A man like her Uncle Richard was so attractive, so unlike the thin faced Henry Tudor! He had been devoted to his wife, a man who never dallied with women, like her own father. The morality of Richard of Gloucester, so different from her own father’s licentiousness had made him an attractive figure. His very unavailability was a magnet for her girlish dreams.
Elizabeth brushed aside her tears. She would marry Henry Tudor, mate with him, give him children. It was as her mother said, her duty. There was no escape. She felt her very youth withering away inside her and with it a strong determination dawning.
Her mother would never rule through her! Elizabeth knew that her mother would imagine that Elizabeth would be the puppet and she would pull the strings, but that was not going to be the case. With a combination of guilt and energy, Elizabeth realized that she hated her mother! Loathed her ambitious nature. The greatest revenge Elizabeth, could have on her she realized, with natural clarity, was to remove her as far away from the seat of power as she possibly could. Her mother had ever been a meddlesome, a woman who thrived on intrigue, a thorn in the side of Uncle Richard.
Elizabeth Woodville, her mother, had sat by and watched her own husband destroy his manhood with a surfeit of wine and women, wallowing in his destruction because she and her relations imagined that would give them power, power to rule through young Edward. Once her father was dead they had achieved only a brief moment of absolute power, and then Uncle Richard had succeeded in stopping it.
Now her mother once more sought the aphrodisiac of power through her daughter. She would never achieve it, of that Elizabeth was positive. One day, when the time was right, she would banish her mother and her family from the Court. They would have no influence. She would marry Henry Tudor and from that day forward she would be in every sense of the word a Tudor. Her own family she would disown, all of them. Even should her brothers return, they would not rule. If they had to be put to the sword, so be it. She had made up her mind. If she had to sacrifice herself then there had to be compensation for that sacrifice. It would be her children who would rule England one day. That and that alone would be compensation enough. She could find no love in her heart for the Tudor, but she could live with that. There were greater things at stake than mere love. Hadn’t her mother taught her that? Aye and taught her well indeed.
* * * *
It snowed a few days before the Festival of Christ’s birth. It snowed all day and the next day, huge snow flakes that settled softly where they fell, in the courtyard, on the battlements and on the road that led to the monastery.
The shepherds brought in their sheep, or as many as they could round up before the snow began to be blown by the east wind. Caradoc, seeing them, demanded the reason.
The din was horrendous. He could barely hear himself speak. Perhaps the shepherds didn’t hear his commands or failed to understand. They gave him a glance and then carried on with marshaling their timid flocks through the main gate.
Returning to the Keep, he called for Edgar, but it was she who came, wrapped in an ermine lined purple cloak. He had not seen the cloak before. His eyes narrowed. It was the finest garment he had ever seen her wear, its color, purple, a sign of royalty. Where he wondered, had she come by such a cloak. A payment for favors bestowed? Was that why her royal master had obtained a good marriage for her? Had Mellor had to marry a King’s light of love?
“What is it?” she asked more calmly than she felt, for she was aware of his eyes tearing all over her.
“What the devil are they doing? Why are they bringing their animals in here?” he growled. She irritated him. She was so capable and clever, qualities that he detested in women and in truth suspected. Women who were clever meddled and that meddling usually meant someone burned their fingers!
“They must fear the snow will get worse. They look at the sky, they smell the wind, they know. They always seem to know when the weather will turn severe.”
He continued to frown down at her. Kate went on, “Many sheep will perish if they do not round up. They are protecting your interest. That is why they are bringing them in here.”
He turned on his heel and strode off. Kate snuggled deeper into her cloak, then made her way back to the solar and the more congenial company of Edgar and the Dame. She and Edgar were attempting to initiate the Dame into household management and the Dame tried to show interest, although the task appeared to be beyond her grasp. She could neither read nor write and words on a page appeared to terrify her. Her son was insisting she learn how to manage and the Dame endeavored to please him, and even allowed Kate to instruct her on the rudiments of the written word, yet she could not grasp the basic points. Simply, she was not really interested in learning.
“My son insists. He says I should not be beholden to ladies, that I will not always have a lady at my sleeve. But truth to tell, all this study gives me a headache…”
It was true, for Kate was only biding her time, yet there was a threat also implicit in the statement that Dame Caradoc, in her innocence, could not see. Kate felt herself tremble and so visible was the movement, that the Dame asked her if she was sickening for something. The Dame showed such genuine and kind concern Kate wondered, and not for the first time, how such a gentle and kindly soul had brought into the world such an arrogant tyrant!
Later, in her chamber, Kate slid back the sheepskin that was draped over the arrow slit. Outside all was white and still. Great mounds of snow blocked the tracks that led to the cluster of houses and the Abbey. No word could be sent out and no word could come in. Richard on his feet now, but without full energy, came and leant against her as he too viewed the scene. The lord could do nothing about them but neither could they do anything about their situation.
A wind came next day, blowing across the sea from the east, from frozen desolate wastes and it hardened the snow, turning it into great wedges of ice. They were imprisoned inside. No entertainers, those happy traveling folk, could travel to them to make the festival joyous.
Everyone sat in the hall, clustering round the roaring fire, inching closer to the hot flames, reluctantly making room for late-comers. Servants, lord and steward all huddled together. The place closest to the fire was reserved by silent consent, for Richard. He lay on a mound of cushions, his favorite dog at his side, curled up like the dog, his hands occasionally moving through the animal’s fur. The sparkle of burning logs emphasizing the red-gold brilliance of his hair. He delighted the kitchen wenches, who gazed at him fondly. Had any one of them seen his father then they would have to know, had to see the stamp of York all over him. It was a blessing,
Kate reflected, that no one had seen his father apart from Edgar and herself.
Something needed to be done, Kate decided. It should have been a joyous occasion but everyone was looking miserable. Even Dame Caradoc had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she reflected on better times. The lord, some distance from the fire, and huddled in a cloak lined in ermine, was surly and silent. Certainly his letting his servants sit close to the fire was a gesture of sort, but it was not enough. There should be happiness, entertainment. It was a duty that he had omitted.
Kate left the fireside, aware of Richard’s questioning gaze. From her chamber she collected up her lute. When they saw her return with it, there was a murmur of pleasure from all but the lord, who merely raised a questioning eyebrow. The servants shuffled up on the benches, making room for Kate and the lute and linked arms, huddled together in excited anticipation.
She began with a collection of merry tunes that had the feet tapping, then knowing that her voice was reasonably pleasant, if not fine, she sang “Ja Nuns Hons Pris,” which was the late King Richard’s favorite. It was the wrong choice for her because it filled her mind with memories and made her eyes burn with tears.
“Mother,” Caradoc said, speaking for the first time. “Will you not sing for the company?” She stood from the bench, blushing but with a radiant smile about her lips. “The lady will not know the tune,” she said.
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��You do not need the music. The music is all inside you.” Caradoc was imperious. Kate had been going to say that she would soon pick up the melody. His words, though, had her swallowing on the suggestion. He disliked her so much that he would give her credit for nothing, could not bring himself to be civil, to thank her for her efforts. She laid the lute across her lap and smiled at Dame Caradoc, who was looking in her direction as if for encouragement.
The Dame began slowly, her voice very low. Then, confidence gained, her voice burst out from her, a rich deeply melodic sound that throbbed with a kind of beautiful sadness. Hardly anyone understood the words, for she sang in her native tongue, apart from Caradoc and some of his men, yet the longing and feeling for something and someone was there in the melody. Some of the Welshman looked away shamefaced, because of the tears that ran down their cheeks but Caradoc, Kate noticed, was unmoved. Emotionless man she thought, granite hard, invulnerable. The dog by Richard’s side had more feeling than he!
The company gave applause and the Dame smiled as if bemused. “Tell us what the song means,” Richard said. The Dame touched his head gently.
“Have you ever been to Wales?” she asked him.
“I’ve been to Ludlow, “ Richard said eagerly.
“My mother said Wales,” Caradoc growled.
“Harsh man,” his mother teased him. “Deepest Wales., that is what the song is about, of rivers and valleys , deep and secret, of mountains that have never felt the touch of man’s boot, of dark caves and stormy seas. That is why those great brutes weep like babes.” The brutes grinned at her shyly. “They are thinking of home. The song paints a picture of that home, see you.”
“Perhaps one day I will go to that Wales,” Richard said, dreaming Kate suspected, of some magnificent progress--a King seeing his subjects, bestowing honors, being part of some glorious pageant.
“Play some merry tunes, lady,” Caradoc commanded. “For this day turns into a funeral rather than a celebration.”
Kate combed her mind for a selection of merry tunes. The plump cook took hold of the hand of the pot man and they whirled in a merry jig across the hall, quickly joined by others. A groom set off on his own, tumbling with the expertise of the traveling folk. Someone brought hot spiced ale and sweetmeats. The party had begun.
The Laundress came and shyly took Richard’s hand. Laughing, he danced with her until exhaustion drove him back to his place by the fire. Dame Caradoc smoothed the damp swathe of hair from his brow and, to Kate’s relief, nodded satisfaction. He was all right.
“Can no one else play?” Caradoc asked testily. The devil take the man, Kate thought. He could not even abide her giving pleasure to people. Edgar admitted he could play a little but not so well as the lady. “Then take the lute. Play however badly.” Kate immediately stopped playing, her cheeks flushed with anger.
“The lady shall have refreshment,” Caradoc went on. “Someone bring her wine and sweetmeats.”
Kate felt momentarily dizzy from a combination of bad temper being quickly dissipated by surprise. Gratefully she gave the lute to Edgar, then took the sweetmeats and wine, relishing both; her fingers tingling with relief, her toes curling in the velvet slippers.
Edgar played not too badly and when he did play a wrong note, only Kate inwardly winced. The dances were oblivious to it. She had not noticed the lord leave his bench on the opposite side of the fire. She was too busy watching the antics of the dancers and tumbling groom. It was only when she felt a cool hand on her neck where her cloak had loosed, that she became aware of his being by her side. She jumped at his touch. “Oh,” she gasped.
He said. “I have a mind to dance and you will be my partner.” Very briefly her eyes met with those of the Dame. The Dame gave her a smile and a nod of her head in approval.
The other dancers, who had been doing any kind of dance, either alone or with partners, twirling and moving with steps that had no from, colliding with one another, now formed a line behind the lord and lady. Those who knew no formal steps, copied them. Kate felt flushed and shy, uncomfortable and aware of the lord’s piercing gaze when they came together. She felt dwarfed by him, of all kinds of strange feelings tumbling around inside her, of a need to slap his insolent face and at the same time, wanting to make that gaze soften.
As the merry tune came to a close, the lord raised her off the ground and swung her round as if she were merely a sliver of silk. The people laughed to see it. Some attempting to copy what he had done, ended by dropping their partners in an ungracious heap.
“See what you have caused.” Kate laughed. He smiled, the years slipped from him. She had thought him well turned thirty, but she now saw that he was probably younger. The smile made all the difference.
He lifted a hand and pulled her cloak closer about her. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“Not now.”
“Then will you come and join me on my bench?”
“Of course.”
His was the coldest spot, of course, at the very end of the bench, but Kate was warm from the dancing and the spiced wine. There was plenty of room on the bench now because so many people were dancing, yet still the lord sat close to her. He fingered the soft fur of her cloak’s lining, where it had fallen open. “A superior cloak,” he said.
“Yes. My master gave it to me,” she admitted dreamily, for the moment peace and contentment invading her and driving out caution and cleverness.
“Did he now,” Caradoc said smiling a little. “Tell me, why did tears fill your eyes when you sang that last song?”
“Could you see?” He had to be very observant for it was dim in the hall. When he nodded she said, not without some truth. “It reminded me of other winter days, of gathering just like this.”
“At Middleham?”
Kate nodded. The casual gesture gave no true reflection of the images that flooded her mind--many festivals in that homely castle, high in that green and fertile dale, of songs and dances. There had been little of that in the near past. The King and his wife had grieved bitterly over the death of their son, and then Richard’s very soul seemed to have turned to stone, as his wife was finally taken from him by death.
They had known one another from childhood. He felt all kinds of love for her. He was her protector, lover, brother. Complete happiness was given to him, only to be snatched away. Circumstances had planted him center stage, only for those same circumstances to drive him away from her!
Anne had had no ambition. The affairs of state and the lust for power were alien to her. She saw these as only coming between herself and her obsessive love for her husband.
“You look sad, “ Caradoc murmured, “come and dance again and put the smile back on your face.”
Caradoc whirled her across the room, through the prancing fooling servants. Without this time giving them the chance to from a sequence, he guided her across the hall to where it was dark and chill and then he stopped.
A strong hand took hold of hers very firmly, he urged her through the hanging furs that sealed off the solar. There was a fire in there, but low and chill. It was silent and dim. Leaving her, he went and threw some logs on the fire, then took up the bellows to them until fresh flames came to lick the new wood. The logs were of applewood and the air was quickly filled with the sweet scent.
Kate drew close to the fire, glad to be away from the hall, where the gaiety she had inspired had made her miserable.
“Your stepson is sometime gaining his strength,” Caradoc said, coming now to stand beside her.
“Yes,” she admitted worriedly.
“I should like to train him, have him grow strong, or is his constitution weak?”
“I do not believe so, but the fever was very severe.”
“His father was robust?”
A laugh tinkled out of her before she could caution herself. “Oh yes!”
“But his mother was not?” he persisted.
His mother was a very strong and very determined woman, who bred strong and hardy child
ren, but of course she could not say that. “I believe him to be like his father,” she said, “and he will mend with rest and care.”
“He cares greatly for you. Stepmothers are not generally so adored.”
“It depends on the stepmother,” Kate answered rightly. She stretched out her hand over the flames. Caradoc caught one, his thumb gently probing the ring on her finger. “A fine cloak, a fine ring but nothing more.”
“A jeweled cross,” she added.
“There was little time for your husband to buy you more gifts, to send you bolts of silk and furs and precious stones to decorate your gowns.”
“Indeed you are right, there was little time.”
“My mother has finer gowns than the lady.”
“Yes, your Mother looks splendid.” Kate admitted.
“Yet, she cares little for fine things. Do you care for fine things, lady?”
“I have never owned any, but perhaps it would be pleasant. I am not free of vanity or of desiring baubles, of thinking about sumptuous gowns and fine lawn against my skin. I do not crave the hair shirt!”
He chuckled softly. “I may yet give you these things,” he murmured. His hand moved from hers to slide behind her neck. His fingers were cool against the flesh. They moved gently against her skin. When she sought to protest it was too late, his head had come down and his mouth had covered her own.
No lips had ever touched hers before, no sensual feelings had ever brushed her flesh. It was a delicious sensation, one that caused every pulse in her body to throb. His lips were warm and gentle, they slightly parted, then her own moved beneath his, which were insistent, probing, motivating her senses rather than her mind. A victim to these wondrous sensations, Kate allowed her arms to go around him, seeking the bare flesh below his hair line at the base of his neck. How hard it felt, strong, muscular, throbbing beneath her fingertips. He felt good. He smelt of the great out doors, of horses and grass. There was something wonderful about that scent. She was not certain what it was…a manly scent perhaps.
Now he drew her closer to him, parting the heavy folds of her cloak. Her head was filled with shooting stars, trapped in an alien time, battered by even stranger yet wonderful sensations. Kate did not even feel the reason and sense flooding from her, forgetting even how she felt about this man. She was no longer her sensible self. She was like a closed flower than suddenly had to burst open. This was the secret, the reason for being, the answer to questions that had plagued her mind. This was the summit that she had, without being aware of the pleasure involved, wished to climb with king Richard.
Seed of the Broom Page 7
