A Rose for the Crown (64 page)

A flock of starlings noised overhead, and then Kate saw a single magpie hopping on the grass. “Sweet Jesu, one for sorrow,” she muttered, and immediately spat on the ground.

Katherine was startled, and Kate explained that spitting was supposed to expel the bad luck a single magpie might bring. Katherine worked her mouth hard and copied her mother. Unfortunately, she had not turned her head from the wind as Kate had done and received the spittle full in the face.

“Ugh!” she complained. “Bad luck come back.”

“Don’t let that bad luck come back!” Kate prayed fervently, as she helped her daughter wipe her face. “This family has had too much bad luck.”

The magpie haunted her all through the ride, and it was with a heavy heart that she turned Cornflower into the familiar stable yard at Chelsworth. She had visited Philippa several times since George’s death, for she knew the children gave her mother-in-law comfort. Maud, too, looked forward to visits from her “niece” and “nephew,” and Kate enjoyed the family tie. This time, there was no Philippa to greet her with a smile and a welcoming wave. Instead, with dusk falling fast, Martin came hurrying out alone. His beard had grown back and was now completely white. He helped Katherine down and squeezed her tightly, his eyes sad as he looked over her red head at Kate’s concerned face.

“What news, Father? How fares my mother?”

“Not well, Kate. ’Tis right glad she will be to see you, for she believes you can work a miracle. ‘If anyone can help me, Kate can’ she said, and so I sent for you, my dear. I thank you for your speed. I did not expect to see you until the morrow.”

“Certes, I would make all haste, Father. Philippa is dear to me, too. Molly, give me John and see to it my chamber is readied. Put the children to bed as soon as they have eaten.”

John had slept most of the way, lulled by the warmth of Molly’s arms and the horse’s rhythmic gait. He awoke at the transfer to his mother’s embrace and cried out in protest. The innocent sound broke the tension, and Martin reached for the boy. Carrying both children in his arms, he sat down in the great hall with one child on each knee.

“Philippa is waiting for you, Kate.” Martin waved a hand towards the solar. “The sickroom is no place for the children, I shall keep them here with me.”

Kate was appalled at Philippa’s pallor. Her large nose and round eyes stood out in her gaunt face. Her hands were clawlike, the skin like wrinkled parchment. She reminded Kate of a bird of prey. When she saw Kate, she smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Maud jumped from her chair and hugged Kate.

Kate took charge, smiling and cajoling her mother-in-law. “Mother,
what is this? I will not have you ill! Must I scold you for not taking care of yourself? This is a pretty pass. Maud, go tend to your father, I will see to Mother.”

Martin peeked in a few minutes later to see if he was needed. He was devastated by his wife’s condition and had no experience with sickbeds except on the battlefield, where life and death hung in the surgeon’s hands. This kind of dying he did not understand. He had spent many an hour in the church, praying to God to spare her. Young Martin had been a frequent visitor from Lavenham, but he was a busy merchant and could not spare much time. Kate hurried to Martin’s side and told him to go and rest. He nodded gratefully. “I pray you may work a miracle, Kate.”

Kate had no such confidence in her nursing abilities. Philippa was plainly dying.

“Mother, can you tell me where you have pain? And for how long?”

Philippa turned hopeful eyes to Kate and grasped her hand. She led it under the covers to a large hard mass in her lower abdomen. Kate gasped when she felt it.

“’Tis a canker, Kate. I felt it first at Christmas, but ’twas not as big as a filbert. Slowly but certainly it grew, and then the pain began. Some days it does not hurt me too much, but often it is so great, I pray to God He will take me so I will not have to endure it.” She gave a short laugh. “’Tis far worse than birthing, that I can tell you.” Her face tensed as another wave of agony assaulted her tired body. “Can you help me, Kate? I do not pretend that I will live, but if you can help the pain . . .”

Kate lifted Philippa’s hand and put it to her cheek. “Certes, I can. But no talk of dying, I beg of you.”

Once outside the solar, Kate let the tears fall down her cheeks. Martin sat slumped in a chair by the fire, and the sounds of the children being fed carried from the kitchen. Kate ran to the dejected figure and kneeled by him.

“My dear Father, you know I cannot prevent her from dying. The canker is growing too fast. But I will do everything in my power to make it easier for her, and I do counsel you to put on as cheerful a face as you are able. We must make her last days on earth as happy as possible. Can you do that for her?”

“Aye, Kate. I will try. I have not been the best of husbands, I know, but I do love her in my way.”

“You are the best of husbands, I will not hear otherwise. She knows she is cherished, and that is more than many wives ever know,” Kate said, with a trace of bitterness.

K
ATE SPENT THE NEXT
few days restoring routine to the house. The servants looked to Philippa for orders, and while Martin was capable in the matters of property and the estate, he was at a loss to run the house. He leaned gratefully on his daughter-in-law, and he spent most of his time organizing his papers, riding over the property or sitting at Philippa’s bedside. A pall hung over the house like a cloak, and prayers were delivered up during meals and before bed for Philippa’s recovery.

Back in her old chamber, Kate climbed gratefully into the small tester bed every night. Molly was there to help her disrobe and to brush her hair, a ritual that soothed Kate’s frayed nerves and tired body. She was reminded of George each time she entered the room, memories of ugly arguments and petulant pleadings. Molly, sensing the tension, would knead her neck and shoulders and prattle on about what had happened in the kitchen or the laundry. Kate was grateful for the diversion and by the time she snuggled up to Katherine’s warm little body, she would drift into dreamless sleep in a very few minutes.

Young Martin and his new bride came early on the first Sunday after Kate’s arrival. The household walked along the river path to the church, where candles were burning for Philippa. The village prayed for their fellow communicant, lying close to death at the manor.

“’Tis good of you to come, Kate,” Young Martin said, as he offered his arm on the walk back from church. “My father is grateful, this I do know. Magdalena is too young and inexperienced to be of much help to him. And now she is with child . . .”

“She is with child! Oh, Martin, how happy you must be.” Kate pressed his arm. Magdalena was the daughter of a Calais wool merchant, and the two merchant houses had formed an invaluable alliance through the marriage. But it was not a contract either party had been forced into, Kate thought, when she first met the petite, flaxen-haired Flemish girl.
Magdalena could not take her eyes off her husband, and he appeared pleased with her. Kate wondered how Young Martin had persuaded his father that Magdalena was a better match than the Tyrell daughter. A child of their union must have been conceived in love, just as mine were, she mused. Now the Hautes would truly have their grandchild, she realized guiltily.

Her deceit weighed heavily on her during this difficult visit. She prayed hard in the church for guidance. Should she tell Philippa? Would it be cruel? Would it only serve to assuage her own conscience? Or would it be right? She could not decide. She sighed heavily, and Young Martin asked if all was well.

“Aye, Martin. But your mother’s condition affects me greatly. ’Tis my belief she has only a few days left on this earth, and I grieve for her already.”

Martin drew her aside. “A pity her son was not more deserving of your love, Kate. Nay, you do not need to pretend with me. Since my return to Lavenham, I have learned of my brother’s unnatural behavior, and I can only think he must rot in hell.”

He did not know Kate well enough to ask about her children. He had his doubts that George had fathered Katherine and John, but he was not about to cause his parents any more heartache by voicing them after their reaction to George’s murder. Philippa had cried for days; Martin had withdrawn and become angry with anyone who crossed his path. Philippa had finally confessed to her son that she had never really loved George, because she could not understand him. Her excessive grief, she said, was a manifestation of guilt that she had not been a good mother to George.

“Do not say so!” Kate whispered to Young Martin as loudly as she dared. “God made him the way he was.”

Young Martin was shocked by Kate’s blasphemous statement. One should not question God’s laws—or His flaws, he thought. But he chose to ignore it and put it down to her agitated state of mind. It was Philippa herself who resolved Kate’s dilemma. That evening, she requested a private moment with Kate, and as Kate had become her physician of sorts, the family respectfully left them alone.

“Kate, my dear,” Philippa began hesitantly, and Kate smiled fondly at the familiar nose-pulling. “You and I know I am not long for this world,
and in truth, I ask God daily to be free of this pain. I have no doubt I shall see all of you once more in heaven, and I am not afraid. But I cannot leave this earth without knowing the truth about George.” Kate stiffened. “I do not want you to be kind because I am dying,” Philippa went on. “I have always trusted you, Kate, and I have always loved you as my own. You were the best thing to happen to George. But I am troubled by doubts. I fear he was cruel and did not deserve your love. He deceived us all to marry you, and I thought it was because he loved you. But I was not blind. I know you were estranged, and I marked how little George was interested in his child. It did rankle with me. Can you find it in your heart to tell me true, Kate? Was George the father of your children?” The effort exhausted her.

Kate was so taken aback by this long speech—and certainly by its ultimate question—that she could not hide her blush. She tried to stammer an evasion, but Philippa frowned and stopped her.

“Nay, Kate, do not lie any longer. I would know the truth about my son and about your children.” Her face suddenly creased in pain. She took a few shallow breaths and allowed Kate to administer a spoonful of poppy juice. When she had gathered strength, she continued, “I fear for your soul, too, Kate. By lying to me, you will also feel God’s wrath. I wish to help you rid yourself of any guilt. Now tell me.”

With as much tact as possible, Kate told her of George’s rejection of her and his unnatural leanings. She confessed they had never consummated the marriage. Then she told of her liaison with Richard, duke of Gloucester, admitting, “He is the father of my children, in truth.” She paused, watching Philippa’s face. “Say you do not hate me, Mother. I could not bear that. You have been so dear to me, and I cannot suffer to think I may be giving you more pain with this truth.”

Philippa took her hand and squeezed it. She managed the first smile for many days, and tears wet her eyelashes. She looked fondly at Kate.

“The only sadness is that those two poppets are not my true grandchildren. I should be shocked, I suppose, that my son was a . . . sodomite”—she whispered the word and crossed herself—“but it answers many questions for me. I thank you for your absolute discretion, Kate. It could not have been easy to hold your counsel. I commend your loyalty to us. Richard of Gloucester is indeed fortunate.

“One more thing before the others become suspicious. I cannot leave with this secret in my heart and not tell my husband. I pray you allow me to let him have the truth.”

Kate could gainsay the dying woman nothing. “Aye, Mother, if it will ease your rest. I confess your son told me only today he knows of George’s disposition, but he is not aware the children are—” She broke off.

“Bastards?” Philippa’s blue eyes glinted. “Aye, Kate, but
royal
bastards! Your children will fare better than my legitimate grandchild ever will. Strange, is it not?”

Kate could not stop a chuckle. It felt good, especially as Philippa laughed, too.

“God bless you, child. I pray you find happiness in the years to come and that you look on your time with us here with favor.”

“Always, Mother. And God be with you tonight.” Kate bent and kissed Philippa on the cheek. “Now I shall prepare a potion that will help you sleep.”

Philippa asked to speak to Martin and Young Martin, and Kate called them in, knowing her secret would now belong to the family. That night, Kate slept more soundly than she had for many months. She felt at peace and thanked God for Philippa’s tolerance and gentleness. As she fell asleep, she remembered the dream she’d had only a few days before the messenger arrived from Chelsworth. It was all clear to her now.

Philippa, too, was at peace. With her family around her, the parish priest intoning the last rites, she passed away quietly the next morning. Outside, perched high in a tree, a blackbird heralded the new season, and a lone magpie flitted off over the meadow.

K
ATE GRIEVED SORELY
for Philippa. It was ten years since her own mother’s death, but she doubted she could have felt as bereaved as she did now. Philippa was buried in the family plot next to George and Robert. Kate stood a little apart with Magdalena, watching the three surviving Hautes bid wife and mother a final farewell. Martin and his son stood stoically, each holding one of Maud’s hands. Kate realized the girl was about the age that she had been at Martha’s death, and tears rolled steadily down her cheeks in sympathy. On the other side of the grave, Philippa’s parents, Amelia and Adam, stood stooped over the gaping
hole in the ground. It was hard for them to believe they had outlived their daughter. Adam’s arm was around his wife’s shoulders. Both looked frail. Even when a fickle April sky sent a shower earthwards, the family and faithful servants did not move, though several mourners from the village ran for shelter. Kate sent Molly to the church porch with Katherine and John. She was clutching a bunch of primroses, Philippa’s favorite flower, and stepped forward to offer several to the family members. As they dropped them in the grave, she began to sing.