Katherine

by Anya Seton

  “We’ll see, dear,” she said, trying to smile. John’s dreams were impractical, but he should at least be attached to some good knight as squire, someone who would honour his royal blood and not take advantage of his friendless position.

  And the two other boys. She looked at Harry, sprawled on his stomach by the fire, reading as usual. He had ink on his duckling-yellow forelock, ink stains and penknife cuts on his grimy hands. A true scholar was Harry, with a keen shrewd mind beyond his years. He gulped knowledge insatiably, and yet retained it. He was determined to go to Cambridge, to Peterhouse, and train for minor orders at least; any further advancement in the clergy would take great influence - and money. A bastard could not advance in the Church without them. Bastardy. How often had she tried to console the elder boys as they had grown into realisation of the barrier that held them back from their ambitions, pointing out that they were not nameless, that their father had endowed them with a special badge, the Beaufort portcullis, and a coat of arms, three royal leopards on a bar. She reminded them that William of Normandy, England’s conqueror, was not true-born. These arguments seemed to comfort the boys. At least they had both ceased to distress her with laments. But they were thoughtful of her always. In their different ways, they loved her dearly.

  Tamkin was still too young to fret about his birth. He was a happy-go-lucky child anyway, and at ten lived in a boy’s world of sport and play. A healthy young puppy, Tamkin, and at the moment engaged in teasing Harry by rolling dried acorns across his book. This ended in a scuffle, and then a rough-house. Chairs were overturned, the floor rushes flew about the pommelling, shouting whirl of arms and legs when Robert Sutton walked in.

  “By God, lady!” he cried above the rumpus, ” ‘Tis like the mad cell at the Malandry in here! Your lads show you scant respect.”

  Tamkin and Harry disentangled themselves abruptly. They stood up panting, red-faced. “We mean our lady mother no disrespect, Master Robert,” said Harry arranging his torn tunic, and eyeing the wool merchant coldly.

  Robert, glancing at Katherine’s watchful face, changed his tone. “Good, good. I’m sure you don’t. Boys will be boys, ha? I’ve brought you lads something.” His full swimming eyes veered to include John who stood very stiff and quiet beside his mother. “It or they rather, are in the courtyard, waiting for you.”

  “Oh what, what?” cried Tamkin jumping up and down.

  “Go and see,” said the merchant benevolently.

  John and Harry gave him a restrained, considering look, but they went off with their excited little brother.

  “My best hound bitch, Tiffany, has lately whelped,” Sutton explained to Katherine, sitting down opposite her. “I’ve brought each of your lads a pup. The strain have the keenest noses in Lincolnshire.”

  “That’s very good of you, Master Robert,” said Katherine with sincere gratitude. The boys had no blooded hunting dogs, and made do with the Kettlethorpe mongrels.

  “And I’ve brought Joan a yellow singing bird that came from the coast of Fez. She must keep it warm and tend it well.”

  “Ay - and thank you. It’ll delight her,” said Katherine.

  He was not normally perceptive, but with regard to Katherine this middle-aged passion that had come to him made him observant. He saw a shadow in her lovely grey eyes, and a tightness about the mouth which still retained the curves of youth. He put his pudgy hand on his velvet-draped knees and leaning forward said anxiously, “What troubled you, just then, sweetheart?”

  He is good, she thought, he is kind, if the boys are jealous they’ll get over it. I’ll say yes, but I must be frank with him in all things first.

  “It was this,” she said speaking with effort. “I had a child - once - who loved singing birds - Blanchette - -“

  “To be sure, and I remember the little red-haired maid, years ago at Kettlethorpe,” said Robert heartily. “Too bad she died, God rest her soul.” Pity it wasn’t one or more of the bastards died, he thought. Ah well, one must take the rough with the smooth.

  As Katherine did not speak but gazed into the fire, he said on a brisker note, “You must forget the past. It does no good to brood.”

  “No, of course not.” She turned and looked at him. At the sleek curls of beard on his well-fed jowls, at the network of tiny purple veins in his cheeks, at the heavy gold chain around his massive crimson velvet shoulders, at the badges of office on his arm - former mayor, member of Parliament, master woolmonger - at the heavy-lidded, slightly bloodshot eyes that answered her gaze with kindling eagerness.

  “It does no good to brood,” she repeated, “and I’ll try to forget the past.”

  “I’ll make you!” he cried thickly. “Katherine, you know what I’ve come to say. We’re not children. You shall be Mistress Sutton. By God, you shall be mayor’s wife next year - when Father’s out and I’m reelected. You shall hold your head up in this town, and be damned to all of them. They dare not gainsay a Sutton. I’ll not say I haven’t thought twice about it, and my father and brother - well, no need to go into that, they’ll do what I tell ‘em to. We Suttons stick together and they have to admit ‘tis not as though you came to me penniless. Nay - I’ve shown ‘em that the Beauforts are provided for, and you have property, a tidy parcel. You’ll soon see how your manors’ll flourish when I’ve full control. Not but what you’ve acted cleverly enough for a female. As you know, I was against your freeing the serfs - but it’s not worked out so badly, I’ll admit, long as they pay their rents. But you can get more out of the manors than you do. There’s a new breed o’ Cotswolds I shall try at Kettlethorpe, I think the pasturage near Fossdyke’d suit ‘em and-” It occurred to him that, women being what they were, this was perhaps not the most effective of wooings. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, ‘tis no secret to you that I’ve long wanted you in my bed, and if you’ll come no other way, I’m willing to wed.” Katherine laughed.

  The merchant was divided between delight at the pretty sound of it and a natural annoyance.

  “What’s so funny?” he said stiffly. ” ‘Tis not, my dear, as though you had noble blood, to be sure you’ll be plain Mistress Sutton, instead of ‘Lady’ - but I hardly think - -“

  “Nay, nay - Master Robert,” she put her hand on his knee, “I’ve no thought like that, I come of simple yeoman stock, and will be grateful to be Mistress Sutton - -“

  “Then you will?” he cried. He lumbered to his feet and caught her up around the waist. He kissed her hotly, hard and insistent.

  ‘Tis not so bad, she thought. He smelt of pomade and cloves; the feel of male strength and of desire, after so long a chastity, was not disagreeable. As he kissed her, her pulses quickened a little. Ay, I might learn to love him, at least enough - she thought. I shall try.

  Next day the royal procession to the cathedral justified all Lincoln’s hopes of gorgeousness, it also justified mounting rumours of Richard’s unbridled extravagance, but today nobody bothered about that.

  John Sutton, the mayor, in his scarlet robes came first, his aldermen followed, and the guild members with their banners, and the Church dignitaries, culminating in the bishop, ageing now, but as haughty, tight-mouthed and supercilious as ever. These were familiar sights to Lincoln and hardly worth standing out in the cold for; but the King and Queen and their retinue were another matter. Never had anyone imagined such a dazzle of cloth of gold, of pure silver tissue, such yards of ermine to trail in the muddy streets, such flashing of jewels.

  Thanks to Robert Sutton’s influence, Katherine watched from a bench in the minster nave as the procession moved sedately along between the clustered marble columns towards the north-east transept and turned left for the chapter house, where the ceremony would take place.

  She watched with emotions more painful than she had anticipated when familiar figures marched by. Michael de la Pole, whom she had seen so often with the Duke. He was Richard’s adviser now, had been created Earl of Suffolk, had been Chancellor of England, but there was trouble, how
grave she did not know, except that he had been recently ousted from his chancellorship, and disgraced by the Lords in Parliament. He looked old, she thought with a pang, his shoulders stooped under their ermine cape, his hair was white as the ermine.

  And Lord Neville of Raby, the fierce North Country warrior: he looked not only old but ill, his steps dragged and he leaned heavily on the arm of his stalwart good-looking son, Ralph.

  Next came a giggling, mincing group of young men in skintight hose that showed their thighs, and more, and who wore velvet shoes with points a half yard long - Richard’s contemporaries and cronies; and the Bohemian lords and ladies who had come over with Queen Anne. And young de Vere, once Lord Oxford, Richard’s favourite, whom he had created Duke of Ireland.

  At de Vere’s faultlessly handsome face, Katherine gazed with revulsion. Even at Kettlethorpe she had heard of de Vere’s incredibly stupid conspiracies against the Duke, three years ago, the subtle plans to have John poisoned, the foul story of a mad Carmelite friar who had been subjected to hideous torture as de Vere’s scapegoat. Ay, there was perversion of all sorts dwelling behind those tinted beardless cheeks, the gold-powdered curls, the tall slender body that bore itself so haughtily in violet brocade which gave forth a wave of scent as he passed.

  Was it not in great part because of the dark silken influence de Vere had always had on Richard that the reign that started so auspiciously ten years ago had now degenerated into quarrels more violent than any known in Edward’s time, and that Richard so soon had come to be loathed by most of his people, peers and commons alike?

  And yet perhaps Queen Anne might save him, many hoped so.

  The royal couple came on alone, after an interval. Katherine and all those crowded into the nave fell to their knees.

  Richard had filled out, and blurred. The apple-blossom cheeks were plump, there was roundness beneath the tunic that was so thickly crusted with gems that one could not see the gold beneath. Even the white hart badge on his chest was made of pearls. Queen Anne was equally ornate, and at first glance, because of the horned moon headdress, she appeared to tower over her husband. She was no beauty, certainly. This daughter of the Holy Roman Empire would, in a kirtle, have passed for any stout healthy farm girl, but her face was kind, and as she whispered something to Richard, her smallish eyes sparkled agreeably.

  They were so young, Katherine thought, only twenty, both of them, their characters not yet all formed. It might well be that this pleasant-looking young woman would prop the too delicately bred Plantagenet flower.

  When the royal couple disappeared down the nave, Katherine stood up and stretched her cramped legs, noting that some of Richard’s meinie had not gone into the small chapter house but were walking back into the nave to wait.

  She wandered down the nave towards the Galilee entrance and paused in the transept beneath the rainbow shower of light from the round glass window called the Bishop’s Eye. She had always loved this cathedral, and thought it the most beautiful in England with its west front of warm apricot-coloured stone, its wealth of carvings, some humorous, like the preaching fox in the wooden choir stalls or the tiny imp hidden in the stone foliage of the retro-choir, some inspiring like the musical angels or St. Hugh’s shrine. The cathedral had gracious dignity that inspired a reverence peculiarly its own. Yet since the bishop’s unkind sermon she could never feel welcome here, fancying that even the sacristans and chantry priests stared at her sardonically.

  Today there were so many strangers that she did not feel conspicuous. While she gazed up at the Bishop’s Eye, someone spoke her name. She turned and saw that it was Michael de la Pole.

  “Why, God’s greeting, my lord,” she said uncertainly. She had met none of the Duke’s close companions since the parting.

  “Lady Swynford,” said the old earl smiling. “Fair as ever, I see.” He sighed, she saw that his blear eyes held a dragging weariness. ” ‘Tis good to see something that doesn’t change.”

  “Oh, my lord,” she protested, “indeed I have.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not being gallant, lady - if you remember, pretty speech was no art of mine. You look no older than you did six - ay, six years ago at Leicester Castle - by the Mass - that seems another life, another world.”

  “It was,” said Katherine quietly. “For me.”

  Never during the long association with this woman had Michael quite understood the Duke’s passion for her, but suddenly he did so now, perhaps because he had himself been suffering.

  “My lady,” he said, smiling ruefully, “I’ve the infirmities of age, alack - d’you know of a good nearby tavern where my page can go for wine? My belly shrinks and gnaws unless I keep it filled.”

  She nodded. “But my lord, if you would consider - my house is there, a few steps away - if I might offer you - -?”

  “The very thing! An hour’s quiet will hearten me - immeasurably. Yet, lady,” his sunken eyes glimmered with a bitter light, “are you sure you wish to receive a man who has been accused of embezzlement, of cowardice, a man dismissed from office in disgrace?”

  “You ask this of me?” said Katherine. They looked at each other half smiling, with a poignant understanding, before they turned and went together out of the cathedral and across the close to her house.

  Hawise and Philippa were vastly fluttered by the arrival of the great Earl of Suffolk; little Joan caught the excitement and stared at him with awe, but the boys were all out enjoying the freedom of this gala day.

  Katherine mulled wine herself over the fire for de la Pole while they settled down comfortably in the two cushioned chairs. He drew a sigh of relief. “This is good. Quiet. It takes youth, and strength, and - the wariness of a stoat to be around the King.”

  Philippa and Hawise had tactfully withdrawn, taking Joan with them. The two were alone in the pleasant room where the fitful sunlight glowed on Katherine’s plain well-polished furniture, on the fresh sweet-smelling floor rushes. She picked up a tapestry square and began to stitch, thinking that he might prefer not to talk.

  He watched her awhile, wondering if she ever thought of the old life and how things went with her here in Lincoln. She had changed, he thought, not her features, but in the atmosphere she emanated. There had used to be an undertone of intensity, of striving about her, now she seemed peaceful: serene and deep as a mountain tarn.

  “Lady Swynford,” he said suddenly, “do you ever think of the Duke?”

  Her needle paused,, quivered, then plopped through the canvas, trailing its load of crimson wool. “It would do no good if I did, would it?”

  “Nay - those times are long past, and well passed, I suppose, yet I don’t doubt he thinks of you.”

  She raised her head. In the grey eyes the pupils enlarged slowly. “I’m sure you’re wrong, my lord, unless it is with hatred.”

  “Hatred?” De la Pole was astonished. “Oh, he was very angry for a while up there in the north when you disappeared, ‘twas natural enough. But it was not hatred that made him build a chapel to Saint Catherine near Knaresborough.”

  Katherine put down her tapestry and stood up; her chair scraped on the hearthstone. “Chapel to Saint Catherine?”

  “Ay - in fulfilment of a vow he made to her for your safety through the revolt.”

  She turned to the fire, pressing her fingers on the mantel’s rim. “When did he erect this chapel - not after he publicly renounced me - and returned to the Duchess?”

  De la Pole frowned. “Why yes, I’m sure it was, quite a while after he was reunited to the Duchess at Knaresborough. But my dear, there was no public renouncement that I know of. I was with him for some months at that time, and I don’t believe he ever spoke your name.”

  “Yet all England gossiped of how he had reviled me - calling me” - she paused, went on steadily - “calling me witch and whore; this I heard that summer in Walsingham.”

  “And believed it?” cried de la Pole. “By God, lady, didn’t you live long enough at court to discount slander? �
�Tis the Benedictine chroniclers have been putting out all manner of lies about him - and why? Because of his association with Wyclif, because of the persecution he briefly gave their monasteries after that embroilment in the changeling story, because he has always favoured the friars - Christ only knows the reason for malice - but you should have known him better than that.”

  “Ay - I should. Perhaps I did. But I have heard no direct word from him - since then.”

  De la Pole shook his head, and sighed. “Need I tell you of his pride? And more than that, I believe he saw as you did, that it was best you two should part.”

  Katherine began to walk up and down across the hearth, she bent to poke the fire, she moved an andiron, she poured more wine into the mulling pot. “My lord, I almost wish you hadn’t told me this,” she said at last: “I do not wish to think of him - too softly.”

  Ay, perhaps I should not have mentioned him, thought the old earl. Meddle, meddle - ‘tis all it seems to me I do nowadays, at least so my enemies think. A lifetime of service to the Duke, to the crown, and at the end nothing but hatred and ingratitude. Gloucester was the real enemy, and Arundel of course. Impeachment, accusations. Michael had suffered both. They said he was nothing but a tradesman, a Hull merchant far too rich to be honest. They said he was a coward because he had influenced Richard towards peace, towards making an end of this senseless, crippling war with France. And now it would soon be exile. No doubt of that. And his one staunch friend, far away in Castile.

  “How is it with the Duke?” said Katherine. She had sat down again and picked up her tapestry. She bent her face low over it. “He is gaining at last his long ambition, isn’t he? The Castilian throne he so much wanted.”

  “By the rood, I fear not,” answered de la Pole sadly. “At least not as he wanted it. His daughter will sit there, not he.”

  “Daughter?”

  “You’ve not heard of the marriages?”