A Rose for the Crown (3 page)

She tore her eyes from his troubled face and looked towards the window,
not knowing where to start, her thoughts still with the scene at Smithfield. She knew she owed him the truth after all this time.

Dickon stroked her hair, hating to see the tears that flowed unheeded down her cheeks. Why was he surprised? His mother had suddenly come to claim him when he was thirteen, a little time after the new King Henry had taken the throne. Until then he had believed she was his aunt. She had never given him a satisfactory explanation for all their years apart, and it had taken him a long time to love and accept her as his mother. But now the mystery was deepening, and he was almost afraid to know more.

Thus they sat, mother and son, both lost in their own thoughts, as a bird’s fluting warble began in a tree in the central courtyard.

The birdsong awoke something in her. He saw her eyes soften, her mouth curve into a smile as she whispered, “Listen, Dickon! I can hear a blackbird.”

PART ONE
Confort et Liesse

(Comfort and Joy)

—
MOTTO OF
K
ING
E
DWARD
IV

1
Kent, Spring 1459

K
ate squinted up at the sky. Her nine-year-old imagination raced as fast as the woolly clouds that floated above her. A lamb, a dragon—and that big one, surely that was a giant with a horrid hooked nose. She inhaled deeply and savored the experience of the early summer day: the rich, warm earth in the fields, fern fronds unfurling in the sun, and the heady scent of bluebells. She luxuriated in the bright green grass that cushioned her, wriggled her bare toes and felt the sun’s rays warming her young body through her homespun gown. In the woods, a blackbird sent forth its sweet song, as if to give voice to her feelings.

“Aye, Sir Blackbird, ’tis a glorious day,” she called, with a child’s belief the bird would understand her. “Sing away!”

Bored with the cloud game, she rolled over onto her stomach to study nature closer at hand. An ant was busy moving a particle of leaf six inches from her nose.

“It be hard work, bain’t it, Master Ant?” The ant took no notice and went on with his task. A few yards away, a bumblebee was worrying a clover flower, too busy to pay Kate any attention. Then, just as she was
thinking of making a daisy chain, she heard her name echoing through the woods.

“Kate, Kate! Where are you, Kate Bywood, you lazy girl?” It was her mother.

Suddenly aware that she had been gone a long time, Kate jumped to her feet, strapped on her pattens and raced through the bluebells back to the farmhouse.

The Bywood farm stood a few miles from the Kentish market town of Tunbridge close to where the River Medway flows under the old Twyford Bridge. It boasted a dozen acres of fields, an orchard, two healthy cows, a small flock of sheep and some poultry. John and Martha Bywood lived a comfortable existence in the thatched farmhouse. The one room downstairs served as both kitchen and living area, and recently John had constructed a rough wooden floor over the packed dirt previously underfoot. The cheery room was constantly filled with the sounds of children’s squeals and laughter, while Martha cleaned, spun, mended clothes or prepared the daily meal. A ladder on the east wall led to the loft above, where a heavy curtain separated the big bed that John and Martha used from the three children’s pallet of straw.

When Kate returned from the field, Martha was pulling up the wooden pail from the well. “Kate! Where have you been, you naughty girl? Lying on the grass, daydreaming again, I have no doubt, judging by those grass stains on your kirtle. And your hair! You look as if you have been pulled through a bush backwards!”

Kate had the grace to look shamefaced but not for long. She knew her mother’s admonishments were half-hearted. The two of them shared too great a bond for Martha to be cross for more than a moment.

“I be sorry, Mother,” she murmured, brushing the grass off her gown and wiping more dirt onto her nose than off with the back of her hand.

“Run and comb your hair and then help me with the supper, daughter. We have guests this evening, so tidy yourself and be you quick about it.”

Kate stared in wonder. “Who is coming?”

Guests were rare at the farm, unless one counted the village field hands or the occasional peddler wandering up the lane that led to the farmyard. Before Martha could reply, shrieks emanated from the house.

“’Tis mine, give it to me!” cried one young voice.

“No, ’tis mine—I found it first,” countered a second.

“’Tis mine, I tell you!” bellowed the first. The sounds of a scuffle were joined by excited barking.

Kate sighed. “Don’t fret, Mother, I will deal with them.”

“Thank you, sweeting. And clean them up for our guests. Richard and his lady wife will be here all too soon.”

Kate ran into the house to pull apart her two younger brothers while pondering her mother’s words. Richard? Who could that be?

After she had chided Johnny and Geoffrey and restored order, she sent them to the well to wash their dirty faces and hands. She watched them reluctantly clump across the room to obey her.

Johnny resembled his father, who was of middling height and stocky, though the boy had his mother’s eyes and light brown hair. He was strong for his age and quiet like his father; it was hard to discern how deeply he felt things because he never cried and did not laugh much. He adored his father and dogged him in the fields and orchard as often as he was allowed, already learning to live off the land at the age of seven.

Kate loved Johnny as a sister should but not nearly to the degree she adored her baby brother, auburn-haired Geoffrey. The bond between the two had been obvious from an early age, when Geoff preferred Kate’s arms to those of his mother. He was quick to cry, quicker to smile and was always in one scrape or another. Kate had no qualms about blaming the five-year-old for the squabble she had interrupted and stopped.

“Mischief makers,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the open staircase to the low-ceilinged loft. She plopped down on the big pallet she shared with her brothers, sending clouds of straw dust into the air and disturbing several fleas. She watched them absentmindedly, killing a few as she tidied herself. Then she stood on tiptoe and stared dispassionately at her reflection in the small piece of highly polished copper her father had tacked up. She grimaced, not realizing the potential beauty in her oval face, tawny eyes and chestnut hair. All she saw were the hundreds of freckles that seemed to have multiplied every time she looked.

There would soon be another babe to care for, Kate thought, as she combed her hair, quickly braided it and brushed the grass off her dress. This one she was looking forward to, now that she was almost grown up
and could help care for it. She hoped it would be a girl. A sister would be pleasant after minding two brothers.

A few minutes later, Kate was back in the woods, picking armfuls of bluebells for the pitchers her mother had set out on the table. She knew enough not to pull the flower out by the root, which Martha had told her would cause the plant never to blossom again. As she reentered the house, Fenris, the family dog, bounded around her, almost knocking her down. “Down, Fenris!” she scolded. The animal sat down clumsily to scratch himself in an awkward spot behind his head. The contortion pulled the side of his mouth back into a lopsided grin, and Kate laughed.

“Who be Richard?” she finally remembered to ask her mother, who was busy chopping herbs for a stuffing. “Why should he come here? And what does ‘lady wife’ mean?” She arranged the bluebells as she spoke.

Martha knew she should reprimand the child for her forwardness. As she recognized herself in Kate’s curiosity, she had perhaps allowed her daughter too much freedom. John occasionally chided Martha for her leniency with Kate, but for the most part, both parents saw no harm in her childish need to ask questions.

Martha let Kate’s impertinence pass yet again and answered, “He be kin of mine, and we used to play together as children. But he is rich and now lives at Ightham Mote over by Ivy Hatch. I thought he had forgot me. But—heaven knows why—he sent me word that he and Elinor—‘lady wife’ be the name you give to the wife of a man of Richard’s rank—would sup with us on their way home from some errand at the coast. I have not seen him since I married your father, and I have not met his lady.”

“Is he very grand? Shall I have to curtsy? Will Lady Elinor have many jewels?”

“Kate, you must not ask so many questions! ’Tis time you grew up and became more circumspect,” Martha admonished her, as she pushed the last of the coarse bread stuffing into the cavity of one of the precious capons she had sacrificed for the occasion. But seeing Kate’s downturned mouth, she relented. “No, he be not grand. He be kind and jolly,” she said, spearing the chicken on the turnspit. “Yes, for sure, you must curtsy, just as I taught you to do for Father Godfrey. And no, I do not
think Dame Elinor would wear her jewels while riding over these dangerous roads.” She shivered. “I do pray she left them at home.”

A few months back, when Martha had ridden with John into Tunbridge to help on market day, two thieves had set upon them in broad daylight. They had made off only with a bushel of apples and a few coins but had left Martha gray with fear and John pink with anger. Now John never traveled without a stout stick and one of his field hands.

As Martha busily basted the chicken, made a rabbit pie and kept the children occupied with chores, she told Kate of her exploits as a child. She and Richard were about the same age and had grown up only a few miles from each other near Bishopsbourne, on the old Roman road from Canterbury to Dover. Richard’s father, William, had inherited the local manor as well as the Mote at Ightham from his father. Martha’s family was given a cottage on the estate because of their kinship with the Hautes, and she and her brothers were encouraged to play with their higher-born cousins. Richard’s other brothers had not been as tolerant of their young girl cousin, but Richard and Martha climbed trees, chased squirrels, fished in the stream and talked about their futures. Richard dreamed of knighthood and fighting in wars in foreign lands. Martha dreamed of her own knight, a manor like Bishopsbourne and a nursery filled with children. Richard, she always knew, was destined for a grand future—perhaps at the king’s court.

Martha had married John, a friend of her father’s from his service with the king in France. Her father had breathed a sigh of relief to see her settled at the ripe age of nineteen. He had despaired of any man taking his headstrong daughter off his hands. John’s farm, here on the western borders of the county, was his by the ancient Kentish right of gavelkind, a system through which a son could automatically inherit land from his father. Her connection to the Haute family had provided a small dowry, and John had used it to improve the farm.

Privately, Martha had thought John, at forty, was old, his plain looks and stocky build a far cry from her dream of the young knight. John had been good to her, but she often thought how different life might have been had her white knight swept her off her feet. As usual after one of these fantasies, she sighed.

“Mother, are you listening to me?” Kate’s voice interrupted her. “I have asked you three times where I should put these bluebells! ’Twas not a moment ago you chided me for daydreaming,” she teased. “What were you thinking about, dear Mother? Do tell.”

Martha grinned sheepishly. “There you go again, asking questions! Perhaps if I had been as pretty as you, Kate, I might have been carried off by a handsome young knight,” she said. “That was the dream I had when Cousin Richard and I used to share our secrets many years ago. But if I had not wed your father, then I would not know the delight of having you as a daughter, would I?”

Uncharacteristically, Kate blushed.

“Now, stop chattering and put that pitcher down there on the table.”

T
HE KITCHEN WAS FILLED
with mouth-watering smells from the roasted chicken and pies and bread, bringing the boys racing in to ask for handouts. Martha smacked Johnny’s hand when he dug a finger into the bowl of cream on the table. He let out a howl of protest and retreated to the doorway to wait for the guests. Kate was combing Geoffrey’s unruly curls when Fenris raised his head, cocked it to one side and gave a warning growl.