Seed of the Broom

by Seed Of The Broom (NCP) (lit)

  “You will not ask him to go with you?” she asked fearfully.

  “Nay, or do you believe he would wish it? I cannot see it. I believe him still a Yorkist, albeit one hiding beneath my bed,” he smiled.

  She reached for his hand. “He loves you Efan. You must know that.”

  “Aye, I do. Sleep for a while….” He bent and kissed her mouth softly.

  As the sun rose hot and hard in a cloudless sky, Caradoc had not returned. The officers and their men were restless and impatient, the officers pacing and giving out commands, storming around the castle, re-inspecting harness, becoming more angry at Efan’s tardiness.

  He was longer than Kate would have anticipated. She, too, began to fret. It was far longer than a goodbye warranted. She began to worry that he had fallen from his horse. She could see him lying hurt in the road, so sent Edgar to the Monastery to see if he were indeed injured. In the end the officer said they would set off, time was precious. The lord must catch them up.

  The army had been gone less than an hour when a lookout spied the lord galloping towards the castle. His own retainers, reluctant to leave without him, now tumbled out of the keep, checking their horses, ready to mount, eager to be gone about the business that they far more preferred to the daily life on the castle.

  He had taken Kate’s mare, so as not to tire the charger. The mare was covered with a film of sweat and excited by being ridden so hard. It took the groom some moments to capture the bridle.

  A command barked for another groom to fetch the lord’s mount. How fierce he looked, Kate thought. Had he and Richard quarreled? Had their parting been acrimonious? Had he asked, in spite of what he had said, Richard to accompany him and Richard had said no, and in such a manner that displeased Efan?

  Kate went towards him, through the melee of prancing horses and barked commands. It was hot and steamy, a smell of excitement from horses and men, the hollow clang of weapons. Efan mounted now on his charger, seemed at once with the sky. The magnificent horse held still by the power of Efan’s thighs. The groom was dismissed, his horse, even amongst other restless animals, calm and still and haughty.

  “Efan,” she called.

  He turned his head, his eyes glinted out of her like shattered glass, his face wiped free of all emotion.

  “Lady,” his lips barely moved, then he hissed through clenched teeth. “It is over!”

  Turning from her he gave some command with his body. Kate had to run back to the steps less she be trampled by the moving army. Confused, she watched them, looked hopelessly for a sign from Efan but there was none. He had said goodbye to neither she nor his mother, who came to join her, no wave or salute, no turn of the head, nothing but the straight line of his back.

  “What disturbs him?” Dame Caradoc broke into Kate’s confused and tumbled thoughts.

  “I do not know, unless it is something to do with Richard.”

  “Whatever is wrong with Richard, it is neither your fault or mine. I thought you had been sweet together.”

  “We had, I thought we had stepped over all that separated us.”

  Dame Caradoc slid an arm around Kate’s shoulder, drawing her into a warm embrace. “It is hard for him to show love. He has fended for himself so long, had to learn to rely on no other. It may be that he resents the feelings that are inside him, that he does not wish to leave but cannot admit it. If he was affectionate, it would be harder for him to depart.”

  But that would not have put so much hate into his eyes, Kate thought. His face and actions might show disregard, but his eyes never lied. Wearily she turned and climbed the stairs.

  Anne was in her chamber. Kate dismissed her and went and sat in the carved chair. How quickly joy sped. The feeling of misery made her feel enervated. She felt neither hunger or fear. This dead weight that came from lack of joy, crushed all normal feelings out of her. Misery was physical and mental. She looked into the tunnel of her mind and saw nothing. People came and spoke to her, but she did not hear them. Food was brought and taken away uneaten.

  Anne came to make her mistress ready for bed, but Kate dismissed her. She had not the energy to be unlaced from her gown, no spirit to even cross the room. Passing the night in the chair, she realized many things, things that made her weary but still sleep avoided her.

  Importantly, she saw that during that afternoon, she had come to love him, that she loved his body, the feel of him, the way he moved, the tone of his voice, the laughter he had inspired inside her. She had come to love everything about him. He had called out his love to her too. She had not called out hers. Was that it? But no, that would never have put so much hate in his eyes. Something terrible had happened but what?

  How she loved him! The Efan without care, the Efan stripped of power and prejudice. The Efan who was just a man. Her thoughts were haunted by him. Her mind flashing pictures of how he had been. There was the way he was with Richard, the warmth he bestowed on the lad, the tenderness she had spied him giving to his mother, the way the people could go and tell him their troubles. He would listen and counsel and turn no one away. Between them there had been such acrimony on both sides, but underneath that, something else so powerful it could obliterate revulsion. Oh no, she had never been revolted by him. There was, even at the beginning, a mystical and dangerous attraction between them.

  She had never wanted to test anyone the way she had tested Efan. Love indeed was the true brother of hate, she reflected, but now…now there had come something between them, something that emanated from him, that she could not understand, that her lively intelligence could not begin to comprehend. Something had happened that had smashed what had been between them.

  She awoke with a start, almost ashamed to have slept. Her neck ached from being bent over. Slowly she massaged the pain away, then she stood and stretched. She remembered Efan in that moment and the fog of melancholia returned and with it, the crippling feeling of tiredness.

  About to slide back into the chair, she was disturbed by the door opening. Richard came into the room and misery was cast out by fear. He seemed almost to be growing, his limbs long and strong, his shoulders bursting out of his doublet. His chest stretched the fastening on his tunic to the very limit, the mop of sovereign colored hair, thick and smooth across his brow. There was a haughty cast to his face, but his features were not stamped by debauchery. There was innocence and strength there, yet despite it he was indelibly marked as the pup of Edward of York.

  “Kate,” he came to her, crushing her against him. “I am so sorry, I feel ‘tis all my fault, but I cannot lie to him!”

  Confused, Kate broke free from his embrace. She stood a little back from him, gazing into his vivid blue eyes. “What is it?”

  “Kate, I heave learned so much at the Abbey, about myself, about peace and tranquillity, about good and evil. I have spent a long time examining my soul, how to love even those who despise me.”

  “Richard?”

  “You have seen the novice, the Welsh boy?” Richard asked.

  Kate recalled him, a sly looking lad, slithering around the Abbey, listening at doors. The Apothecary Monk had told her that the boy took up all his confessional time, that he had become the only human being that he had been able to feel a lack of charity for.

  “He admires the lord, he seeks to ingratiate himself. He dislikes me. He dropped hints but whether he knows anything, I cannot say. When Efan came he told him that if I were Mellor’s son t’would be a miracle.”

  “Oh no,” the fear inside Kate exploded. She felt it even at the tips of her fingers, closed her eyes against its intrusion, knew that she trembled.

  “Efan came, asked if I would join him. I refused of course. Because you are a Yorkist and mourn for your father? he asked. I said yes…it was not a lie, Kate…”

  “Lies may not always be a sin. Even the Abbot condones our lies,” she heard her voice, it was raised an octave or two. Hysteria mounted inside her. He did not have to say the words. There was no need to saying anything else
. Before he told her she knew, she had the reason for Efan’s cruel parting. She knew why he had looked at her with such hated.

  Richard went on. “Of course, Efan said, you speak of Lord Mellor and…and I said, no my lord, I do not.”

  Chapter Eight

  In spite of what Richard said, Kate had little faith in Efan not revealing their whereabouts to his Yorkist masters. After all they had betrayed his trust, why should he give them any protection? And he had been so angry. That he was angry after their magical night together certainly boded ill for them. However, she managed to hug the fear to herself.

  That fear haunted her night and day. She trembled in fear in her bed. Sleep evaded her. She ate little. The only thing that haunted her mind was when would they come for her, and more importantly, for Richard. In spite of her pleas, he refused to consider leaving. Once a week he came to visit her, but he was more and more engaged in the work and atmosphere of the Abbey, and seemed on each visit to be slipping away from her influence. He was, it seemed no longer part of her world.

  It was the Dame who came to her one day. Kate had been working with Edgar in his room, completing the books, processing orders, generally making sure that good housekeeping was maintained. Exhaustion had driven her back to her chamber and she went and lay on her bed, and it was there that her husband’s mother found her.

  “Kate.” She came quietly across the room. When she reached the bed she placed the palm of her hand on Kate’s forehead. It felt good that hand, soothing and cool against the fever burning up inside her. “Kate,” the Dame said again. “Dearest Kate, it is difficult for me. I am not one to interfere, but I feel I must. You are like a wraith girl and Anne tells me you eat so little.”

  “I eat enough good Dame. Please do not trouble yourself too much over me.”

  “My dear, you are like my daughter, nay you are my daughter, and I must trouble myself over you. Forgive me, my dear, but Anne tells me that you have not bled this month or the last…”

  Kate groaned. She moved restlessly across the bed, curling herself into a small ball. There was at least an answer for her feeling so weak and she had known it, known it, but turned her back on it.

  “Kate, it was all he wanted. You must see that. He will be so happy. He will forget that which was between you. Once he knows, it will be wonderful.”

  In reply Kate moaned once more. That was not something she desired. All along she had wanted him to stay with her not because of a child. She wanted him, longed for him to love her for herself as she had come to love him for himself.

  “Are you not pleased, my dear?” Dame Caradoc came around the other side of the bed.

  “He will not care, “ Kate muttered. “And he will feel trapped!”

  “What nonsense is this? Kate this is all he wanted. His heir, his child, why Kate you know how he always was so anxious each month.”

  “But that was before Mother. You must realize that,” Kate moaned miserably.

  “Before what?”

  But Kate knew she dare not say. She trusted Dame Caradoc utterly, but it would be yet one more person knowing their secret and why should she burden another with it? Instead she murmured something about before he went away. The Dame was having none of it. A man always delighted in his first born, even should he lose interest after that. His first born was special to him.

  Kate said nothing but allowed the Dame to go on about it. It was not until after the Dame had left her alone, that Kate realized how momentous it was, this tiny thing, growing inside her. After all this time she had conceived. She was not barren. It had only needed her heat to fertilize his seed, and she had been on fire with him. How could she fail to conceive at such a moment?

  Slowly and with wonderment, she let her hand wander over her stomach. There was nothing there, and was it any wonder? She had all but starved herself. How cruel, how bad not to eat, but she had never felt hungry. Now she knew that she had to eat. There were all kinds of good things that she must pour inside herself for the sake of her unborn child, and she would start now!

  She raised herself up from the bed too quickly, for then the room started to spin. She had just reached the bowl when the meager contents of her stomach burst from her mouth. She stood, knees trembling for a long while, feeling cold and clammy. Caradoc’s seed, growing inside her.. What would he feel? What would he say? Suppose they took her and put her in gaol? How would she fare? Would they allow her to give birth to her infant before her execution? Would they come and snatch the child from her? Filled with terror and emotional pain, she fell to her knees. It was all so unfair, so cruel. She had had everything, for a moment, and now she had nothing.

  When strength returned, she managed to get to her feet. She made it down stairs and into the gardens. There she gathered herbs and then went into the kitchen to make up potions that would give strength to her. How foolish to think that she had nothing, she had something…the most important thing of all, no matter what they did to her, inside she carried new life. That was a miracle.

  * * * *

  They laughed at the court. There was much to laugh at. A base born boy had sought to pass himself off as an heir of the House of York. What could be more amusing?

  The Queen laughed more than most, delighting in the King’s decision to employ Lambert Simnel as a pot boy. There had been terrible, tense moments for her, moments when she had waited for the arrival of the prisoner, fearing that there might yet be some proof of the rumor that he was one of her brothers. In those anxious times she really saw in her mind, the reality of having to relinquish her position, of having to stand aside, giving back furs and jewelry, the delicious pleasure in obsequious courtiers, no longer hers, and then down she would go into the mists of obscurity.

  He was not though, Edward, or his younger brother Richard. The lad was not sufficiently tall or as handsome. His hair was more blond than sovereign, his face too thin and unhandsome, base born and base features. Elizabeth could not even find it in herself to be angry. It was too silly a matter to get angry about. How desperate the rebel Yorkists had to be foist such a one on the country!

  Many had gone to join the cause and many lay dead. Her cousin, the Earl of Lincoln, young and bold, living by Henry’s charity and then deserting to the other side. Had he imagined the crown would be his? Perhaps, but she did not really care.

  Above all there was the joy that came from the fact that her mother had somehow been implicated in the plot. Jealous and vindictive, Elizabeth the Dowager Queen, had not been able to accept her daughter’s new found power, resenting the crown that had once been hers, sitting on her daughter’s head. Now she would spend her days in a Bermondsey Convent. Let her try to plot there!

  The actual victory celebrations were not as riotous as they had been at her father’s court. The pleasure taken in success was muted and Elizabeth preferred it that way. The Bacchanalian orgies of her father had ever displeased her. The nobility stripped of their dignity through a surfeit of wine, was repulsive to Elizabeth. Dignity was something she admired. Fleetingly, she thought of her Uncle Richard. He had always been dignified--dignified and good. Her mother had hated him; a man she could never hope to manipulate. Her Uncle’s end had resulted in her own rise, yet still she could feel sad about him, in fact he was the only person she had ever known that she could feel sad about, he was the only one that she had wept for.

  The lies that her husband’s sycophantic followers spread about him, wounded her. There was always the small temptation to ask him to stop, for Richard was dead and could do them no harm. Henry, insecure in his seizure of the throne though, could not be magnanimous. He would never rest until the name Richard the Third became the symbol for all things evil…and Elizabeth could never bring herself to speak out against anything her husband did. She had neither the courage, nor a great inclination, beyond a feeling for her uncle that she called sentimental.

  A man caught her eye. He was standing apart from everyone. Tall, hair trapped in the light from a flaming torch,
a fruity autumn color, not unlike her Uncle Richard’s. The man looked so miserable.

  “Sire,” she whispered, turning to her husband. “Who is the man by the door, the one beneath the torch?”

  Henry’s small, shrewd eyes traveled the room. He had to ponder only a moment. He knew everyone, made it his business to. He also sought information where he could about anyone who came into close contact with him, he had dossiers compiled, forever on guard against a potential enemy.

  “His name is Caradoc. A man of my Uncle Jasper’s. We gave him Mellorsdale. He married Mellor’s widow.”

  “Mellor’s widow. I did not know that Mellor had taken a second wife.”

  “Did you not? That is strange.”

  “Mellor’s wife died in childbed. His son, a sickly lad, was his whole life. He took pleasures like my father.” Henry noticed the slight shiver of her whole body as she spoke,. “A heinous man sir, not one to marry I would be bound.”

  “The woman and the child were at Mellorsdale. We did not command Caradoc to marry but suggested that he might if he wished. Some Abbot wrote expressing concern for their well being. My mother suggested a magnanimous gesture would be appropriate. It would win the hearts and minds of the people in that Yorkist stronghold.”

  “Aye, a good gesture sire, but I wonder, just who is this person that claims to be the widow of Mellor.”

  “I recall not who she is, apart from her being Lady of Mellorsdale. I do not think the Abbot actually said, but you have aroused my curiosity, Elizabeth., we shall discover the answer.”

  Henry summoned a page to fetch Caradoc. He watched carefully for a reaction from Caradoc, but there was nothing but mild surprise on his face.

  The man was very tall, with a rugged Welsh face. He bowed respectfully. When he spoke there was a lilt of the accent that always pleased Henry. He had lived in France many years, but he had never forgotten his Welsh boyhood, all things Welsh were dear to him.