Katherine

by Anya Seton

  She shook her head. “People do not speak to me of him.”

  “Why, Philippa and Joao I were married last month in Oporto, she is now Queen of Portugal.”

  How strange, Katherine thought. Philippa the grave, sedate, virginal girl who had longed for the cloister, now wedded at twenty-six, and a queen in a far-off land.

  “And little Catalina,” said de la Pole, “she is to marry Enrique of Castile, I believe. It is she who will sit on Castile’s throne in her parents’ stead - and that will mean the end of war at last.”

  The end of the Castilian dream at last, Katherine thought. Not in failure, but not in glory either. There must be humiliation for John in this denouement. The prize achieved by compromise, by dynastic marriages, but never really his. Always second, she thought, never first. All his life.

  “Oh, he still fights,” continued de la Pole, who had been following the same thoughts. “He hasn’t given up yet. But we hear that his army is fearfully afflicted, there’s some disease runs through them and kills. The messenger said that the Duke himself was very ill with-Nay, lady, I talk too much, a tongue-wagging old man,” he added quickly, seeing the look in Katherine’s eyes. “He’ll recover. He has great strength.”

  She put down the tapestry and said in a choked voice, “My lord, forgive me if I leave you for a time.” She walked from the Hall and upstairs to her solar, where for some moments she sat alone.

  When she came down again, she found that Master Robert Sutton had arrived to escort her to the banquet. He and de le Pole were standing at the hearth making polite conversation.

  The earl came up to her at once and took her hand. “I’ve trespassed too long upon your kindness, my dear lady, and must hurry back to my duties by the King. Forgive me,” he added lower, “for talking so much.” He kissed her hand. “It’s been good to see you again. God bless you.”

  He went out, while Robert turned to Katherine with complacence. “It seems my Lord of Suffolk thinks well of you, sweet. Were he not so old, I’d be jealous. You might,” he continued, brightening, “through him even be presented to the Queen. He still has influence with Richard. Did you think to ask him? Maybe we should announce our marriage at the banquet after all.”

  “No,” said Katherine slowly. She sat down and indicated the other chair so lately quitted by de la Pole. “Robert, I cannot marry you. Forgive me.”

  The wool merchant’s ruddy cheeks paled, he stared at her. “Katherine, what whim is this! I ne’er thought you a woman for sly tricks and coquestry.”

  “It is no trick, or coquetry. It is that I was a fool to think I could forget the past-” She hesitated a long time while he looked at her with dismay and dawning anger. “It is this, you see,” she said at last. “For me, it’s not the past - it’s still the present. Call it folly, madness if you like - but it seems I am so made that I can give myself to no other man.”

  He argued with her, he stormed at her, he pled with her. Tears filled her eyes, finally she wept in contrition, in pity; but she could not accede. During the moments alone in her chamber, the certainty had come to her at last. For her there could be no comfortable fresh start, no easier way permitted in the following of her destiny. The love that she had felt, she would always feel, and in itself it brought dedication, regardless of return. Without de la Pole’s revelations she would not have married Sutton, that had been a temporary clouding. But the thought of John suffering, in danger, had hastened the realisation.

  When Sutton left at last, furious and acid-tongued, she sat on alone in the Hall, nor did she attend the King’s banquet. She sent word that she had been taken ill.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  The feast of St. Catherine - November 25, 1395. Katherine awoke at Kettlethorpe in an unusual mood of depression and unaccountable loneliness. The old solar was far snugger than it used to be, she had gradually achieved modest comfort in her home. The walls were hung with Lincoln-made tapestries, there were bear-rugs and sheepskins on the plank floor. The wooden shutters had been replaced with casements of leaded glass, and the remodelled fireplace made it possible to warm this room that used to be a vortex of draughts. Nevertheless, Katherine shivered when she awoke and listened to the hissing of sleet on the windows. She found in herself a dismal reluctance to face the day: a holiday for all her manor folk, who had planned profuse festivities in her honour.

  There was to be a procession, and a Catherine dance and spinning contest for all the village maidens, and a speech given by Cob, who was a great man in Kettlethorpe now, a sort of unofficial mayor. Her tenants would bring her little gifts; at the end there would be feasting in the Great Hall, while she sat on the dais and was crowned with a prickly wreath of pine and holly that Cob’s children had made for her. These ceremonies were heart-warming. They had occurred every year, with increasing elaboration, since her return. It would be ungrateful indeed not to rejoice at the affectionate respect that they evinced.

  But on this morning her head ached dully. While she waited for Hawise to come in with the morning ale, she could think only of worries. Two of her best ewes showed signs of murrain, the shepherd had sent to the witch of Harby for a charm to prevent the plague from spreading. That was one worry. Janet was another.

  Janet Swynford, Tom’s wife, who would soon be here from Coleby with the twins, to do her motherin-law honour. Born a Crophill of Nottingham, Janet was precisely the right wife for Tom, self-effacing, thrifty and plain as an iron pot, so that there was no danger whatsoever in leaving her at Coleby alone during the lengthy periods that Tom was off serving his Lord Henry of Bolingbroke. But Janet talked interminably in a thin martyred whine, and she bored Katherine. The year-old twins were sweet; Katherine longed to enjoy her only grandchildren, but they were delicate, little Hugh coughed incessantly, Dorothy had a weak stomach.

  Katherine, who had borne and raised six healthy children, continually choked off advice that Janet would plaintively resent - and ignore.

  Ah well, a familiar enough problem, and not worth fretting over. Joan’s unhappiness was far more harrowing. Joan, her baby, was now sixteen, and a widow. Not that Joan had loved the fat shabby old knight to whom last year she had been so briefly married; but she had endured the discomforts gladly in return for the improved standing he gave her and the glimpse of the great outer world that poor Joan so longed for. Sir Robert Ferrers had taken his little bride to Leicester Castle and the gay household of Henry’s wife, Mary de Bohun. Joan had had a few weeks of excitement before her own widowhood and Countess Mary’s death thrust her back to her mother and Kettlethorpe. Worse than that, during that brief, brighter time the girl had fallen desperately in love - with Ralph Neville of Raby, the handsome young Lord of Westmorland, son to the old warrior who had died soon after his visit to Lincoln with Richard.

  An impossible love. The Nevilles of Raby did not marry bastards. Bitter heartache for Joan, to which Katherine applied the standard palliatives as best she could: so young; she’d get over it; some other suitable husband would turn up, and she would certainly forget young Neville when the babies came.

  Joan had gazed at her with the round pansy-purple eyes and said quietly, “Did you, Mother? Did you ever forget my father even while you bore the Swynfords?”

  The shock of that was still with Katherine, and the fear of the girl’s instinctive comparison, which Joan had seen and allayed most painfully. “Nay,” she had whispered in a choked voice. “I shall never be Neville’s paramour, though he begged it. Do you think I, who know what it is to be baseborn, would inflict that on another human soul? Ah, forgive me, Mother - -“

  They had both turned away in tears, nor referred to it again.

  This new unhappiness of Joan’s had awakened the dormant pain for Blanchette. Fourteen years without word. Requiem Masses were said for her in the church here on June 13, the day she disappeared, and yet Katherine had not quite accepted her death.

  It was true that life was harder on women, but why, Katherine wondered, should it be her oldest an
d youngest children that seemed marked out for special suffering? To this question, as to many others there was no answer.

  I am the ground of thy beseeching. How shouldest thou not then have thy beseeching? Ay, she believed that. Many times comfort had been given her, and a glimpse of grace. Yet there were arid spaces like now when the light dwindled into greyness and she fell into the sloth and doubt which Lady Julian considered the only true sins.

  The door to the outside staircase flew open with a bang. Hawise came in on a stinging blast of cold air. “Cock’s bones, but ‘tis fine weather for friars!” She slammed the door shut and blew on her fingers. “No matter, sweeting, ‘tis your saint’s day, and I’ve laced your ale wi’ cinnamon special as ye like it. Bless ye!” She leaned over the bed and gave Katherine a kiss. “Peter, what a long face! What’s a matter?”

  “I don’t know - I’ve got the dumps.” Katherine tried to smile. “Hawise, do you know how old I am?”

  “I ought to.” Hawise poured steaming ale into a cup and poked at the fire embers. “I’ve not lost me memory yet, let alone that all the kitchen folk’re busy painting red ribbons ‘round forty-five candles for your feast tonight.”

  “Forty-five,” said Katherine flatly. “Jesu, what an age!”

  Hawise came bade to the bed holding out a rabbit-lined chamber robe. “Well, ye’ve not gone off much, if that’s any comfort. Cob was boasting only yestere’en that the Lady o’ Kettlethorpe is the fairest woman in Lincolnshire.”

  “Cob is partial, bless him,” said Katherine with a rueful laugh. She looked down at her long braids, thick as ever but lightly frosted with silver, while at her temples she knew well that there were two white patches springing up with startling effect against the dark bronze.

  “Ye’re still firm as an apple,” said Hawise casting a critical look as she enfolded Katherine in the chamber robe. ” ‘Tis all the work ye do, Saint Mary, I’d never’ve believed it in the old days - brewing, baking, distilling, churning along wi’ the maids - running here, running there, tending to the cotters - gardening, even shearing. Lord what busyness!”

  “Well, I’ve had to,” said Katherine bleakly. There had been a bad couple of years after Sutton withdrew his advice and support. She had run the manor entirely alone, but they struggled through to modest profit again. Sutton’s outraged feelings had eventually been soothed by marriage with the daughter of a wealthy knight. And it all seemed very long ago.

  She went mechanically through the process of washing and dressing, allowed Hawise to bedeck her in the gala robe of deep crimson velvet edged with squirrel and fasten the bodice with the Queen’s brooch.

  “Seems strange too,” said Hawise, adjusting the clasp, “what coffers full o’ jewels I used to rummage in afore we’d find one to your liking - and now there’s naught to wear but this thing.”

  Katherine sighed and sat down by the fire. “So much has changed,” she said sadly. “Hawise - I think of my poor sister this morning, God rest her soul. So many deaths - -“

  “Christ-a-mercy - lady-” cried Hawise crossing herself.

  “What a way to talk on your saint’s day!”

  “What better day?” said Katherine. “Since I am thinking of them - -” She fell silent, staring into the fire.

  Ay, o’ one death especial, thought Hawise as she shook her head and started to straighten the bedsheets. The Duchess. Last year had come a strange smiting on the highest ladies of the land, the Lollard preachers had seen God’s vengeance in it, and folk had been afraid. Between Lent and Lammastide, they died, the three noblest ladies in England. Queen Anne, she died of plague at Sheen Castle, and the King had gone out of his mind with grief. Mary de Bohun, Lord Henry of Bolingbroke’s countess, had died in childbirth, Christ have mercy on her, thought Hawise, remembering the frightened twelve-year-old bride at Leicester Castle the winter before the revolt.

  And the Duchess Costanza had died, here in England, of some sickness in her belly, they said. When the news got to Kettlethorpe, Lady Katherine had been very quiet for many days, her beautiful grey eyes had taken on a strained, waiting look, but nothing had happened at all, except that the Beaufort children had all been sent fresh grants through the chancery. In truth, through the last years, the Duke seemed to have taken a concealed interest in them; at least he had not interfered with the marked favour and help that his heir Henry had occasionally shown them.

  But, thought Hawise, tugging viciously at a blanket, wouldn’t you think the scurvy ribaud might have sent my Lady some kindly word, at last? Instead he had gone off to Aquitaine again as ruler. And was still there, God blast him, and why hadn’t she taken that Sutton when she had the chance, though to be sure he might not have made her happy. Men, men, men, thought Hawise angrily, then seeing that Katherine still sat in dismal abstraction, she went up to her coaxingly. “Read some o’ those merry tales in the book Master Geoffrey sent ye, now do. They always cheer ye.”

  Katherine blinked and sighed. “Oh Hawise - I fear ‘twould take more than the tales of junketing to Canterbury to cheer me today - poor Geoffrey - -” He was having a hard time, she knew, though his letters were philosophical as always, yet he was in financial difficulties, his health not good, and he was lonely in the Somerset backwater where he had been consigned as Royal Forester. I wish I could help him, she thought. Perhaps when the accounts are all toted up, there may be a shilling or so to spare here - -

  “Hark!” said Hawise suddenly, pulling a wry mouth. “There’s my Lady Janet with the twins.” They both listened to the familiar clatter of hooves in the courtyard, and heard the peevish howling of babies.

  “Yes,” said Katherine rising and reaching for her mantle. “The day’s festivities most merrily commence.”

  That’s not like her, Hawise thought gloomily, while she continued to straighten the solar, that dry bitter inflexion from one who had shown of late years a nearly constant sweetness and courage. Hawise paused by the prie-dieu and picking up her mistress’ beads said a rosary for her. Still dissatisfied, she hunted through Katherine’s dressing coffer until she found a little brass pin which she threw into the fire with a wish, and felt better. “Cry before breakfast, sing before supper,” she quoted from Dame Emma’s collection of comforting lore.

  Hawise’s prayer and wish were granted, though not before supper and by nothing as simple as cheerful song.

  The villagers had finished their feasting, the boards had been cleared, and stacked with the trestles in the corner of the Hall. Cob had made his speech. He had sent hot colour to Katherine’s cheeks, mist to her eyes with his eulogies, and her tenants had cheered her exuberantly. Two ne’er-do-wells from Laughterton had even brought her some back rent that she had despaired of getting, and there had been copious donations of apples, and little cakes baked by the village wives.

  Now Katherine sat on in the hour before bed strumming her lute, while Joan sang and Janet listened vaguely. The twins were asleep in their cradle by the hearth. Hawise sat by the kitchen screen mending sheets. The house carls had all gone off to the village tavern to wind up the day. The forty-five big candles still burned, and shed unusual brilliance in the old Hall.

  “I wonder where my brothers all are tonight?” said Joan in a pause between songs. “Lord, I wish I was a man.”

  Her mother’s heart tightened. So dreary for the child here in this middle-aged woman’s household, such tame distractions to offset the cankering hidden love.

  “Well,” said Katherine lightly, “we know Harry’s studying in Germany and Tamkin is supposed to be at Oxford, though I wouldn’t count on it.” She smiled. Tamkin was no scholar like Harry, who had already risen further in the Church than had ever seemed possible. There could be no doubt that their father’s secret influence had helped them all. This had often comforted her. Young John had achieved at last his great ambition and been knighted, after he travelled with Lord Henry to the Barbary Coast. A lovable fellow Johnnie was and had made his way as a soldier of fortune, despite the hin
drance of his birth. Even Richard liked him - so far anyway - and had taken him with the army to Ireland last year.

  “I don’t know where Thomas is,” said Janet suddenly in her plaintive whine. “I hope he gets home for Christmas; he never lets me know anything.”

  “Poor Janet.” Katherine put down the lute and sighed. “Waiting is woman’s lot. I don’t suppose I’ll see my Johnnie for many a long day, either.”

  Janet’s small pale eyes sent her motherin-law a resentful look. A blind mole could see that Lady Katherine preferred her baseborn sons to her legitimate one, and Janet considered this shameful. Her discontented gaze roamed around the Hall, which was larger and better furnished than Coleby’s. She indulged in a familiar calculation as to how long it would be before Tom inherited. But Lady Katherine seemed healthy enough and looked, most infuriatingly, ten years younger than she was, a manifestly unfair reward for a wicked life.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” said Joan yawning. “With you, I suppose, Mother?”

  Katherine nodded. The arrival of guests always meant switch of sleeping quarters. Janet, nurse and twins would occupy Joan’s usual tower chamber - that had once been Nichola’s.

  Hawise put down her mending and began to blow out the candles. There were still twenty to go when the dogs started to bark outside. The blooded hound, Erro, that Sutton had given young John over eight years ago had been lying by the fire with his head on his paws. A dignified aristocrat, Erro, who did not consider himself a watchdog, and usually ignored the noisy antics of his inferiors. It was therefore astonishing to have him raise his head and whine, then leap up with one powerful bound and precipitate himself uproariously against the door.

  “Strange,” said Katherine running to hold his collar. “There’s only one - Sainte Marie, could it be?” she added joyously.

  And it was. Young John Beaufort came into the Hall on a swirl of soft snow. He caught his mother in his arms, kissed her heartily. “God’s greeting, my lady! Sure your saint might have sent better weather to a son who’s been hurrying to you these many days!”