Seed of the Broom

by Seed Of The Broom (NCP) (lit)

  “The fault may not always lie with the woman,” the Abbot said, “though they often bear the brunt.”

  The statement was like a scolding. Was this holy man impugning his virility? Damn the man! Had he not worn those robes, Caradoc thought, he would have knocked him off his feet.

  Caradoc turned to Kate, pouring a scornful glance on her, but she was not even looking at him. She was looking at the door into the courtyard, watching as Richard swung himself beyond it, slamming it after him. Kate’s agitation increased. She was like a horse poised to bolt, every muscle tensed and Caradoc knew that but for this thin faced Abbot, she would have hurtled after Richard no matter what he said. It was always Richard that she ran to, never to him, her husband, never seeking him out, or coming to him in excitement.

  “Please,” she said suddenly. “I must go and find Richard. I must.”

  She made no further ado, did not wait to be excused but ran across the hall, swinging back the door, her dark red skirts fluttering in the wind, gone like a will o’ the wisp, yet indelibly stained on his mind.

  The Abbot said into the yawning silence. “Did you not say something about a cup of ale, Lord Mellorsdale?”

  * * * *

  He was in the stables, his arms around his horse’s neck, his face buried in its mane. His clothes seemed not to fit anywhere. She had altered them but it seemed he grew out of them daily. His frame angular, long at the arm and leg, he reminded her of a young colt.

  “Richard,” she said softly, smoothing a hand over his taut back. He straightened and turned, already taller than her.

  “You know what this means, all of it?” he asked. Tears shone on his cheeks. She took his hand. Bringing it to her mouth, she kissed it gently. “I.. oh yes, Richard, but not here. Come let us walk in the lady’s garden.”

  He raised his arm, wiped away the wetness from his cheeks with his sleeve, then put his arm through hers. Outside it was foggy and damp, but they ignored the weather, hardly seeing it anyway because they were too intently wrapped up in their own thoughts.

  Once free of the possibility of eavesdroppers, Richard asked. “What am I?”

  “King of England.”

  “Aye a strange truth. He has made me legitimate by law.” But his smile was bitter. “How my sister must crow her delight.”

  “There is more,” Kate said.

  “What more can there be?”

  “Terrible things. The Abbot says the travelers are full of news. The whole of the London is agape. The streets run with the word….” She took a deep breath. “ …. that you Uncle Richard put you and Edward to death.”

  His teeth clenched. He gave the snarl of a mad dog. “They are saying that your Uncle was a monster, that he poisoned his wife in order to marry your sister. That he put her brothers to death to secure the throne.”

  “Infamy! From where to these lies come?” But of course, he needed no confirmation. They both knew. Tudor and his henchman, turning the people against the King they had destroyed, the upstart who would never be secure in his claim, who would never sleep easily in his bed.

  “The people around here are incensed, the Abbot says. The Brothers even whisper curses alongside their prayers. The whole of Yorkshire seethes because of these lies. In York they mutter obscenities, some attacked a peddler who was only repeating the news. But in London, in London it as treated as the honest truth.”

  “I would ride through the streets and show it for a lie…but, oh dear Kate, I am so afraid.”

  With justification, Kate thought, but dared not utter the words. She knew now that they should have gone when they had the opportunity--roamed the highways with John, gone to Burgundy. She had made many mistakes, and now they were trapped here. They were held, virtually in captivity, by a supporter of the King, living out a lie that might yet be uncovered, speeding towards an unknown future, living a life that was fraught with danger. Now that Elizabeth was legitimized and had given Tudor a son, she would be crowned Queen. The whole family legitimized made Richard the true king. Henry Tudor could not let Richard live unless he renounced his own throne and Kate knew that the Tudor would never do that.

  “What shall we do? Richard asked, suddenly a child again, “Do tell me Kate?”

  What could they do? Run away to Burgundy, leave the dangerous safety of this castle? The Abbot had suggested caution. They must do nothing rash. No one suspected them. No one did not believe that Richard was he son of the late Lord of Mellorsdale. A fine lad, all said and the new lord was fond of him, that was good. By his generosity to the son of the man whose property he had stolen he had won many friends in this small community.

  The Abbot kept his ear close to the ground, listened for words or doubts, but there were none, he reported All this she told Richard. It eased his mind. She saw that he did not relish flight. In spite of everything he was content here, content with the companionship of Caradoc, whom she knew he liked and respected.

  “This is what you and the Abbot discussed?” he asked, folding his arm once more inside hers to lead her back inside. “But you must know the lord is jealous of you and the Abbot.”

  “Nonsense,” Kate scoffed.

  “He is Kate, Please be cautious, Do not spend so much time with the Abbot see him twice a week but please do not see him daily.”

  “Richard, Caradoc does not care for me, so how can he be jealous?

  But Richard did not know, could not answer, so that Kate was not impressed by his plea.

  They went inside the castle once more, their problems not resolved but as always shelved. The Abbot was taking his leave; dark would soon fall this grim afternoon.

  Caradoc came with her to escort the Abbot to the stable. There was no possibility of communication between Kate and him. He had no solution anyway. Only suggesting that Kate should stay where she was with Richard at her side. “Stay where you are comparatively safe, rather than venture into the unknown,” he had counseled. For the moment it was all they could do.

  “What is the matter with the lad?” Caradoc asked as they returned to the castle.

  “Nothing is the matter with him.”

  “There is something.”

  Kate swallowed a curt reply. “It is growing pains. He is changing so rapidly from boy to man. Do you not recall the process? Was it not painful for you? No, I suppose it was not. I suppose you just did it overnight.”

  He grumbled something in his throat, a comment for good or ill, she could not tell and cared even less. As they approached the great door, Caradoc murmured. “So what now of he whom you so admired? What now of the one who haunts your dreams? Can you still love a slayer of innocents?”

  Rage burned at the center of her chest. He believed it! But of course he would. He belonged with the ale house keepers, whore mongers and their clients, down amongst the stall holders and grubby poor who festered in London’s streets. Those dwellers of a teaming sewer of a place, who thrived on vile gossip and tittle tattle, who could no more think for themselves than a parcel of chained monkeys.

  “Well, answer me!”

  “You do not really expect me to debate such nonsense with you, do you?” she asked lightly.

  He caught her wrist, the fingers bruising, forcing her to stop walking, swirling her round to face him. “Yes, I do. I expect you to tell me how you could love a man who put his own brother’s children to the knife, a person who could commit such a barbarous act.”

  Kate smiled in spite of her anger. The smile was smug. “A man will do anything for the sake of his country, is that not so my lord? He may take up arms against his lawful King because he believes he is right.”

  Caradoc’s eyes narrowed. He weighed her face with such intense scrutiny that she trembled.

  “Of course, you do not really believe it,” he said at last. “You loved him so much you cannot allow yourself to believe it!”

  “I do not have to disbelieve it. I know it is not true.”

  “You know?” His grip slackened. She tugged her wrist from hi
s grip, aware that her words had been dangerous. That her desire to prove herself superior had led her into treacherous waters.

  “In my heart,” she said quickly, “and where is the truth in these rumors? Where is the evidence? Where are the bodies? Can you have a murder without bodies? I think not.”

  “Eaten by the fish in the Thames.”

  “Oh dear, how convenient is that.”

  “Do you say it is not true?” he asked softly.

  “What is not true?” They had not noticed the approach of Richard. He stood awkwardly at Caradoc’s side in his ill fitting clothes.

  “Oh nothing,” Kate said, “come it is time to sup.”

  “Did you know him, too? This Richard of Gloucester.” Caradoc asked.

  Kate cast a warning glance at Richard. Richard who had been named for his uncle, the best loved brother of Edward the Forth of England. How blue were Richard’s eyes, everything was expressed in those eyes, easy for any one to red.

  “I did,” Richard said quietly.

  “Did you care for him?” Caradoc asked eagerly.

  “I cared for him greatly,” Richard’s reply was honest.

  “And now that you have heard this news…that he slew the children of his brother?”

  Kate once more threw Richard another warning glance, yet she saw she had not needed to bother. Richard shrugged his angular shoulders.

  “It is only gossip,” he said. “My father used to say the people of London love a good gossip.”

  “But is there not an element of truth in all gossip?” Caradoc asked.

  “Maybe, or perhaps it suits others to let the gossip grow. I do not know and I care less. All this is in the past. We must approach our new life without recourse to what went before. The uniting of York and Lancaster brings peace and prosperity. Is that not important Efan?”

  “But some people will not let go of the past, some cling to it day and night,” Caradoc said, clearly alluding to Kate.

  “Time heals all things,” Richard said. He went to Kate and put his arm around her in a soft and loving embrace. “And when someone has been kind and good to you, they should purchase from you loyalty. Loyalty is everything, do you not think? Are you not loyal in thought, to those that treated you well? Would you not close your ears to gossip about them? Are we not subjective about people rather than objective?”

  “You are wise far beyond your years,” Caradoc said without contempt.

  “I have had to grow quickly, the age is the case but come, Efan, I am hungry. There is a piece of venison and a goblet of wine, the smell entices me. Come to table both of you.”

  Caradoc moved, then Kate felt for Richard’s hand and squeezed it tightly. He had changed in those moments when he had cried in the stable. Richard had left the boy out there. He had become a man. A fine man.

  Chapter Seven

  The months swept by and with the passing of time the specter of danger haunted the days of Kate and Richard and Edgar. Without the Abbot, she realized they would have known nothing. His close proximity was a mixed blessing. News came fast and furious increasing their anxiety but at least it came, so if they wished to prepare they could do so. But prepared for what? Their friends were busy elsewhere and doing things the like of which Richard could never approve.

  In Ireland, the Irish had crowned someone--who he was no one knew. Some said that he was the Earl of Warwick, the son of George of Clarence, a brother of Edward the Fourth, who had been put to death for treason many years ago. Richard did not know whether it was Warwick or not, but he knew that his cousin was addle headed and not quite of this world. A very easy person to manipulate.

  Should it be, then Kate was certain it was a guise, the conspirators wished to cause trouble to tempt the dissatisfied nobility to their camp and when the Tudor was overthrown, they could come for Richard. Thus was his identity protected, his whereabouts unknown. It was clever.

  “Kate, loyal Kate, “ Richard said. His voice had recently broken. It was a firm husky voice, deep and warm, no longer full of trembling uncertainty.

  “What is it?” she asked. He avoided touching her now, yet she longed at times to fold him into her arms and more. She missed his supportive affection, had grown to love him for what was inside him and not because of what he represented. If God granted her a child she knew she could never love that child more than she loved this young man.

  “Oh nothing,” he said.

  “You would tell me if something were troubling you?” she asked anxiously, yet knowing in her heart of hearts that now he never would.

  “Aye of course.” His eyes wandered the hall. Efan came in through the door. Richard sprang to his feet and ran to Efan’s side, displaying the same kind of eagerness that Barley, Richard’s dog showed to him.

  Miserably, Kate realized that Efan had come to be more important in his life. When the child becomes a man, she thought, he will run to his own sex He will take up idols to copy and Efan--Efan would always welcome him with open arms. Efan would be happy she felt, to win Richard from her side. He was pleased for her to attend to womanly tasks alongside his mother, no longer inviting her to sport at the butts, nor taking her for rides. Richard had long since become bored with tables. In the long summer evenings, she and the Dame stitched garments for the poor, stitching only because they were deprived of masculine company.

  Sometimes, there were lonely vigils on the battlements, watching for an approaching large party so she could warn Richard of friend or foe. She would have to hide him somewhere until she discovered who the party was and what they wanted.

  There were other things too, reasons for being alone. There was space up there, freedom from prying eyes and smirking faces. There was no person as lonely, Kate mused, as a woman who did not produce in her belly her husband’s heir. She was the object of ridicule with some, sympathy with others. (Kate was unsure which was worse.) Others showed her contempt. The lady is barren. What a cruel and desolate word that was. She looked over towards the dunes. Even those mounds of soft sand were not barren. Stalks of stiff green grass grew there, witness to fecundity. It would always be her fault. No one high or low would have dare assert, even in jest, that it might be the lord’s fault. Only one man had hinted that not only women could be to blame and that was the Abbot, her dearest and closest friend, a man who made her felt safe, a man with whom she could talk.

  Perhaps, she mused, it was all her own fault, for something inside froze when her husband came to her bed—which was less and less frequently as the months slipped by. It was not himself that repulsed her and nor had he changed. Never was he less than passionate and loving. It was she who could never respond, she who withered inside, she whose mind tumbled with the thought that he had no love for her, that he desired an heir and she was his wife--the vessel. It was a mechanical rather than emotional occurrence. She might be anyone, she had no identity or personality, she was merely his chattel. All was duty and obligation. He had with his offering of the truth blunted her dreams, chilled her warm nature, cynically destroyed any enchantment.

  It was on the battlements that Edgar found her. The Abbot had arrived. The news chased away her melancholy. The society of the Abbot always pleased her, made her feel less lonely and afraid.

  Down in the solar the Abbot was waiting, tall and imperious, showing good sense, rather than fear, his eyes full of calmness that seemed to be transmitted to her by a mystical force.

  A traveler had arrived with news of the King’s men. They were crossing the countryside, calling to the lords to gather their men in preparation for an invasion. Masses of forces were crossing the countryside, eventually they would be led by the Earl of Oxford. They would undoubtedly be coming to Mellorsdale. If not today, then certainly within the week. Someone with the party might recognize Richard. He had to be sent away and quickly.

  “He and the lord are peas in a pod, always together,” Edgar said. “ It may even be that the lord will expect the lad to go with him. He is of an age.”

 
“He has to go away,” the Abbot said. “Surely Richard will see the sense of it.”

  “Richard will, but will Lord Mellor?” Edgar asked miserably.

  “Sometimes a young man will stay with us to see if he has a vocation. There would be no difficulty in arranging that.”

  Kate considered, her hands balled into fists. It would be madness not to remove Richard, but suppose he would not go. No, he would see the sense of it but dealing with Efan would be far more difficult.

  However the Abbot’s plan was a good one and she would go along with it. “Hang the consequences,” she said. “I will deal with the lord, leave it to me!”

  Edgar looked at her fearfully, as well he might, for everyone knew that she was not in his favor. She was a barren wife. She had brought the lord nothing. If she was not exactly despised, she was pitied, which she thought, in some respects, was worse. Nevertheless, she could not afford to worry about her feelings. Richard’s safety, as always, had first priority.

  * * * *

  “It is you!” The door had opened with so loud a crash that Kate pricked her finger with her needle. The door had hit the stone wall with such force she was certain the hinges would be broken.

  Caradoc glared at her from the entrance, his face white with rage, his hands clenched at his side.

  “I am sorry, my lord, I do not understand,” she said, putting her bleeding finger to her mouth.

  “This sudden religious conversion. He has no vocation,” Caradoc yelled, coming deeper into the room. Kate stood her ground. There were more terrible things to be afraid of than Caradoc’s vile temper.

  “The young wish to explore many roads before they decide where they wish to be,” she said, drumming up a calm she did not feel.

  “It is you-- you and that damned Abbot working together, persuading the boy of things which he has never thought of before! I also believe,” he went on in the same tone, coming now to lean over her, “that you have done it because you are jealous!”