A Rose for the Crown (31 page)

M
y dearest sister—Anne’s letters always began thus, and it would bring a smile to Kate’s face. This time, however, it brought tears, a welling up of the homesickness and despair that had accompanied Kate throughout the days since her visit to Master Poynter. She indulgently let a few roll down her face before she gave a loud sniff and wiped them away with her sleeve.

“John and I have sweet news. I am with child. We are truly happy, and John will not let me become tired or overwrought. Such love is a blessing, and I am sure you are also feeling it with your George.”

Anne also wrote that Geoff was making great progress with his studies and seemed to enjoy learning Latin as well as accounting.
“Geoff is happiest when his nose is in a book. Methinks he has a future in this endeavor, dear Kate. He sends his warm wishes to you and George.”
Kate was amused by the information. Geoff a bookworm? It hardly seemed possible. There was not very much other news to tell, Anne admitted, but she begged Kate to write as soon as possible.

“Hah!” muttered Kate to herself. “If only Anne really knew how I am feeling about George, she would indeed be astonished.”

“Kate! Are you up there? Do you hear me?” It was Philippa.

Kate was curled in a woolen cover on her bed, where she had gone for sanctuary to read her letter. She folded the parchment carefully and placed it among her jewelry in the chest Richard had given her. Also in the box lay a letter from Henry saying he would send the first of her payments from the Tunbridge shop in a month.

“I am coming, Mother! I shall be down in the shake of a lamb’s tail.”

“Come quickly, my dear. We have a visitor, and he is impatient to meet you.”

Philippa’s voice had an excitement to it Kate had not heard before. Her chamber was at the back of the house, and she had not noticed a horseman arrive in the stable yard, though she remembered hearing the dogs. She pushed her hair back under her cap, pulled on her soft leather shoes, and flew down the stairs with such speed that she missed the final step and fell straight into the visitor’s arms. Her hastily donned cap fell off her head and her hair spilled in all directions.

“I pray you d-do excuse me, sir!” Kate stuttered, as she looked up into the weather-beaten face and brilliant blue eyes of the master of the house. She gasped.

“Master Haute . . . I mean, Father . . . I beg your pardon! I did not mean . . .” She broke off, tongue-tied for once. She had imagined this moment many times in the past few weeks. She would greet him proudly as a woman and an equal, no longer a young girl without prospects. She had rehearsed a dignified “Well met, Father” or some such formal greeting that would surely impress him and make him glad she was one of the family.

Martin frowned as fiercely as he could and was mollified to see Kate’s usual bold demeanor leave her for an instant—he well remembered her character from their two previous encounters. She extracted herself from his steadying grasp, bobbed a dutiful curtsy, and lowered her eyes to the dust on his brown leather boots.

“So, this is George’s bride, our new daughter-in-law.” He smiled at Philippa over Kate’s bowed head. “I am happy to see how eager you are to get acquainted, Kate. But I doubt your race down the stairs would have
won the approval of Dame Elinor, had she been alive to see it,” he teased, cupping her chin in his calloused hand and lifting her head. Kate saw that the frown had disappeared and a smile, buried in the fine hair of his beard, had taken its place. She gave an audible sigh of relief.

“Aye, sir. I doubt it would. I am right glad you are returned, sir. And your lady must be very happy.” She turned to Philippa, who was gazing adoringly at her husband. Martin stretched out his hand to his wife and touched her cheek. A pang of envy struck Kate, and she looked away.

After supper, as the candles guttered and the household yawned from a hard day’s work, Martin stretched out his long legs and surveyed his family. Philippa was busy wiping Robert’s upturned face with a napkin. Maud was winding a stray lock of hair around her finger and sucking her thumb. Kate was dipping her hands in the washbasin held by one of the servants. Martin slowly twirled his cup between his fingers.

“’Tis good to be home,” he murmured, and Philippa smiled. “The garrison at Calais is well stocked and as comfortable as it can be, but there is nothing like one’s own hearth and home. And a new daughter-in-law! Certes, what could be a nicer homecoming? Except perhaps to have been greeted by my son. Philippa, Kate, where is young George?—at Framlingham, I’ll be bound.”

Kate finished wiping her hands, looked at Philippa and understood she had not dared mention George to Martin yet. She held her breath, wondering if Philippa would lie. Her mother-in-law pulled at her nose and gave a noncommittal “hmmm” to the question, rising at the same time to signal the servants to begin clearing the tables. Maud slipped off her seat, shyly sidled up to her father and looked longingly at his lap. Her father set down his cup, bent down and swung her up onto his knee, where she blushed with pleasure and pointed to his hat. He removed the jaunty feather from the small jeweled pin in his hat and gave it to his curious daughter. Then he turned his attention on Philippa.

“Now, wife, what are you hiding from me? Where is young George? Is he not at Framlingham where he should be? Tell me true, is he in trouble?”

“Aye, our son is not at the castle. I know not where he is at this moment, husband. And that is the truth.” Philippa was direct but there was
apprehension in her voice. She turned to Kate, who was trying to look invisible. “What of you, Kate? Know you where George is?”

Kate looked from one to the other as they waited patiently for her reply. “An it please you, Mother, he is with his friends in Lavenham this evening. He told me nothing more.” She lied. George had told her he was going to attend a cockfight and hoped to win a lot of money on it. Despite her rancor, she could not be disloyal to her husband.

“But why is he not at Framlingham!” Martin roared suddenly, and Kate was instantly reminded of another Haute man whose anger rose quickly. “I am beholden to Jack Howard for taking the boy on as squire and, God willing, knight. How dare he leave his patron’s service without his permission to go and wed Kate! I know he did not have his permission, for I saw Howard at Calais when the
Mary Grace
took shelter from a storm. He did not know about George’s contract with Kate, and so I know George lied to me about that in his pretty letter asking my leave to wed.” His cheeks flushed pink as he raged on.

Kate was shaking with fear now. Maud was beginning to whimper because Martin’s words were bellowed in her ear. Kate did not understand all the ramifications of being in service to a knight, and she alone knew for a fact that George had lied to everyone in order to get at her money. She was present in this house under false pretences, and she felt humiliated. She also understood that without her money, George’s father might not have given his consent to the marriage, despite her Haute connection.

“I . . . I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea of all this. George told me all was in order, and he showed me your letter giving us leave to marry. I thought everything was correct. But I see now that I have upset everyone . . . and perhaps am not welcome.” She stood and would have walked out had Philippa not risen and taken her by the hand, swinging Kate around to face her.

“Certes, you are welcome, my child! Martin did not mean to say you were not. He is justifiably angry at George’s deception, that is all. You must not mind my husband, for he is a good and generous man—most of the time.” She gave Martin an arched eyebrow. Martin responded with a loud “Harrumph,” leaned across Maud and drained his cup of ale.

“I will settle with George when he returns, do not fret about
that.
” He
banged the vessel down on the table with his final word, but he softened as he addressed Kate. “Nay, Kate, ’tis not your fault. Sit by me and give me news of my kinsman Richard.”

Martin turned his attention to his wriggling daughter. He kissed Maud full on the lips, causing her to giggle and wipe her mouth involuntarily. She caught her mother’s eye and knew it was time for bed. Philippa led the two reluctant children from the hall.

“Tell me, daughter, is Richard well? And Anne? I heard she was wed early in the spring.”

“Aye, sir, Richard fares very well now that he has been named a member of the queen’s household. He is carver to the young Princess Elizabeth. He spends much time at court these days and leaves the running of Ightham to Anne and her husband, John. This very day, sir, I had a letter from Anne to say she is with child.”

Kate was no longer afraid and rattled off the news. Once again Martin was fascinated by this young woman and envied his son his bed. His lustful idea instantly shamed him as he thought of Philippa and the loving she would give him later that night in their own soft bed. He did not hear Kate’s next remark.

“Would you like for me to sing to you, Father? I have my harp at hand and would be happy to entertain you.” She looked expectantly at him. She hoped that by singing she would not have to answer any more awkward questions about George.

“What? What did you say, my dear? I fear sleep is catching up with me, and my mind drifted for a moment.”

“Would you like me to sing to you?” Kate repeated. “But perhaps, as you are tired, ’twould not be a good time.”

“Nay, Kate, ’twould be a capital time. I remember your song at Westminster. It was very beautiful. Can you sing that one for me now?” Martin was cheered.

Kate ran swiftly through to the solar and unwrapped the harp from its velvet cover. She returned carrying both the instrument and her favorite three-legged stool and sat down a few feet from Martin’s outstretched legs. The dulcet notes wafted over him, and he closed his eyes to listen more closely as she began to sing.

Neither of them noticed George creep past the doorway at the far end
of the room, his eyes riveted on Martin’s inert form in the chair, thankful that his father appeared to be asleep. He made it to the staircase and started up, knowing he would be invisible in a few seconds. But he had forgotten about the third stair. Its ominous creak sounded like a tree branch cracking under a heavy weight. George froze, hoping the music had covered it. But his bad luck at the cockfight still dogged him. He stared glumly into his father’s glittering eyes, now very wide open and boring into his, and his shoulders sagged in resignation. Kate turned to see what had caught Martin’s attention and folded the harp to her when she saw her dejected husband.

“George! Come here, sirrah! What craven have I sired that you creep about and avoid your father? By Christ, you had better have some fair explanation for your conduct before I whip you to within a hair’s breadth of your life.”

Martin rose imperiously from his chair, sleep chased from him. He looked every inch the soldier: his back straight, his fists clenched at his sides, his head thrown back, ready to do battle. He pointed to a spot a few feet from him.

“Do you come here, boy, or do I have to pluck you from your perch?”

George shrank back against the wall, the bread he had taken from the kitchen now a doughy mass in his sweating palms, and slowly descended the two last steps like a crab. Kate quietly rose from her stool, picked it up and walked past George without even looking at him.

“Kate!” he whispered, “help me! Please!”

“I will see you upstairs, husband” was all she said and left father and son facing each other in the rushlight.

Martin waited until Kate had returned her harp to its proper place and mounted the stairs before he directed his attention to George. He could not see Kate sit down on the top stair to eavesdrop. Martin railed at George for several minutes, and Kate could hear him pace up and down on the rushes. George’s responses were barely audible.

“No, sir.” “I don’t know, sir.” “I thought . . .” “If it please you, Father . . .” He stammered his apologies, but Martin was not to be appeased. His reputation with John Howard was now seriously damaged, he told his son, and he feared George might not be able to return to his duties at Framlingham, so displeased Howard must be.

“He is now in residence at Tendring Hall, I know. Tomorrow we shall ride to see him and hope he will give you another chance. Maybe we shall take Kate with us. He has an interest in her, so it seems, and he may take pity on her, if not you,” Martin finished with disgust. “Now get you gone from my sight. You reek of wine, your hair resembles a haystack and your cote is soiled. I pity my poor daughter having
you
for a bedfellow.”

George bowed stiffly, turned on his heel and fled from the room, arriving breathless at the bedchamber seconds behind Kate, who had picked up her skirts as she heard the dismissal and run on tiptoe to their room. Molly was nonchalantly hanging Kate’s hastily thrown off gown on a peg when George pushed open the door and leaned his back heavily on it as he shut it, like a fugitive protecting himself from certain death.

“Get you to bed, Molly,” he said curtly, and began unbuttoning his doublet. Molly pulled the truckle bed out from under the tester bed and dragged it to the farthest corner of the room.

“I have not finished with Molly yet.” Kate went to the polished copper mirror and held out her comb to Molly. The maid hurried over and began relieving Kate’s head of the tiresome hairpins and untangling a few knots with deft fingers and the comb. George uttered some expletive as he fumbled with his hose points and wondered where Gareth was.