by Anya Seton
It would take a stupendous amount of dowry to get her married properly. Few worthy noblemen would overlook the stain of bastardy.
But if it should happen somehow - in terror, her mind veered from facing the actual thought again - that John could not see to their future, who would protect them then? Not the childish, self-centred Richard, nor the Princess. Certainly not the Earl of Buckingham. Edmund might make a feeble gesture, but when did Edmund’s vacillating impulses ever persist for long? It was a treacherous marshy ground over which she had so blithely walked, thinking it firm as granite.
She looked at the baby in her lap, at Tamkin, who was trying to teach one of his puppies to beg. She thought of her two handsome gently bred older boys, who were being reared like young princes. But they were not. They had no legal name, no certain inheritance of any kind, and no sure future but herself. Blessed Mary, she thought, and what could I do for them, alone?
She stilled her panic and forced her mind to a practicality that was repugnant to it. Deliberately she scrutinised the total of her few possessions. The Duke from time to time had given her property, which she had accepted with reluctance, disliking the idea of payment for her love. The private income that these brought her she had scarcely heeded, it was but an insignificant trickle of pocket-money compared to the lavishness in which she lived.
She had the meagre Swynford inheritance, of course, though it was distasteful to her. Besides, it would belong eventually to Tom. She had a yearly hundred marks as governess’s recompense, but that would shortly stop, since Elizabeth was married and Philippa beyond the age. She owned houses in Boston, which brought in a small rent. She had two wardships, including the Deyncourt one for Blanchette, some perquisites from the Duke’s Nottingham manors, and that was all, except her jewels.
We could never live on that, thought Katherine, frightened. We’d have less than yeoman status. And she determined at least to accept the new wardship and “marriage of the heir” John had semi-humorously offered her.
” ‘Twill be appropriate, Katrine. A neat turnabout for the insolence he showed you.”
Ellis de Thoresby, Hugh’s erstwhile squire, had been killed in a drunken brawl three months ago, leaving a two-year-old son. It was the fat annual fee for guardianship of this son that John offered her, and she refused sharply. She had neither seen nor heard of Ellis since he spat at her in the streets at Lincoln. She wanted no reminder of him.
Ah, but I must be practical, thought Katherine. I’ve been a soft fool. It was not mercenary to try and protect her children’s future, and when the right moment came she would talk to John about it. The moment must be chosen, for though he was generous, he preferred to think of such things himself, and she knew that he might be angered that she should seem to question the provision he intended some day to make for all his children. And he would be right, she thought with sudden revulsion. She could not appear to grasp and scheme as though she had forebodings for him. There was no danger that could threaten them when she had the certainty of his love. She would go on as she had been, nor worry about the future.
Katherine picked up the baby and put her in the cradle, then looking around to find the source of an exceptionally wintry draught, saw that Tamkin had opened the leaded window and was hanging half-way out.
“Tam,” she called, “what are you doing! Shut the window!”
The boy did not hear her, for there was much noise outside. The nursery windows looked down on Castle Street, where a cluster of rustics and townfolk had gathered, while a man in a long russet gown stood on a keg and harangued them.
” ‘Tis only some Christmas mumming,” said Katherine impatiently, shutting the window.
“Nay,” said Hawise peering over the little boy’s shoulder, ” ‘tis that Lollard preacher, John Ball, just come to Leicester, I hear. He’s been jabbering and havering since Prime. I don’t much like the look o’ it.”
“Why ever not?” said Katherine in surprise. “No harm in preaching.”
“They keep singing something, Mama,” said Tamkin, “over ‘n’ over, ‘n’ shaking their fists.”
“They do,” said Hawise grimly. “D’ye know what they sing?”
Katherine looked out again more curiously. She saw that the preacher had a fiery red face between a black beard and a crop of black hair on a round head, that he waved his arms violently and sometimes struck his russet-clad breast, pointing up to the sky, and then at the castle. Now and again he would stop with both arms wide outflung, when all the crowd of folk would stamp their feet and chant something that sounded like the rhythmic pound of a hammer on a smith’s anvil.
“What do they sing?” Katherine said and opened the window wide. The hoarse pounding shouts gradually clarified themselves into words:
When Adam delved and Eva span,
Who was then the gentleman!
“What nonsense!” began Katherine - and checked herself. “What do they mean by that?”
“They mean trouble,” said Hawise. “This last poll tax has really roiled ‘em, and John Ball’s doing his best to keep ‘em roiled - throughout the land.”
“Oh,” said Katherine shrugging as she turned from the window. “The poll tax is hard on folk, no doubt, but wars must be paid for, Hawise. Why must they show so much hatred?”
” ‘Tis easy to hate, lady dear, when you be poor and starving.”
“But they’re not!” cried Katherine, her eyes flashing. “Nobody starves in Leicester, or any of the Duke’s domains. The kitchens often feed three hundred a day.”
” ‘Tis not everyone wants to be beggars, sweeting,” said Hawise, chuckling. “And there’s mighty few who like to be unfree.”
“The Duke has freed many of his serfs when they deserve it,” retorted Katherine hotly. “The eve of Christmas he freed ten in honour of Lord Henry’s marriage.”
” ‘Tis true,” said Hawise. “But there be ten thousand more in bondage. Ye needna look so fierce - ‘tis not my thoughts I’m giving - ‘tis what that John Ball yammers out there.”
“But what can they do?” said Katherine, frowning towards the window, where again the doggerel pounded its inane rhythm.
“Oh, they’ll not do anything,” Hawise shrugged. ” ‘Tis naught but talk. England be a great place for windy grumbles. ‘Twill all die down like stale ale.”
CHAPTER XXIII
The Lancastrian household held their May revels at the Savoy. The early spring had been stormy but by the end of April days of warm sun and nights of gentle showers enamelled the countryside with green lustre. The Savoy servants trundled in barrowfuls of primroses and violets from the meadows near Tyburn, and made garlands to hang in each of the hundred rooms. They cut thick dewy branches of the rose-budded may and fastened them to torch brackets and above doorways. The kitchens and Great Hall were strewn with new rushes and fragrant herbs. Every nook was spring-cleaned. The myriad windowpanes sparkled like diamonds set in lead; the cream and beige tile floors were polished smooth as eggs, and the silk carpets and the tapestries of the State Chambers were scrubbed and flailed to their pristine glow. Gilt, vermilion and azure were brushed on the stone chimney carvings, while new-painted fleur-de-lis powdered the vaulted ceilings between polished timbers. The offices of the chancery, the Great Treasure Chamber, the smithies, the barracks, the armourer’s shops, the falcon mew, even the cellars and the empty dungeon received new coats of whitewash and were decorated with greenery.
A gilded Maypole had been set up in the river gardens on a square of turf which was enclosed by the famous Provencal rose bushes, already tipped with coral buds. Each afternoon of May week, there was dancing around the great shaft, while the multi-coloured ribbons wove up and down against a drift of pear blossoms.
There were May Day games - the younger lords and ladies played at Hide-and-Seek in the maze, or at Hoodman Blind, and Hot Cockles. At night there were bonfires built along the river-bank, and the Duke’s barges, festooned with streamers and lit by torches, raced across the r
iver when wagers were placed on each contestant.
No one could be melancholy during these days of Maytime brightness, and the Duke shut his mind to impending problems and enjoyed himself wholeheartedly with Katherine.
On May 12, he was to set forth for Scotland again. The King’s Council, much pleased with his handling of earlier Scottish-disorders, had commissioned him to ride north and negotiate for a prolongation of the truce and cessation of the new hostilities. Percy’s touchy sensibilities would have to be soothed. The Lord of Northumberland felt that Border matters were his own exclusive concern, and passionately resented interference from Westminster. But a combination of tact, flattery, and sternness would doubtless pacify the Border lord as they had before.
Everything contributed to the optimism born of Nature’s own gaiety.
Parliament had finally voted an appropriation, and the poll tax was being raised, albeit there had been some trouble. The first collectors, through laziness or venality, had failed miserably to hand over the average shilling a head that was required. In March the system had been tightened and a fresh staff of collectors commissioned. The chancellor, who was now old Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, had been scolded for his slackness; and a new treasurer, Robert Hales, Prior of St. John’s, put in charge of the dilatory revenues.
The common folk might grumble - to be sure, taxes always caused grumbling - but a democratic effort had been made to distribute this tax fairly, “with the strong to help the weak.” It was true that the levy of a shilling might wreak some hardship amongst labourers and servants since their wages seldom reached fourteen shillings a year; but on the other hand, the glorious prospects of eventual victory in France and Castile should certainly move the people to patriotic sacrifice. Besides, this new tax, for the first time, spared no one over fifteen years of age, even a baron or a bishop was assessed at a pound a head.
What could be fairer than that thought the Peers, while the Royal Council and Parliament agreed.
Katherine had been a trifle uneasy since she had heard John Ball preaching at Leicester, until the Duke told her that Ball had been imprisoned in Kent by Archbishop Sudbury.
“No need to fret, lovedy,” said the Duke gaily. “With that ranting little firebrand quenched in jail, the people’ll quiet down. They’ve no real cause for grievance, anyway.”
Katherine was reassured. Yet she did say hesitatingly, “But the villeins aren’t reasonable. My steward writes that at Kettlethorpe Cob o’ Fenton has run off again! Though I freed him from the stocks and gave him back his land.”
John shrugged. “No doubt they’ll catch him, Katrine. Tis always hard to judge when leniency be wise. Some serfs would have shown you greater gratitude.”
She had accepted this and ceased to think of it. Each lovely day must be enjoyed to the full especially as she and John would so soon be separated. Yet she had little fear for him on this march to Scotland which he anticipated with pleasure, nor should it take more than a month or so. She was to await him at Kenilworth with their children, and Kenilworth was a happy summer-time castle.
On Sunday she would leave the Savoy with the Duke, who would drop her and her household off at Kenilworth while he continued north. But before they left there was a small private matter to be attended to.
Sir Ralph Hastings would accompany his lord to Scotland, and Blanchette’s betrothal should be solemnised. It had been delayed after Katherine’s decision at Leicester because Sir Ralph had been at Pontefract, but now he had arrived at the Savoy, eager to claim the girl.
This was on Wednesday, the 8th of May. The Duke and Katherine were sitting in the rose garden watching a troupe of Cornish tumblers and gleemaidens who were cavorting on the lawn.
Sir Ralph strode through the garlanded archway into the garden, and walking to the Duke’s chair knelt and kissed his hand. “God’s greeting, my lord,” he said, and bowed to Katherine. “I’m here a day before I thought to be, but love is a sharp spur, by Peter!” He chuckled and swaggered in his violet brocaded cote-hardie. A well-made man was Sir Ralph, and had spared no expense in clothing himself as finely as any young dandy at Richard’s court. Blanchette’s aversion to him he had assured himself sprang from charming modesty, being quite certain of his attraction. He was thirty-five and looked younger. He was an excellent horseman and jouster, and had been forbearing to the old wife he had been married to for twelve barren years until her lung complaint released him.
Blanchette had no excuse whatsoever for her behaviour, thought Katherine, smiling at Sir Ralph, who was asking after the girl.
“I’ll get her,” said Katherine rising. “In truth, Sir Ralph, you must have patience with her. Woo her gently. I confess she’s sometimes of a heavy spirit.”
The knight frowned a trifle but he spoke confidently. “Oh I’ll soon gentle the little burde, once she’s mine. ‘Tis natural she should be shy.”
”Natural, maybe,” said the Duke smiling. “But she’s played the coy long enough. We’ll have the betrothal tomorrow, a merry climax to May revelry. Here in the arbour - and some jousting to follow. Blanchette shall be May Queen for the day.”
Katherine bestowed a loving glance on John as she hurried from the gardens in search of Blanchette.
The girl lodged in a chamber in the Monmouth Wing, and could seldom be persuaded to leave it. Here she carried on many little occupations of her own. She had wooden puppets that she dressed in scraps of silk and velvet and played some secret game with, though she was well past the age for such toys. She strummed her lute and sang melodies of her own devising that were hushed at once if anyone came to the door.
And there were her birds. Almost daily Blanchette sent the page who waited on her to the market. He fetched her singing birds - linnets, thrushes, skylarks and sometimes nightingales that had been netted by fowlers and were offered for sale. She had a ritual with these. She left them in their cages only one night; while she talked to them softly as though they were Christian souls. At the dawning she would free them through her window and Godspeed them as they winged out of sight.
A harmless enough pastime, but while Katherine stood at the girl’s door she heard the low voice inside singing a plaintive tune, and the twittering of a bird. As she put her hand on the latch, Katherine’s throat constricted while a memory assailed her - of the Lady Nichola in the tower-room at Kettlethorpe. Nay, but the child is in nothing like Nichola, Katherine thought with vehemence. She pushed the door and found it locked.
“Let me in!” she called sharply.” ‘Tis your mother.” After a moment the door opened slowly and Blanchette stood as though to bar the way, her hands clenched together between her breasts. Her copper-gold hair cascaded in loose ringlets down her back. She wore a dove-grey chamber robe, unadorned. Never would she willingly wear any of the costly trinkets that the Duke or Katherine gave her. She was still shorter than her mother but her slight body showed the curves of womanhood, though her face had not lost its baby roundness and a few freckles still peppered her nose.
“Come, child,” said Katherine more gently, “why must you always act as though I’d harm you? I love you, and wish you nothing but good. It hurts me when you act like this.”
The girl stood motionless on the tiles, her sombre eyes fixed on Katherine.
A tiny green linnet hopped and twittered in a wooden cage though the cage door had been opened. The lute lay on the windowseat next to a quill pen, wet with ink, and a piece of parchment on which there were some straggling characters. Katherine moved to examine them, thinking to please Blanchette with praise for practising her writing. She read the childish letters at a glance.
I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see
Robin is gone
And thinks naught of me.
Blanchette with a muffled cry rushed over and swooped up the parchment. She crumpled it in her shaking hand, while fury flashed in her eyes. She turned on her mother and gasped, “What d-do you w-want of me, my lady?”
Katheri
ne sat down on the windowseat and shook her head. “You mustn’t blame me, darling, for things I can’t help,” she said quietly. “You must believe that all sorrows pass, and what you feel today you won’t in a year. And you must believe that I know what’s best for you.”
The girl said nothing. Her eyes moved from her mother’s pleading face to the green linnet, her mouth set in an ugly line. Her fingers clenched the crumpled ball of parchment, and she flung it on the tiles.
She that was the sweetest and the gentlest of children - Katherine thought - dear Lord, why is she like this now? Ay, it must be I’ve spoiled her. She sighed, then spoke with decision. “Blanchette, Sir Ralph has come. He’s in the garden with my lord. Your betrothal shall take place tomorrow.”
Blanchette raised her eyes. “I’ll n-not,” she said through her teeth. “I’ll - run away. You’ll n-never find me - -” Her voice shrilled and the stammer left her speech. “I’ll not do what he says, ever - I swear it by my father’s soul!” She crossed herself and her face went white as clay.
“This is wicked folly!” cried Katherine. ” ‘Tis not what the Duke says, ‘tis what I say - -“
She gasped, for Blanchette flung out her arms and shouted, “You lie! And I hate you! You are naught but his creature, you and the scurvy pack of bastards that you bear him!” She turned wildly and stumbling across the room flung herself on her bed.
“Jesu,” whispered Katherine. She sat rigid on the windowseat. A black wave submerged her and at length retreated, leaving behind a jutting rock of anger as refuge. She rose and stood by the bed. Blanchette’s face was buried in her arms, her shoulders shook but she made no sound.
“This Blanchette, is too much!” Katherine said in a voice of icy control. “God knows if I can ever find it in my heart to forgive you.”
Blanchette quivered. She twisted her face slowly around and stared up at her mother, and seeing there anger for the first time in her life, she gave a frightened moan. “Mama,” she whispered.
