by Anya Seton
He acknowledged her caress with a smile and a gentle pinch on the satin skin of her hip, but he had been awake for some time, and thinking.
“Lovedy,” he said, “Robin Beyvill must go. I’ll not answer for my temperance, if I see him making calf eyes at you now, and besides there’s another reason.”
Katherine blinked. She had quite forgotten Robin. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “it were better he leave here - but not in disgrace, my dear lord. He’s served you well.”
“Not in disgrace. But he shall go today. To the Scottish border - to my fortress of Liddel. There he may cool his ardours by taming the Scots, who are rampaging as usual. God bless them.”
John chuckled. He still had affection for the violent brood that harassed the border, affection born of his early visit with his father when he was a lad, and which was incongruously enough returned. He could arrange truces with the Scots, when no one else could. Certainly not Percy, who had deliberately provoked the latest Scottish hostilities. Percy be damned, John thought. The Earl of Northumberland had taken to snorting and pawing at the Lowlands again, regardless of England’s safety - and need. At last a new approach had opened towards the seizure of Castile, to the final victory over France. This was no time for enraging the ancient rival to the north as well.
Two incredibly fortunate deaths had given England her chance to strike. Last year the usurping Castilian bastard, Trastamare, had died, leaving the throne to his degenerate son, Juan. And now Charles the Fifth, the wily “avocat” who had so long plagued the English, was gone too. His successor, Charles, was but a boy of twelve, and subject to fits. Spain and France were both, therefore, virtually leaderless, plunged into turmoil. And Portugal had risen as an English ally.
“Ay,” said John aloud on a note of solemn exultation, “this time we’ll succeed. I know it.”
Katherine stiffened inwardly. She had no need to ask what he meant. Nowadays he told her freely of his plans, and she had never but once requited his confidence with the intrusion of her personal fears.
That once she had said, “But what will happen to me, my lord, if you enter at last into your kingdom?”
And he had answered in surprise, “Why, you’ll come too, Katrine, after Castile’s affairs have settled down. There’s a little castle on the Arlanzon outside of Burgos where you shall be installed.”
She had said no more and tried to forget the pangs this prospect gave her, and the bitter misgivings.
As anointed Queen of a Castile which she herself had brought to John, would Costanza show the same forbearance she showed now when she was but a penniless alien in her husband’s country? And already there had been a change. Philippa said that when the Duchess heard the news of Trastamare’s death, she had laughed loud and shockingly. She had decreed a three-day festival at Hertford, her chapel bell had pealed from dawn to dusk and her jewel-studded statue of the Virgin was carried through the streets to the accompaniment of Spanish hymns of thanksgiving. And she had summoned the Duke to Hertford, where he had stayed a week - all matters it were better not to think of.
“Thank God, darling,” said Katherine at last, sighing, “that at least you don’t leave England soon. ‘Tis something I couldn’t bear.”
He frowned. Her remark pressed on a subject of deep concern. His brothers Edmund and Thomas were to be the vanguard of the new campaign. But he himself must remain at home for a while to strengthen domestic affairs, and cope with both Scottish and Welsh disorders. Richard’s council, the Princess Joan and his own judgement had concurred in this policy, though it irked him and he had little trust in Edmund’s diplomacy in Portugal.
“I’d not stay here, lovedy,” he said gravely, “if it weren’t wiser in the long run.”
“Nay,” she said with a sharp laugh. “I know your love for me could never keep you here - nor should it,” she added with quick penitence. “Forgive me.”
He turned and looked at her: the luminous eyes between their thick black lashes, the straight little nose, the voluptuous red mouth above the cleft chin, the transparent rose of her cheeks, the tumbled bronze of her fragrant hair, and the blue veins and white curves of her firm full breasts.
“By the Holy Rood, Katrine,” he said, half angry, half rueful, “I hope it’s not you who keeps me here. That were shame indeed.”
There were those who thought so; Costanza did. He had denied it furiously and with truth. No woman, not even Katherine, could turn him from his goal. As the Castilian throne drew nearer to his grasp its lure shone even brighter. But he had learned prudence in these last years, and the need for careful planning. Money must be raised for an army, and sporadic little bursts of rioting, not only on the borders, but in English shires, must be put down with a firm hand - and then Castile.
Katherine heard his deep breath, and knew that he was thinking of those sunbaked plains that he had shown her from their mountaintop in the Pyrenees. She understood now better than she had then why that far-away land was the summit of his dreams.
She no longer wondered that he was not satisfied with being the greatest nobleman in England and its virtual ruler. Not when he could be a veritable anointed king, king of a country nearly twice as large as England. What complete answer that would be to continuing slanders that he plotted for Richard’s throne! And, thought Katherine - that other thing. The ghost of the changeling story had been laid, even his enemies had forgotten it, and John could now refer to it with no more than the passing scorn he gave to all rumours about him. But the scar was there.
The King of Castile would be far above all rumours.
Katherine reached an arm through the curtains for the hand bell which would summon Hawise and a valet of the chamber. The bell made her think of Robin, who as body squire had often answered it, and she said, “My lord, you spoke of a second reason why Robin must be sent away?”
“Lollard,” said John succinctly.
“But,” she protested, “you’ve never been against the Lollards!” Half the court, the Princess Joan and until recently John himself had subscribed to most of Wyclif’s doctrines.
“The Lollards now go too far,” said John impatiently. “Their preachers are inflaming the people. And you know very well that I can no longer champion poor old Wyclif. I think his wits’ve addled. Though I’ll not let his enemies harm him either. He shall propound his dreadful new heresies in peace at Lutterworth, but I want no active Lollards in my meinie.”
Wyclif against the bishops, and the corrupt clergy, had been worthy of help. Wyclif against the Pope, particularly that now, since the schism in ‘seventy-eight, there were most confusingly two popes, had merited many an intelligent person’s approval.
Wyclif against the spiritual teachings of the Church was another matter. John had been sympathetic with the Englished Bible which Wyclif wanted given to the people, there was no harm in that, and the Duke believed in learning. He had been patient with the fiery black-robed doctor’s arguments against the idolatry of saints, the folly of pilgrimage, the futility of confession.
But lately Wyclif had attacked the sacredness of the Mass itself, had dared to deny the miracle of transubstantiation. He had actually stated that the consecrated wafer and the wine did never change at all into the Blessed Body and Blood, that they were merely symbols. He had said it was better to worship a toad than the Sacrament, for a toad at least had life. And here John’s long tolerance had shattered.
Perhaps, thought Katherine, Brother William had had something to do with John’s revulsion against Wyclif. The Grey Friar himself no longer had the least sympathy for the reformer. And as for me, thought Katherine wearily, I cannot care either way. The observance of her religion had become dim, meaningless, boring.
John was truly devout in a hearty male way.. He believed as his father and mother had believed, so Wyclif had ended by horrifying him. And yet, she thought, it was like him to continue to protect Wyclif despite their quarrel.
His enemies misunderstood as usual. They gave him no cred
it for the loyalty that was his strongest trait. When he showed mercy they called it cowardice. But well-a-day, thought Katherine, what use to dwell on gloomy things? Today we’ll have the stag-hunt and tonight we’ll dance, my lord and I. She smiled, for their bodies were attuned in all ways and they danced so well together that even the most spiteful were forced to admire.
“God’s greeting, my lady,” said Hawise, popping her broad face through the curtains. “You look gay as a goldfinch. My lord too ” She gestured with her white-coiffed head towards the garderobe, where the Duke’s voice could be heard singing,
“Amour et ma dame aussi
Votre beaute m’a ravie!”
while his squires rubbed him down with a herb-steeped sponge. “His Grace is in good spirits, I hear. ‘Twas not his mood last night in the Hall, by corpus!” She enveloped Katherine in a chamber robe, encased the slim feet in embroidered kid slippers.
“How do you know that?” asked Katherine startled.
“Even common folk’ve eyes, sweeting. Tis known through the castle that fool of a Robin bussed you too hotly last night, and the Duke went black as iron. Some thought he’d beat you to a jelly with a pikestaff, some that Robin’s bloody corpse’d be found afloating in the Soar; but I never fretted. You can do anything with His Grace nowadays.”
“Robin leaves today for Cumberland,” said Katherine, while soaking her hands in a basin of warm cream. Still every winter she had to fight recurring chilblains.
“Ay - I’m not surprised. Poor gawk. He lost his head, but small wonder. He’s been panting for you like a thirsty dog, this age past.”
“I didn’t know - at least I never thought much about it,” said Katherine ruefully. “Half the young squires’re sighing and languishing after somebody, it’s the fashion.”
“Truth is - ye’re blind as a midday bat to all but the Duke,” said Hawise chuckling. She began to rub separate coppery strands with a silk cloth to increase their sheen and added in a different tone, “Yet there’s one who’ll be heart-stricken that Robin’s to be sent off.”
“Who?” asked Katherine idly.
“Blanchette, m’lady - nay, I see ye’d not guessed. The poor little wench keeps a button he wore under her pillow, and I’ve seen other signs.”
“Blessed Saint Mary—” cried Katherine on a long note of mingled pity and exasperation. “That child. What am I to do with her? Still it can’t be serious, she’s too young, and Robin’s shown her no special notice, has he?”
“Nay. Robin’s had eyes for no woman but you.”
Katherine sighed. This then was one explanation of Blanchette’s increasing hostility. Lately she had hurt Katherine by her silences, her stubborn refusal to comply with any of Katherine’s requests, though Katherine had shown tolerance in the matter of the betrothal to Sir Ralph. The Duke had even been annoyed with her about it. Blanchette could scarcely hope for another such offer, and Sir Ralph was not the man to be kept dangling.
“Robin’d be no match for her, even if he’d have her,” said Katherine slowly. “She must look higher than a hobbledehoy Suffolk yeoman. God’s blood, I don’t know what ails the girl. She cares nothing about all we’ve done for her!”
Hawise was silent while she began the elaborate braiding of her mistress’ hair. She sympathised with Katherine’s worries about this child who never smiled any more. Hawise wound and netted the thick braids at the back of Katherine’s head in readiness for the moony headdress later, and offered thoughtfully, “She seemed brighter on that visit to Kettlethorpe than I’ve seen her in donkey’s years.”
“Kettlethorpe!” repeated Katherine with disgust. She put down the mirror, and frowned at the unpleasant memory.
A year ago in November, after she had recovered from the baby Joan’s birth, the Duke, having business in Lincoln, had decided that they should visit Kettlethorpe and see how Katherine’s property did. They took Tom and Blanchette in their train, so that the Swynford children might see their birthplace, and they had stayed at Kettlethorpe for three very uncomfortable days.
The Duke had long ago appointed a resident steward under the direction of his Lincolnshire feodar, William de Spaigne, so that the manor had been kept in repair and was being as efficiently run as possible. But to Katherine, Kettlethorpe had presented a picture of bleak desolateness. It was so small and draughty and damp. Comforts which she had come to take for granted were entirely lacking, a dense November fog chilled the bones, and she, who was so seldom ill, promptly came down with violent chills, streaming nose and a racking cough. She had viewed her erstwhile home through a haze of physical and spiritual disease.
They had held a love-day and ale feast in the manor Hall. Herded by the steward and a new reeve, her serfs had filed through and apathetically knelt to do her homage, while little Tom stood by her chair with a proud smile, savouring this parade of his own future possessions.
There had been many deaths since she was here before, some bowel complaint had carried off half of Laughterton. Then there had been three runaways. Odo the ploughman’s twin lads had taken to their heels and disappeared in Sherwood Forest. Cob o’ Fenton, the former spit-boy, had refused to pay his heriot fine on his father’s death, and made off too, but he had been caught at once and brought back. His property confiscated, he had been branded with an F on his left cheek, for “fugitive”, and was even now in the village stocks as an example.
The steward had walked Katherine to the village green, where a gibbet had. been set up, beside the stocks where Cob the runaway was being punished.
Cob had changed little since the old days. Still small and flaxen-polled, though he must be thirty. Between white lashes his pale eyes had stared at Katherine sullenly - while the branded F reddened on his cheek.
She turned quickly from him, and recoiled as she saw the gibbet. Two rotting half-naked bodies dangled from the nooses. Katherine took one shrinking look and recognised - despite the bloated livid features - the long skull and jaw of Sim Tanner, the reeve. She gave a horrified cry and the steward said, “Ay, my lady. Sim took to thieving and poaching as soon as I turned him from his reeveship. Had got used to little luxuries no doubt, and wouldn’t give ‘em up.”
So Sim had escaped Nirac’s dagger so long ago, to end finally like this. The fog swirled thickly in from the Trent, Katherine’s teeth chattered with another chill and she had hastened back to the dubious warmth of the Hall. Later she had ordered that Cob be freed from the stocks, and that his plot of land be restored to him, for she had been sickened by all the sights on the village green.
Dear Mother of God, how she had detested Kettlethorpe, and been in a frenzy to get away again.
But now she remembered that Blanchette had not. The girl had visited all the haunts of her childhood, the Broom hills, the mill, the river ford and a little pool where she had once played with village children. As though some inner sluice gate had been raised, Blanchette had asked a spate of eager, shy questions about her father. Was it here in the Hall that his armour had hung? What had been his favourite horse’s name? And she had said, “How old was I, Mama, when Father kissed me good-bye here on the mounting b-block, the last d-day I ever saw him when he left for Aquitaine?”
Katherine had answered that Blanchette must have been about three and it was a wonder she remembered.
“I d-do remember,” said Blanchette with a sad yet excited little smile. “God rest my dear brave father’s soul.”
Katherine, light-headed with her own illness and profoundly discomfited by all these sights and memories, had paid little attention. She realised that both children thought Hugh had died of wounds sustained in glorious battle, since no details had been given them. But it was true enough the dysentery had been a kind of battle wound. There was no falsehood in that.
“Ay - I remember now,” said Katherine, finishing her thoughts aloud to Hawise, “that Blanchette wept when we left that odious place. But I feel ‘tis morbid. She has everything to make her happy now in this new life the Duke
has given her. I’ll certainly take a firmer hand, as he wishes.”
Katherine’s face cleared and she waved away the huge gauzy gold-horned headdress that Hawise lifted up. “Let be, for now,” she said, smiling. “One would think I’d no other children but that naughty little wench. I’ll not frighten the babies with that foolish thing, and I’m off to the nurseries. How are Joan’s gums, poor mite?”
“Sore as boils, I’ll warrant, from the uproar she do make,” answered Hawise dryly. “She yells louder’n any o’ her brothers did.”
Katherine laughed, and the two women walked down the passages to the nursery wing. John and Harry had long since gone out to play in the snow with other castle children, but her two latest-born were sitting on a bearskin rug by the fire.
Thomas, so christened because he had been born on St. Thomas a Becket’s Day, but called Tamkin to differentiate him from his half-brother, Tom Swynford, was engaged in playing some private game with a set of silver chessmen the Duke had given him. Joan was solemnly chewing on a bone teething-ring. Both children squealed with delight when they saw their mother. Tamkin jumped up, and the baby held out her arms.
If anything should happen to John, what would become of the - Beaufort bastards? She crossed herself and sat staring into the fire, while the baby gurgled drowsily on her lap, Hawise and the nurses came and went at their tasks, and Tamkin, tiring of his game, ran off to find his greyhound puppies.
Even with the Duke’s protection, what future did they have? The boys might be knighted in due course by their father, and make their own way as best they could with the appointments he could give them, but they might not aspire to honours. And the baby Joan - -
