn’t be because they were miles from Westminster and her mind must be playing tricks. And it could not be Hell, because he said, ‘Christ’…yet the Devil must blaspheme or he wouldn’t be the Devil.
Eleanor – yes, Eleanor – was undoing Kate’s woollen mantle and dragging off her gloves.
‘Quickly, woman! Oh, out of the way!’
Stronger hands found her garters and were rolling down her stockings but there was no sensation left in her feet. Why were they undressing her when it was so cold? The fire was pitiful.
‘Now her gown! Down to her bare skin. Go to it!’
‘That I will not!’ Eleanor’s voice was terrified.
Fierce hands were hauling Kate’s sodden gown over her head and a dagger edge sawed through the laces of her chemise. She struggled and found her elbows grabbed and held from behind while her clothing was peeled away. For a moment she was utterly naked and then she was wrapped afresh in fur.
The Golden Widows Page 28
