Finding Kate

by Maryanne Fantalis

  Conveyance had his eyes on the apple, the treat I had not been able to bring him. He gave a little whinny and moved closer to Sir William, ears and nose forward, pressing his chest against the wall. I tried to ignore the fact that my hunger urged a similar response.

  “How long have you been there?” I demanded, falling back on anger.

  Sir William looked around. “Here? On my own land, observing what passes? Ah, well, to be precise, I was not here whilst I served as page and squire—”

  If I had been standing, I would have stamped my foot. As it was, I cut him off. “I mean, how long have you been there, just now, while I have been here?”

  “Oh, that. A few minutes, I should say. Why? Is your conversation with your horse terribly secret?”

  His tone, his smile, invited me to laugh. I would not allow myself to. “As a matter of fact, it is.” Even as I said it, I realized how ridiculous that sounded.

  “Well then, I shall leave you to it.” He tossed the apple in the air, caught it, and turned to go. Then he looked back over his shoulder. “I do have one question though. Perhaps Conveyance has the answer.”

  “What?” I snapped, in no mood to be mocked.

  He turned fully to face me. “I have been wondering why you care.”

  “Why I—?”

  “Aye. All these people who scorn and revile you, you expend so much effort to scorn and revile them in turn. And yet it appears to me that you consider all of God’s creation, including poor Conveyance here and my humble self, to be entirely beneath you, and so I have been wondering why it matters at all what such lowly creatures think of you?” He took a bite of the apple. “My lady.”

  “You are one to speak of scorn, sir!” I swung my legs over the wall and jumped down. “I have only to look at the way you treat your servants—nay! I need only look at the way you behave to me! You are high-handed as a king! You care nothing for my feelings, my comfort, my health…. You would starve me to death—”

  “You will not starve, Kate,” he said calmly.

  “—you will not let me sleep, you keep me in this awful, filthy dress—”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “it is quite an awful dress.”

  “—but you deny me a new one! You do not treat me as a proper wife!”

  “Why should I? You do not act as one.”

  “And why should I? You did not properly marry me! You left me there, waiting at the church for the whole village to mock!”

  “And I ask again, why do you care what those folk think?”

  I stopped, breathing hard. “You gave them what they wanted—a figure of fun. Kathryn abandoned. It was what they expected all along. No one would marry Kathryn the shrew, not for any price.” I had to be careful or I might cry, and I would not cry, not in front of him.

  He frowned down at the apple in his hand. “You may be right about that, and I am sorry to have caused you that pain. But I ask you this: how many times have you given them what they expected, Kathryn? And when were you going to stop?”

  He walked over to the wall. Conveyance leaned eagerly across, reaching for the hoped-for treat. Sir William held out the apple, and my horse, the traitor, took it, crunching away happily, slobbering on the wall as Sir William rubbed between his ears.

  He did not look at me again before walking away. I was glad of it.

  That night, alone in my room, I undid all of Margaret’s carefully braided plaits. I had never done my own hair—such a pampered life I had led!—and so with meticulous fingers, I inspected how she had done them and practiced until I learned how to do them myself. As a married woman—ha!—my hair should properly be under a headdress as well as done up, but since I did not even have a decent kirtle to my name, a headdress seemed to be too much to ask.

  Still, I had never been so proud of myself. And at least my hair was neat and tidy again.

  Next, I set about to remove the tattered train and useless angel sleeves from my kirtle.

  Not an easy thing to do without a knife or any other tool. Even more difficult without removing the kirtle from my body, which I was not going to do in case Sir William happened to walk into my room unannounced as he had done before.

  But he did not, that night.

  Exhausted as I was by dawn, I felt a little better. I had accomplished something all on my own. And I had calmed enough to consider that, if nothing else, Sir William had to keep me alive for my dowry. If I died of starvation, I was certain my father would never hand over the gold.

  He was too good a merchant to carry through on a broken contract.

  Chapter 12

  The sun was hot and high when I woke with a cramp in my neck and a crease in my temple from leaning against the edge of the table. The straw ruins of my bed had been swept up and taken away, though the bed frame remained, taunting me. As I staggered to my feet, the objects on the table rattled against one another and I put up my hands to keep them from falling. In my sleepy state, it took me a moment to realize that the serving pieces—the ones I had been tossing down the stairs in the general direction of my husband’s head—had been replaced. Beside a small, deep bowl for washing up, there was a pitcher full of fresh water and a small, plain cup.

  There was even a towel. Rough, and homespun, but clean.

  I washed and drank, and then decided I’d stay in my room. If he wanted to fight, let him come to me.

  Hours passed before he popped his head in through the door. “There you are,” he said, cheerful as could be. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  I gestured, a small circle of my hand as the heat and lack of food made me drowsy. “Where could I go?”

  He tipped his head. “Run home to your father, perhaps?”

  I grimaced. “You know I wouldn’t. That’s why you can treat me as you do.”

  He grinned. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, walking into the room and holding out his hand. “Come, let’s go for a ride.”

  I stared at his hand, then looked up at his grinning face. “Oh, why not?” I said and took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.

  We emerged from the keep into the softening light of the late afternoon and waited on the steps for the horses to be readied. I could not find a place to put my hands where I did not have to touch my rumpled, filthy, ruined wedding kirtle. It was a constant reminder of my situation and I could not bear to wear it any longer, but what choice did I have? Go about in my chemise? Might as well walk about in naught but my skin. I closed my eyes and pictured myself in the glorious russet kirtle the tailor had brought with him. I imagined the feel of the silk on my skin, the soft rustle of the skirts as I moved, the swish of the false sleeves trailing behind me….

  Hooves striking hollow on the ground and the squeaky rub of leather saddles and straps alerted me and made me open my eyes. My Conveyance was led forth first, his coat gleaming like velvet in the sun. The lightness of his step, the arch of his neck, the fineness of his features all marked him as a steed of quality, but more than his worth in gold, there was this: Sir William had said he was my wedding present, back before he had turned my life into this sleepless nightmare. This beautiful, dancing, joyful creature belonged to me.

  Sir William stepped down toward the grooms and I was glad of it because my eyes had filled with tears. God, what a weak thing I had become after being denied comforts for a couple of days.

  But as my hand came up to wipe at my foolish eyes, Sir William was suddenly there in front of me, lifting my chin with his fingers so I could not avoid him. With the other hand, he touched, very gently, the single tear that was coursing down my cheek. “Kate,” he said quietly, “why do you weep?”

  I could not answer. I knew if I spoke, I would burst into real tears. I gulped a breath and looked back at my horse. My Conveyance. What an awful thing to call him. The joke calmed me. I found I could speak.

  “That he—that such beauty should be mine,” I said.

  I expected some quick mocking remark, but Sir William just looked at me f
or a long moment, saying nothing. Then he dropped his hands from my face and moved back, just a bit. He took my hand and raised it, but instead of leaving a courtly kiss on the back of my hand as I anticipated, he turned my hand over and pressed a kiss into my palm, then folded my hand closed around it.

  Before I could fathom this unaccountable act, he had turned away to give the horses bits of apple. He seemed to have forgotten all about me.

  Had I not been tired beyond exhaustion, hungry beyond faintness, and confused beyond words, I would have enjoyed that ride very much.

  We were alone in the world, Sir William and I and our horses, alone in a green, sloping countryside bathed in golden light that promised to linger for many hours yet. At times we rode side by side, at times one after the other, but as much as I could make my poor tired mind focus on anything besides staying in the saddle, I struggled to understand why Sir William was treating me so.

  After a long, invigorating gallop, we came to a stop beside a swift-flowing stream and dismounted to allow the horses to rest and drink. Sir William took my horse’s reins from me, surely to keep me from leaping back into the saddle and running away. The thought made me laugh to myself, for while I could tell very well which direction we had come from, where would I run to? Did he truly think I would flee back to my father? Even under these circumstances, I knew I would not.

  When the horses had finished at the water, I crept to the edge myself. Golden light danced on the water, dazzling my eyes, so I closed them and listened to the voice of the river instead. Behind me, leather straps creaked and eased as Sir William loosened the girths on the horse’s saddles, speaking to them in low tones. I was soothed. I was light-headed. I sat quickly on the rock beneath me.

  “What are you doing?”

  His voice was like a chill draft in a warm room, or a scratchy burr you can’t locate in your clothes. I opened my eyes. “I am—Nothing. I am going to get a drink of water myself.”

  I leaned forward, but the rock on which I sat was at least a foot over the river. I would have to lie flat upon it and scoop dripping handfuls up to my mouth to get a drink here. Not far away, a chain of rocks led out into the current, where I could squat beside a slight fall of water. Perfect for drinking.

  “Kate….”

  I took pleasure in ignoring him. Besides, I had to concentrate on where to place my feet in their silk slippers on the water-slick rocks. How many new things had this proper, town-bred girl done in the two days since leaving home?

  Two days? Was it three? It was hard to say as I’d neither slept properly nor eaten since then.

  But water. Water would fill my empty belly for a while and cool my skin and help me to face him….

  The stone beneath my foot wobbled as I shifted my weight forward, tipping enough to slosh water over its surface and soak my shoe with freezing water coming straight down from the Welsh mountains. Gasping, I tried to pull my foot back—a mistake, I realized even as I was doing it, but too late. There was no room on the angled stone where my left foot rested for both feet to safely reside, and I perched, waving my arms, searching for a place to land my flailing foot.

  The only place was in the riverbed.

  Down went my foot, calf-deep in the frigid current. I cried out in shock and again as my foot slid on the slick river bed. My legs split like the limbs of a draughtsman’s compass, and I tumbled into the water, drenched up to my shoulders. The river pulled at me with cold fingers, tugging at my dress, my hair, my skin, urging me to come along with it to wherever it was going.

  “Kate!”

  Sir William had bounded across the stones lining the riverbed and was leaning over me, concern writ all over his face. “Are you all right?”

  Fighting the water and the multitude of stones and pebbles under my legs, I managed to pull my legs together. I was not hurt, not even bruised as far as I could tell. No, just sitting in the middle of a cold river on a hot day. And I still hadn’t had a drink.

  I had thought it couldn’t get worse.

  Helplessly, I burst out laughing.

  Sir William scooped me out of the water, his arms tight around my waist—I was too weak with laughter and exhaustion to help much—and dragged me to the riverbank. When he dropped me down in a patch of sunlight, I rolled onto my back and squinted up at him, still giggling. “At least now my dress is washed,” I said.

  Without a word, he crossed to where the horses were grazing in the thick grass, shaking the wet off his sleeves. In a moment, he came back with a waterskin from his horse’s gear.

  “You might have asked,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking the skin from him.

  He walked away to sit on a large rock by the river, leaving me in my warm, sunny patch. He sat watching me thoughtfully as I sat watching him. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, a tight, defensive ball like a hedgehog. Except a hedgehog puts the spines on his back out to the enemy. I sat facing out. Facing him.

  The horses pulled grass and chewed. Around us, a thousand invisible insects went about their noisy living.

  “What were you thinking, running away?”

  So he knew. Gregory must have told him, even at the risk to his own skin for letting me slip away. More fool me, for thinking I had an ally in the fellow, compassionate though he seemed.

  I made a face. “Didn’t get very far, did I, so what does it matter?”

  “You think you’re safe? Do you know where you are?”

  I blinked, not quite understanding the question. “I believe I am in England. Although I think I saw Wales from the top of your tower.”

  “Exactly,” he said, as though that were all that needed to be said.

  “Exactly what?” I demanded.

  Sir William turned his eyes upon the distant hills when he spoke. “Henry Tudor will return, bringing war. When he does, he will come through Wales, the land of his forebears.”

  “Henry Tudor is in Brittany,” I scoffed. Not everyone had been happy when King Richard put his nephew aside with that claim of illegitimacy, and those who sought his downfall—and sought to rise to power with a different king—supported Henry Tudor’s claim.

  “France,” he said. “He was finally convinced it was time to leave Brittany, and he is now in France. Things are moving quickly, and not all in King Richard’s favor.” He dropped his eyes to me, that sharp, blue gaze that sent sparks through my unwilling skin. “Tudor attempted a landing the year before last, in October, or had you not heard, immured in your quiet little town?”

  I decided to ignore his disparaging tone. After all, he was the one who had plucked me out of that quiet little town. “I heard. It was during the awful rains that fall, and he never did land. The Duke of Buckingham was executed for rebelling against King Richard in Tudor’s name.”

  “And what if he does succeed in landing this summer? Or what if he already has? What would become of you, a woman alone walking about the countryside?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Still.

  “So I should stay with you regardless of what you do to me rather than risk being accosted by a rebel army passing through your lands?”

  “That, or brigands. Yes.”

  I wanted so badly to think. There had to be an answer to what he was saying. Sadly, my exhausted mind would not work properly.

  But armies and brigands would do worse to a woman than quarrel with her and refuse her food. He was right about that.

  His horse took a step forward, the strike of its hoof like a stone dropping from height. The drone of insects sang like a lullaby. I did not want to engage him in conversation. I did hate him, after all. If only I could have ignored him, I could have slept peacefully, letting the sun bake the damp out of my sodden dress. But there was something about him, that burr-hidden-in-your-clothes quality that demanded my attention. “How is it that you know so much about Tudor and his rebels?”

  “I learned a great deal while I was at court. Naturally, everyone there is quite c
oncerned about what Tudor is planning, when he might land and where and who might join him. And one hears rumors….”

  He looked off toward the Welsh border again and grew silent. My eyes drifted closed, and I watched the play of dark and red shadows on the back of my lids, not quite asleep but not quite awake, waiting for him to prod me back to the world.

  “My demesne, this keep and these lands,” he said, “this is all very old.”

  I opened my eyes with a sigh and looked over at him. Was I supposed to respond to something so manifest?

  “There have been improvements, of course. But parts of the keep were erected when the first King Edward conquered Wales and gave it to his son.”

  A very long time ago. Yet Wales remained restive and rebellious, a captured principality, not a conquered one. Henry Tudor claimed the blood of the Welsh as well as the English royal families, though there hadn’t been a true king in Wales in hundreds of years.

  “My family received it from King Henry the Fourth,” he continued.

  “You are for Lancaster, then.” That was why he knew so much about Henry Tudor, the last scion of the House of Lancaster.

  He grinned. “No one is openly for Lancaster now, if they are wise. And I just returned from doing fealty to King Richard of the House of York.”

  I waited, stretching out my legs at last, unfolding from my defensive hedgehog posture. Not that I trusted him more, but the cold damp had pooled in my lap and I was starting to shiver.

  “But my father always said, ‘We are men of Lancaster,’ and said it with pride,” he went on. “You are for York, I suppose.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be? My father prospered in the peaceful years of King Edward’s reign, and a York king wears the crown at this moment, so why would I not?”

  “Your name, Kathryn, and your sister’s, Blanche. Both were wives of the Duke of Lancaster, years ago.”

  I looked down at the water rushing past, at the white shapes it made where it leaped over a stone. I opened my mouth, then shut it. He had no right to know my story. Still. “I was named for my mother, who died in birthing me.” I swallowed past a lump in my throat that felt like a peach stone. I never spoke, rarely even thought, of her, the unknown woman whose death had altered my history. “Blanche is an old family name on her mother’s side, going back to a woman who had been a maid in the Duchess of Lancaster’s service. But we do not move in noble circles. We are—we were—safe enough in our little town where no one cared for York or Lancaster so long as there was peace.”