A Rose for the Crown (46 page)

Kate unwrapped the coin with trembling fingers, gazed at it in her hand and then went to sit in her favorite spot along the riverbank. Sweet violets covered the high bank and, closer to the water, the burnished yellow of the kingcup reigned supreme. Kate picked a few violets and held them to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume. She uncurled her fingers and looked again at the
écu.
She remembered the lesson she had learned about loyalty after losing Geoff along the muddy banks of the Medway. The present dissolved into that day when her father told her the story of the man who was hanged for the coin. Her eyes filled with tears as she heard John’s voice in her head and remembered the smell of sweat and Kentish earth on his clothes. It all seemed so long ago. Dear Geoff, she thought, smiling down at his letter and admiring the grown-up text. How she wished he were with her this minute! His cheeky grin and chestnut curls would be a welcome sight. Would she trust him with her secret? She was not sure.

A flash of silver caught her eye, and she felt a now familiar stirring in her breast as she looked at Richard’s ring. She pulled it off her finger and examined it for the thousandth time. It was intricately carved, like the twining stems of a vine, and set with two small rubies. One day, George had casually asked where she had acquired it. She made up a story that it had been Elinor’s, given to her by Cousin Richard as a remembrance after the burial, and that she had only just begun to wear it. He seemed satisfied. But she wanted to shout, I lied! This is Richard of Gloucester’s ring, given to me with love. And ’tis not all I have of his! But she had not.

She pushed the ring back on her finger and remembered why she had come to the river. She reread Geoff’s letter and carefully folded it. Looking at the coin, she saw it had a small hole in the center. With a strong thread, Richard could wear it as a token from her, she thought. She vaguely wondered if her father would approve of her immediately relinquishing her only remembrance of him. Fiddle-faddle! As surely as my father loved my mother, he would understand my love for Richard.

She resolved to send the coin to Richard, but when? She knew the routine. Richard must write to her through Margaret, Wat would carry the letter to Chelsworth and wait for her reply. It had been six weeks and no letter had come. Kate was unconcerned, for she knew Richard must be at his brother’s side, but now she knew she was carrying his child, she wanted him to know.

“Kate! Where are you?” Philippa called from the herb garden. “Kate!”

“I am coming, Mother!” Kate shouted back, standing up and brushing her skirts free of dirt. The violets fell in a forlorn heap at her feet. A squirrel chattered in alarm and scampered up a tree.

“I am going to Lavenham if you will accompany me,” Philippa said, as Kate reached her side. “I have promised a new gown to Maud, now that the mourning period for Robert is past. She is growing so quickly. I shall have to buy some cloth, because my loom has been idle these past weeks. And I would see my parents. Will you come?”

Kate ran inside, carefully locked the letter and coin in her coffer and threw her mantle over her shoulders. A day out in Lavenham was out of the ordinary, and she was happy to leave her chores behind. She had made the acquaintance of George’s maternal grandparents during the Christmas season, and they impressed her. Philippa’s stern and God-fearing father, a wealthy wool merchant, had worked hard to build up his business. He adored his only daughter, and Philippa’s confidence in Kate caused the old gentleman to treat her with kindness as well.

On the ride, Philippa chattered on about her pride in her son, Young Martin, who was advancing well in the family wool business. Kate listened with half an ear; her body was fighting her daily discomfort and the swaying horse was not helping.

Without warning, Philippa reined in her mount and asked, “I wonder
if you and George will be blessed with a child soon. I do not wish to meddle, daughter, but ’tis more than seven months since you were wed.”

Kate was taken aback, believing Philippa must have the gift of second sight. She hurriedly crossed herself under her cloak and fell silent for a few paces while she debated what to say. “’Tis strange you should ask now, Mother. You need not be concerned any further, for I am certain I am with child.” There, it was out.

Philippa’s eyes widened and then a slow smile spread over her face. “Kate, what wonderful news! I thought you were somewhat green-gilled these past few mornings and more than a little distracted. I am so happy for you both!” She reached across and squeezed Kate’s hand. “When do you expect your child?”

“In November, I think. Nine months from February is November by my counting,” Kate said innocently.

“Aye, November. A gift from St. Valentine! And have you written to tell George? George a father! Certes, ’tis hard to believe. Could be it will curb his wayward spirit.”

Kate chose not to respond.

A
WEEK FOLLOWING
the visit to Lavenham, Kate was planting seeds in the herb garden, her skirts tucked into her girdle and her feet into clogs. Molly came running from the house with a letter, and Kate guessed from her expression that it was from Tendring. Wat must have carried it, Kate thought with a smile. She thanked Molly and told her to fetch ale and bread for Wat.

“But that is all, mind,” she called after the flying figure. “For I shall want Wat to return to Tendring immediately.”

Her fingers fumbled as she broke the seal, so she sent up a prayer to St. Paul, who, she remembered, wrote many letters. Her supplication was rewarded when a folded letter slipped out of Margaret’s covering note. She ached to tear it open, for she was certain it was from Richard. Instead, she tucked it into her bodice and read Margaret’s first.

“My dearest Kate, I am sending this as fast as I can. I pray it is good news of our mutual friend. I yearn for your company, and I know Cat misses your
music. I await your response and will pass it to Howard as arranged. I wish you well with your penmanship! Blessings and love from your friend, Margaret Howard.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Kate called to Philippa, who was weeding at the other end of the bed, that she would be back in a while.

Philippa nodded. “Who is the letter from, Kate? I hope ’tis not bad news.”

“Nay, ’tis from Margaret. She misses me and asks that I send a response with Wat.”

“Then you could be a merry while, daughter,” Philippa teased.

Seated in a chair by the open window of her chamber, Kate pulled out the second letter and examined the outside. The parchment was fine and the seal impressive. More impressive was the small, ordered handwriting of the address, which revealed a disciplined, careful mind. She broke open the seal and smoothed out the folds. Her heart leapt as she read the first words:
“My rose, my own true love.”

She read them again, whispering the words reverently, and then read on.

“’Tis many weeks since we were together at Tendring, and I regret this late letter. My days are filled but are empty without you. I would rather be hawking with you in the woods at Nayland or lying there with you again. My soul aches for you, and my body cries out to own you.

“Send me word, I beg you. I cherish every sweet memory together and will soon come to you. Until then, I remain your everloving—”

He had signed it. “R. Gloucester” but then inked it out and written simply, “Richard.”

For a first love letter, Richard had done well! Kate marveled at his openness and felt proud she had won such a man’s heart. She wondered fleetingly if he would be angered or pleased that she was carrying his child, but she had no compunction about telling him. She ran down to the solar; she could still see Philippa in the garden. The room was deserted, so she sat down at the table and began sharpening a quill, thinking
about her reply. She took a parchment off the pile and dipped the end of the quill in the inkwell.

“God’s bones!” she cursed as the first stroke she made splattered ink across the page. She blotted it as best she could with the pummice bag and tried again.

“My dearest love,

“I too yearn to be with you again. And more so now that I am with child by you. ’Tis a joy I find hard to describe, but I pray you will feel it, too. My mother Haute knows, but she believes it to be her son’s. Tell me what more I should do. And when I shall see you. You are with me awake and in my dreams, my love, mon âme.”

Kate was pleased she remembered the French word for soul. It made her feel more like Richard’s equal.

“And fear not, for I am well. Your faithful Kate.”

She breathed a sigh of relief as she underlined her name with a flourish. Perhaps writing would come more easily to her now that she had a reason to use the skill. She used the pummice bag carefully, folded the vellum and took a candle over to the tinderbox to light. She held the flame to the block of sealing wax and aimed for the center of the fold. Removing Richard’s ring, she rolled it quickly across the hot sealant, hoping he would recognize it. Then she remembered she must respond to Margaret and enclose Richard’s letter, as arranged. She grimaced as she picked off another piece of parchment and started anew.

Soon Wat was galloping over the bridge and up the hill with her packet, and she sauntered back to the herb garden to join Philippa.

T
HE FIELDS AROUND
C
HELSWORTH
were bursting with life. Lambs frisked around their dams. Horses plodded up and down furrows, dragging field hands at the ends of the ploughs. Farmers held baskets in the crook of their arms and flung the seed onto the overturned earth. April was in full bloom. The bright green grass was a brilliant backdrop for
pale yellow primroses and cowslips or sky-blue periwinkles and the darker bugle. On the heaths, the gorse and broom drew the eye to their golden blossoms in full glory. The air smelled of spring and was filled with birdsong and bleating.

This year, Kate felt a part of nature’s renewal, and every day she rejoiced in her pregnancy. All the maternal instincts that had been with her while caring for little Matty and then Robert and Maud were centered on the tiny being inside her. She had already decided to call the baby John, if it was a boy. It seemed fitting to name her son in her father’s memory. She hoped Richard would agree, though she was certain it would not be an important decision for him, given that the child would be a bastard. However, she was determined to pass the child off as George’s and prayed her husband would agree to play father in exchange for her silence.

It was midafternoon and Young Martin was expected home. Kate could hear Maud’s high-pitched voice somewhere in the garden, followed by her mother’s laugh. Philippa was awaiting her eldest son’s arrival with impatience. Kate had rarely seen her mother-in-law in such good spirits, even before Robert’s death.

“You do not talk about Martin very much, Mother,” Kate had said one evening when the two were sitting by the fire and getting to know each other. “George does not talk of him at all. I thought perhaps he was a black sheep.”

Philippa laughed and then looked wistful. “As a mother, Kate, you will learn not to become too sentimental about your children.”

“Tell me about Martin, Mother, I beg of you. I imagine him a taller version of George.”

“Nay, Kate. Young Martin has not George’s stature, even though he is three years older. My father, Adam Jacob, has entrusted some of his business to Martin in Calais. You should know ’tis in Calais that the wool and cloth is traded from England. Martin showed a fascination for the trade from a young age.” Philippa explained that when Martin took his son to Calais for a spell, the boy had so impressed Adam’s partner there that Martin made the decision to leave Young Martin with him to learn more. “So it was that Young Martin was taken from me without even a proper farewell. I think on him daily, and he is always in my prayers, but
I cannot be sentimental. Children are taken from you—one way or another. After all, they are God’s children first.”

Now Kate ran lightly up to her room to change her plain cap for a more elaborate headcovering. She wanted to look her best for Young Martin’s homecoming and his first chance to see George’s wife. Then she went to find Philippa and Maud in the garden.

“Ho, there! Philippa, Maud, Kate! Our son is home!” Martin’s voice carried across the river, and the two women each took one of Maud’s hands and flew her down the path to the riverbank to wave as the men wheeled their horses around and cantered to the bridge.

In a very few minutes, Martin, his son, and Simon rode into the yard, dogs barking around them. Philippa opened wide her arms and her son went into them, kissing her heartily on both cheeks and then on the lips. He swept little Maud off her feet and threw her up into the air as if she were a down pillow, causing her to squeal with delight. He was a good-looking man with a smile that reached his eyes and spoke of a warm, friendly nature.

“Ah, this must be Kate, my new sister.” He returned Maud to the ground and greeted Kate. “We meet at last. Right welcome, Kate!”

“And you, brother!” She was warmly embraced and held at arm’s length to be inspected.

“Aye, Mother, you were right. George has found a beauty. Lucky George!”