A Rose for the Crown (48 page)

“Listen well, Wat. Your master would have my mistress closer to his lady wife, and he is planning to set my mistress and her lack-a-prick husband
up in a house in Tendring Park ere long.” Molly reached forward and straightened Wat’s hood. “We shall be able to see each other often, I’ll warrant.”

Wat was puzzled. “What do you mean, lack-a-prick husband? He got her with child, didn’t he? How did that happen?”

“Pah! Never you mind how. ’Tis more important that we be moving to Tendring, don’t you agree?”

“Aye, sweet. ’Tis good news, indeed.”

“Now, tell me, sir, why did Master Haute call for me? I wager ’twas not so we could fornicate in his stairwell.”

“The letter! Cock’s bones, I almost forgot. See, you have cast a spell on me, you witch.” Wat laughed.

“Don’t use that word, I beg you!” She was plainly distressed. “With my face, there be plenty who wonder if I be touched by the Devil. Don’t give them more cause.”

Wat bent and kissed her. “Fear not, my sweet. I’ll guard my tongue, I promise. Now, here be the letter for your mistress. I know not if I am to wait for a reply, for I must ride with Master Haute when he be ready. Now I must go.” He put his hand on the front door, and as if on cue, Martin strode out of the solar in his riding boots, two large saddlebags slung over his shoulder. Wat lifted the iron latch and slipped out to the stable. A sad Philippa and Maud accompanied Martin across the hall. He had spent a pleasant fortnight with his family, but when the queen called, they knew he must go.

“Say farewell to Kate for me, my love,” he said, kissing Philippa tenderly. “And Maud, you take care of your mother whilst I am away. Promise?”

“I promise, Father.” Her father smiled at her earnest face and gave her a kiss.

“I see you have received the letter, Molly. What are you waiting for, girl? Go and find your mistress. It may be important news.”

Molly, still breathing heavily, curtsied and was gone.

Soon the horses’ hoofs could be heard cantering down the Chels-worth road. Kate saw the two riders cross the bridge from her vantage point along the river’s edge, where she had gone to wash some bandaging cloths. She waved, recognizing Martin’s green mantle and boots, but he
did not see her and urged his horse up the hill. Minutes later, Molly delivered the letter.

“So, ’twas Wat with Master Haute?” Kate’s heart lurched when she recognized the seal. She continued nonchalantly, “Yes, I see by your blush I am right. I am sorry you did not have any time together. It seems he is in a hurry to get home,” Kate teased her. “Another woman, perchance?”

Molly put her hands on her hips. “Mistress, you be unkind to poor Molly. Wat and I had time enough to . . . talk.” She hoped her words sounded truthful. But Kate had turned away, indicating she wanted to be alone, and Molly walked back to the kitchen, savoring her memories of Wat’s lovemaking.

Kate secured the letter in her bodice, finished rinsing her linens and walked to the church.

“Do not be disappointed there is no word in here from our friend. He wrote direct to Jack with his request, which I do now pass on to you. He is wishful that you accompany me to the Abbey of Stratford Langthorne for the farewell celebrations for the King’s sister ere she depart for marriage with Burgundy. Our journey is set for the 16th, and you are to tell Dame Philippa that I have requested your company in three days. Make ready your finest gowns and do not forget your harp.

“Written this 12th day of June, Margaret Howard.”

Kate held the letter in her lap and stared at the painting over the chancel arch, her mind awhirl. She would be seeing Richard again in four short days. Would he feel the same about her? After all, she had received only one letter from him in four months. True, it was a love letter, but she had not received an answer to hers telling him she was carrying their child. There were days after Wat had ridden off with that letter when she had despaired of ever seeing Richard again, imagining he was angry with her for being so readily fertile. But then she had reread his letter and been reassured of his love.

What shall I do? Should I go? Or should I stay, hold on to the happy memory of my night with him and live the lie this child is George’s? Certes, I will be a mother, which is all I could ever want, she thought. She sat on the hard pew, picturing Richard’s face, trying to read the expression
in his dark gray eyes. Suddenly she felt a tiny flutter in her abdomen. And then another.

“Mother of God, what was that?” she muttered and put her hand on her stomach. Nothing more happened. Then it dawned on her. ’Twas the babe! Certes, ’twas my baby! A smile spread across her face. “Thank you, sweet Mary. ’Tis a sign. Richard is happy for the babe, too. Thank you, Queen of Heaven.”

T
HE SILHOUETTE OF THE ABBEY
was etched into the summer dusk—that time when day seems to resist the falling of night. Kate imagined God’s hand holding up the sun for one last, lingering moment to illumine His holy house. As her small party neared the abbey gates, Kate could see light from the narrow windows sending out a warm welcome to the weary travelers.

They had been on the road for two days, with a night at a tavern in Chelmsford, Margaret and Kate sharing a bed in a smoky chamber above the taproom. It was noisy and, despite her tiredness, Kate lay awake for several hours with Margaret snoring peacefully by her side. She had tried to envision the meeting with Richard the next day and hugged herself with anticipation at seeing him again. Were his eyes blue-gray or green-gray and was the scar on his right arm or his left? A table was overturned in the room below and the sounds of the ensuing fight interrupted her reverie. She sighed at the thumps and grunts of men hitting each other and falling against the furniture and walls. She wondered why men needed to use their fists so readily. Finally, she fell asleep.

The gates of the abbey were open for the visitors streaming into the courtyard. Dark habits of the Cistercians mingled with the bright colors of the courtiers who were the monks’ guests for the few days of celebration of the impending marriage of the king’s sister Margaret to Charles, duke of Burgundy. Margaret was leaving her native land perhaps forever, and her family was determined to give her a good send-off.

Kate, Margaret, Agnes and Rose were escorted by four of Jack’s men-at-arms, who helped the women dismount and called to the lackeys to take them to Sir John Howard’s apartments. The four women followed the servants to an iron-studded door set into a portal finely carved with
angels and saints. The double door stood wide to admit guests, and a portly friar stood on the threshold, greeting each new arrival with a blessing.

The Howard party proceeded directly up a stone staircase to an upper level following a taciturn monk to their quarters. Music and laughter floated along the usually whisper-quiet corridors, and the women passed several open doors to rooms where temporary lodgers disgorged themselves of their belongings in the tightly shared accommodations. Margaret waved to one or two occupants but swept after her baggage in a hurry to find Jack. Rose groused constantly at the grueling pace Margaret was setting, while Agnes and Kate gave each other knowing looks. They went up a few more stairs to a larger area with fewer chambers and then heard Jack’s strident voice calling Margaret’s name. Their reunion was conducted with genuine affection, and Jack then turned and swept Kate off her feet.

“Mistress Lackseat! What a feast for the eyes, my dear, even if you do have mud on your nose.” Jack laughed as he put her down.

Kate rubbed her nose anxiously, but Jack had turned back to Margaret and was leading her through a doorway into two sparsely furnished rooms divided by a wall and heavily curtained archway. Tom Moleyns bowed to Margaret as she entered, murmured a greeting and discreetly stepped into the corridor. There was hardly room for a crowd.

“I shall be needing you shortly, Tom,” Jack called. To Margaret he said, “We shall be in here, my love. Agnes and Rose will take the pallets.” He indicated the larger of the two rooms, which held a simple bed barely big enough for two. Staring down from the wall behind it was a large wooden crucifix. The Christ figure’s mournful eyes followed Kate around the room, making her grimace. In her tiny room next door, she was glad her Christ was smaller and his eyes were closed in agony. The room was obviously used for devotions, with a prie-dieu in front of the crucifix, on which stood several well-used candles. A temporary pallet took up most of the space, but she was happy for the privacy. Someone else was always sharing her room or her bed, so being alone was a luxury. She had not yet realized there was a reason for her solitude, but she was not in the dark for long.

“After supper, you are to retire early, and Richard will join you here,” Margaret said, poking her head through the heavy curtain and inviting herself in.

Kate was surprised. “Here! Oh, I see. ’Tis hardly fine enough for a duke, certes, but ’tis good enough for talking.”

Margaret nodded, though she was not so sure that was all Richard had in mind. “Agnes will help you dress, my dear. We must hurry to supper. Jack has secured us places in the chapter house and we are required to be ready within the hour. ’Tis possible you will be presented to the king and queen tonight, Kate, so dress well.” Margaret chuckled at Kate’s open mouth and disappeared through the curtain to prepare herself.

Not an hour later, Jack arrived to escort the two ladies to supper. He could hardly take his eyes off his wife. She swept him a curtsy in a new gown of red and white damask, the Howard colors. Her butterfly headdress was in the latest style, and the rubies and diamonds at her throat glinted.

“Fie, my lord! You look as though you have seen a vision instead of your plain and ordinary wife.” She was pleased by his admiring gaze. “At least give poor Kate a compliment. She has no one to flatter her.”

Jack turned to Kate, and his eyes registered his appreciation. The heavy emerald silk brocade draped gracefully from the gathers at the high-waisted golden girdle, disguising her early pregnancy. A border of white satin encircled her slender shoulders and held the gold lace plastron modestly over her breasts. She had done her best to cover the hated freckles on her face with Molly’s white paste, which gave her an almost fragile look.

Jack was proud to walk both women into the refectory, which was to serve as the reception area prior to the feast. However, the finery that had looked so splendid in the simplicity of a monk’s cell now was commonplace among Edward’s richly arrayed court. The threesome stood on the top of the steps leading down to the flagged floor of the long hall and surveyed the scene. It was then that Kate saw Richard, who was deep in conversation with a man of medium height with a hawk nose and supercilious expression. Richard was listening deferentially, nodding gravely and saying little. She was so engrossed in watching him that she did not notice Jack and Margaret had left her standing alone and
were already mingling with guests at the foot of the steps. She also did not notice the giant with red-blond hair and bright blue eyes, resplendent in a purple velvet houppelande lavishly trimmed with ermine, who stared at her from the midst of a group of courtiers. She would have been dismayed to see the glint in his eye as he bent to ask one of his subjects who she was. The courtier shook his head. Kate, in the meantime, realizing she was alone, hurried down the few steps to rejoin Jack and Margaret.

“There you are, Kate. Where did you go?” Margaret took her arm and propelled her towards a tall, balding man in his late thirties and a slight woman with a pockmarked face and simpering smile.

“Lord and Lady Hastings, well met. May I present my dear friend, Dame Katherine Haute.” Margaret bowed slightly to the couple.

“Dame Katherine, my distinct honor.” William Hastings, the king’s most trusted adviser, was bowing low over Kate’s hand. She felt him squeeze it for a second too long but thought she must have imagined it. She curtsied and inclined her head to Lady Hastings, who was still simpering.

“Are you kin to any Hautes here at court? Sir Richard? Or perhaps Richard of Ightham Mote?” Hastings asked.

Kate’s eyes lit up at her guardian’s name, and she nodded eagerly. “Aye, my lord. Richard Haute of Ightham was my dear guardian, and his daughter like a sister. But I am married to another kinsman of his, George Haute of Chelsworth in Suffolk. Perhaps you know his father, Martin, who is usher to the queen.” Kate looked up at the florid face of the lord chamberlain and noted an indolence around his mouth. A lover of pleasure, William Hastings had a look of a man who denied himself very little. There was no mistaking the admiration in his eyes as he bent towards her to respond.

“Richard Haute is a good friend, Dame Katherine, but I do not believe I know your father-in-law.”

“Then I shall remedy that, if I may, my lord,” said a familiar voice from behind Kate, and she turned to see Martin, his face now clean shaven and looking much younger. “Martin Haute, if it please your lordship. Lady Hastings.”

Martin bent low over the lady’s tiny hand, and she simpered again.

“How do you do, Master Haute,” she said in a childish voice. Hastings looked at her with irritation and gave Martin a nod.

“You seem to be fortunate in your daughter-in-law, Master Haute. Not only is she well connected but she is a beauty.”