A Rose for the Crown (7 page)

“Let me show you to your chamber, Martha,” Elinor said, not unkindly. “You must rest after your journey, especially in your condition.” Martha smiled and nodded, and followed Elinor into the house, trailing the boys either side of her.

“D
OES THIS MEAN
more trouble, Richard?” John was seated next to his host at the banqueting table that evening. The Bywood children sat with Anne on the side, Geoff’s chin level with the tabletop.

“Because the duke of York has returned from Ireland, you mean,” Richard Haute answered his guest. “Nay, my friend, York has the country’s best interests at heart. He has sworn allegiance to Henry, but he is still the rightful heir to the throne, as Henry must allow.”

“How be he heir, cousin?” Martha asked politely, and Richard gladly filled her in.

Richard, duke of York, was the direct descendant of the fourth son of Edward III and as such stood behind Henry in the line to the throne. “And through his mother he is a descendant of Lionel of Clarence, Edward’s
second
son, and so by right is in line ahead of Henry. ’Twas those rights made him Parliament’s natural choice of Protector during Henry’s first mad period, you see, Martha,” Richard explained.

Martha’s eyes were glazed over. This was too complex for her, and she was longing for bed.

“Unfortunately, the king regained his faculties long enough to be poisoned against York by his queen,” Richard droned on. “The hatred between the Lancastrians and Yorkists came to a head when York and his lords were excluded from the Great Council of Coventry last June. Flight to Ireland was their only recourse. Now they are back on English soil and ’tis said York has won over the Londoners.” Richard lowered his voice. “In case you have not guessed, John, I am for York.”

Elinor drew in a breath, but Richard ignored her. “In truth, York controls the parliament now, and the king must do as he says. I do solemnly swear I have not acted before against my king, but ’tis time to make a choice. I do not wish harm to our anointed king, but when the time comes, I shall welcome York as king.”

Martha’s and John’s simple lives were barely affected by who wore the crown. They never expected to be in the presence of the exalted names Richard tossed out on the table and did not believe those nobles cared a whit for the Bywoods or their farm. They listened with polite interest as Richard explained that Henry would now be forced into accepting the duke of York as his heir upon his death and the duke’s heir succeeding him.

“And if ’twill come to pass, I warrant the duke will truly make an enemy of the queen,” Richard predicted. “York will have denied her cub the throne, and her lullaby will be a battle song.”

As if on cue, a tall young man dressed in green and yellow with a harp in his hand came forward, bowed to Richard and began to sing.

“Richard, duke of York, Job thy servant insigne, Edward, earl of March, whose fame the earth shall spread, Richard, earl of Salisbury, named prudence,

With that noble knight and flower of manhood Richard, earl of Warwick, shield of our defence . . .”

Richard let his minstrel finish and raised his cup. “To York,” he said under his breath. “Well done, Will. I see you wasted no time setting the ballad to music.” He beamed at the harper, who bowed and backed away. “I plucked the ballad from the door of a church near Bishopsbourne not a month since and gave it to Will, directing him to put notes to the words. He has talent, has he not?” The question was directed at Martha and John.

Martha smiled wanly. Her head was pounding. Placed at the head table, she was able to see the rest of the household, who sat at tables at right angles to the family, and noticed that their fare was simpler. The score of servants kept by Richard and Elinor impressed her. Her eyes wandered to the rich hangings that covered the walls; the colorful figures seemed to come alive in the dancing flames of the torches and rushlights. The banqueting hall was filling up with smoke from the centrally located fire. The rain that threatened earlier in the day had begun to fall, and the smoke escape in the roof had been shut against the raindrops. Martha was feeling unwell, and the atmosphere was not helping. She had barely touched her food, mouthwatering though it was. She caught Kate’s eye at the other end of the table and saw the look of concern on her daughter’s face. She smiled gamely and picked up her spoon. It was only then that Martha realized John was squeezing her arm and asking for her response.

“I be sorry, John. I did not hear you,” she apologized, smiling weakly. John was oblivious to her pallor, perhaps because the candles on the table were few and far between and he could not see her very well, but more likely because Richard, in his amiable mood following Will’s song, had just proposed something that had held his complete attention.

“Richard and Elinor are asking that we allow Kate to come here to Ightham to live as companion to Anne,” he whispered.

Martha stared at him in disbelief. On one hand, this was indeed a chance for Kate to better herself far beyond any marriage she and John could arrange for her. But on the other, her daughter was her friend and her strength in many ways. The thought of losing Kate so young had never crossed her mind.

“She be too important to me with the other children, John,” she began. But she turned to Richard and put her hand on his arm. “You be right generous, cousin. Surely you do not need another mouth to feed.”

“She does eat a little too heartily, Richard.” Elinor looked pointedly at Kate popping another sugared plum into her mouth. She pursed her lips and, without considering her words, added, “I cannot see that she would be company for our daughter, husband, for she is naught but a peasant girl.”

“Enough!” bellowed Richard, thumping his fist on the table. The chatter in the hall came to a sudden halt. He smiled broadly and waved the household to talk on. His servants, used to his temper, turned their attention once more to their food.

He lowered his voice. “Enough of your arrogance, Elinor. Martha is my kinswoman and no peasant—and neither is her daughter. I am much taken with the girl, and I see Anne at ease for the first time these many years. If her mother and father allow it, we shall be happy to welcome Kate to Ightham as another daughter.”

Elinor pouted and sulked, as was her wont, and retreated behind the veil on her hennin. She was a little afraid of her husband, who was jovial enough most of the time but who was blessed—or cursed, depending at whom it was directed—with a violent temper.

Martha requested a night to ponder Richard’s offer and asked John to escort her to their chamber. Elinor rose with Martha and showed unexpected concern for the pregnant woman, surprising and pleasing Richard. She insisted on accompanying Martha herself and calling for her maid to help. Kate, too, was tired and, asking permission, she shooed the boys in front of her to their beds.

When Elinor returned, Richard invited Anne to sit on his knee. “Anne, your mother and I have asked Master Bywood if he would permit
Kate to come and live with us here. I think you need some company. What say you, daughter?” Richard knew he had made the right choice when a pleasurable pink tinged her face and the gentle brown eyes sparkled.

“A sister! Oh, Father, you do mean it? ’Tis a dream come true.”

Anne hugged her father, got down off his knee and shyly kissed her mother’s cheek. Elinor had the grace to acknowledge her daughter’s affectionate thanks with a smile. Inwardly, she was seething. How dare Richard make such a momentous decision without first discussing it with her! Now that he had shown his hand to those peasants, he could not withdraw his offer and call himself gentleman. If Martha and John accepted Richard’s offer, she promised herself Kate would rue coming to Ightham.

T
HE NEXT TWO DAYS
flew by for Kate, who took delight in exploring the house and grounds with Anne. By the afternoon of the second day, they were holding hands and had become inseparable. Anne shyly pointed out the highlights of the estate: the different species of fish in the well-stocked stewpond, the upper lake beyond it with its swans and her favorite spot, the herb garden. Up the terraced bank to the right of the pond were the vegetable gardens, where a gardener and his young helper were clearing the dead summer plants. Neat rows of cabbages and the leafy tops of turnips and parsnips Kate recognized, and she was also shown some exotic varieties, which she could not wait to try, such as spinach, runcival peas and radishes. On the opposite side of the stew-pond were flower beds, and the late-September roses were still giving off their heady scent as the two girls passed. Kate thought she could become accustomed to spending her days thus leisurely walking and talking at this beautiful place, but she knew that she would soon be back at her daily chores at home.

“Kate, this has truly been the happiest time of my life.” Anne stopped and took both of Kate’s hands. “I wonder if your parents have talked to you of my father’s offer.”

“What offer?” Kate looked puzzled. Anne reddened.

Before Anne could elaborate, Elinor appeared as if from nowhere and demanded that Anne return indoors before she spoiled her complexion
in the sun. She pulled the girls apart and shooed Anne in front of her, leaving Kate standing by herself, bemused.

Kate could not resist making a face at Elinor’s back. “Horrible woman,” she muttered and turned back to the roses.

Kate did not have occasion to ask Anne or her parents about the offer until after supper, when she was helping her mother put Matty and the boys to bed on this the last night of their visit.

“Anne told me of Cousin Richard’s offer to you,” she opened artfully, hoping her mother would believe that she knew what this offer was.

“And what did Anne tell you?” came the response. Her mother knew Kate too well to fall for such an easy trick. Martha and John had begged Richard not to say anything of his plan to Kate until they had had a chance to see how the two girls got along, and Anne had been sworn to secrecy as a result. Martha was disappointed that Anne had broken her promise.

Kate could not lie, because she did not know anything. Her intuition told her this matter had something to do with her, so she resorted to begging.

“Nothing, Mother, she told me nothing. But please, please will you tell me.”

“Ask your father. Now tuck Geoff in, please, help the boys with their prayers and come back downstairs anon.” She abruptly left the room so that Kate could not read the sadness in her eyes.

God got short shrift that night, and Kate was back in the hall fast enough to astonish Martha. The servants’ tables had been cleared, more logs had been piled on the fire and Will the harper was sitting in front of the head table, playing. The silvery sounds compelled Kate to forget her mission and slip into her seat next to Anne to listen.

When the notes died away, Kate was close to tears. “That be the most beautiful song I ever have heard, in truth.”

The young man lifted his face and smiled into her eyes. Something deep inside her stirred, but she was too young to understand it. Richard began the applause and then tossed a coin over to the musician, who bowed and left the hall.

“So, you found my minstrel to your taste, sweetheart,” Richard said to
Kate, who was still blushing from Will’s frank stare. “Was it his looks you liked or his music?” He chuckled, seeing Kate’s confusion.

“Why, his music, sir. What be the instrument? I long to play it myself.”

“Perhaps you shall, sweeting, perhaps you shall. The instrument is the harp, and I am mightily fond of its sweet sound. Well, Martha, John, have you come to a decision?” Richard turned to them.

“Martha and I do thank you with all our heart for your offer, Richard, and as much as it do sadden us to see her go, we are obliged to do what is best for Kate.” John turned to Kate. “Kate, Cousin Richard has asked us to allow you to live here at Ightham, be a comfort to young Anne and learn to be a lady. I know ’tis hard for you to leave your brothers and baby Matty, but, sweetheart, you must understand this is more than your mother and I could ever offer you.”

Kate looked from one parent to the other, her eyes wide with incredulity. God must have listened to her as she peered through the squint from the solar into the chapel during vespers that evening. Please, please, Lord, let me stay, she had prayed. I’ll never tell a lie or be angry with the boys again. And I swear I shall never go near the river again, if you but help me to stay. She had crossed herself twice for good measure.

And now her prayer had been answered. Thank you, sweet Jesus! She had to restrain herself from leaping to her feet and exulting.

When she saw the anguish flit across her mother’s face, her joy was doused in a shower of remorse. How could she bear to leave her family and the farm? She looked at her brothers gazing at her in awe. Her father’s fingers twirled the stem of his goblet, and he stared into its contents. He, too, would miss his favorite child and so could not look her in the eye. Kate’s lip trembled for a moment as she pondered the separation from those she loved. She caught sight of Anne’s radiant face and her sadness lessened. The thrill of a new life at the Mote must outweigh the loss, she concluded. She was aware of the heartache it would bring Martha, who forced a smile and wrung her napkin under the table so that she would not cry. Kate ran round the table and threw her arms around her mother’s neck.