A Rose for the Crown (77 page)

She saw his signature through a veil of tears. With no word from him for so long, it had been hard not to imagine he had forgotten her. Now she knew he had not, and her tears were happy ones. “We grow to like each other more each day,” she read again. “I suppose I do not wish them to hate each other,” she muttered to herself, “and perhaps there will be love eventually. But, God forgive me, I wish it were me in his arms and not her.”

She felt better after she had voiced her feelings, sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes. She stared again at the line about finding her a suitable husband and grimaced. It might be a reasonable solution for someone less independent than she, but she had grown used to managing her own affairs and raising the children without a mate. Martin provided her protection and was a fine example for her children. She sighed and placed the letter under her pillow to read again that night.

Martin was in the solar working with his bailiff when she eventually went downstairs. He looked up and smiled.

“Ah, Kate. Come and see what Walter is proposing for the new field. ’Tis a crop of saffron. He says it will be profitable, and this region is perfect for its cultivation.”

For the next half hour, the three discussed the management of the property—Martin had enough confidence in Kate to explain its intricacies—until Walter took his leave.

“So, do you have any news of import from the north?” Martin was curious but not prying.

“Only that he and Anne go along well together and he is not unhappy.” She paused and then rushed on, “Father, I am loath to trouble you, but I need your advice.”

“Never think you are troubling me. I admire you for your frankness, and I am happy to help you in any way I can, you know that.”

Kate flashed him a grateful smile. “Richard seems to think I need a husband. He talked about it when we parted and asked me to consider a match if he found one. I told him I was perfectly happy here with you, and that you afforded more than enough protection for me and the children.”

Martin looked surprised. “Aye, he need have no worries there. Those children are as precious to me as if they were my own grandchildren.”

“He mentions it again in this letter, and even though he tried to make me promise to consider any suitable man he threw my way, I am afraid I only agreed to think about the notion. He is in London now, and I fear he may send some dreary man down here to woo me.” She grinned at her father-in-law.

“May the Lord help him”—Martin threw up his hands and raised his eyes to heaven—“for he will find a veritable virago.”

“Father! I am no virago—whatever that means. I beg of you do not make light of this. I need a reason to reject any offer, for if I know Richard, he will find some whey-faced vassal to make one.”

Martin laughed. “As I said, a virago. Hush now, I am only jesting. There is a way you can avoid being courted, but you may not find it suitable. You can take the vow of widowhood.”

Kate stared at him in surprise for a moment as she absorbed his suggestion. “But of course! Why did I not think of this before? ’Tis because I forget I am a widow . . .” She put her hand to her mouth. “Pray forgive me, Father, that was offensive.” It was true, in her heart she was wed to Richard, and he was very much alive.

“Nay, Kate. I am not offended. You did suffer much with George, but I would hardly call it a marriage. So, the idea of taking the order of widowhood is not distasteful? ’Tis a vow of chastity, in truth.” Martin looked concerned. “At twenty-two, you are still very young.”

“I care not. I cannot conceive of sharing another man’s bed ever,” Kate admitted, shocking Martin. Discussing intimacy with anyone, and especially his daughter-in-law, was not something to which he was accustomed. “I beg your pardon, Father. I have offended you again. But in truth, I care more about motherhood than I do about being a wife, especially if I cannot be Richard’s. To whom must I make this vow? How soon may I make it?”

Kate was elated. This would answer all her problems. She could remain quietly at Chelsworth, look after her children—and eventually Martin, she supposed—and treasure the memory of her one true love.

“’Tis a bishop you will need, Kate. Perhaps we should travel to Bury. I will make an inquiry for you, but only if you have quite made up your mind.”

By the time Richard’s next letter arrived, telling Kate he believed he
had found a husband for her, she was wearing her widow’s wimple and ring.

“My lord.”
Kate did not dare address him as her love anymore for fear other eyes would see the letter.

“I greet you in good health. I thank you for your consideration concerning a husband, but I am no longer free. This past month, I took the vow of widowhood in the presence of my father, Martin Haute, and his lordship, the Bishop of Ely. ’Twas my wish alone, and I am content. Katherine and John grow more beautiful every day. John is slower to speak than Katherine, but he displays a keen intelligence and practices sword fighting with a stick. Katherine talks of you often, and I think of you even more. I pray that you and your lady wife”
(she could not bear to name Anne)
“will be as fortunate in your children. Pray send my greeting to Rob and Francis. Your faithful Kate Haute.”

“Oh, fickle feather!” she exclaimed, as her quill caved in while writing Richard’s name on the outer fold. She flung it on the floor. She spent the next five minutes trimming another quill, dipped it in the ink and tried again. The ragged edges to her lettering did not sweeten her mood. She already had ink stains on the thumb and fingers of her right hand, and now she had them on the palm of her left where she had rested it on a splatter. She sanded the parchment and closed it with some wax and her precious ring seal. She hoped Richard would still be at Crosby Place, although she doubted it. Richard seemed to be happier in the north, and she supposed he would want to be with Anne for the Christmas season. She wondered when their first child would arrive.

“T
HE DUCHESS OF
G
LOUCESTER
was delivered of a son some time last month,” Margaret told Kate at Tendring late in May. “He is named Edward for his uncle.”

“Richard must be overjoyed.” Kate’s response sounded anything but. “To have an heir is every man’s dream, I suppose.”

They strolled through the orchard arm in arm; behind them the faithful Edith and Agnes kept a respectful distance. The ground was dappled
with fallen apple blossoms, and the leaves on the trees were the fresh green of new growth.

“Elizabeth will give Thomas an heir before long. She is heavy with child,” Margaret remarked. “Jack will feel comforted should it be a boy. When he lost Nicholas, he knew he should not tarry in finding a bride for Thomas and prolonging the Howard line. I must take some credit for pushing for a match with Bourchier’s widow. I think she will bear him healthy sons.”

Kate did not want to talk about children. She had left Katherine and John at Chelsworth with Molly, and her heart still ached for Dickon. Unless Geoff paid a visit to the farm, no one there could write with word of her little son.

“What other news, Margaret? I feel so isolated at Chelsworth.”

Margaret told her of the continued bickering between Richard and his brother of Clarence over the Warwick inheritance. Now, it appeared, their mother-in-law was involved in the squabble. After the earl was killed, declared a traitor and attainted at Barnet, the countess had taken sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey, where the king had kept her a virtual prisoner. Clarence was happy with the arrangement, while he helped himself to her inheritance. Richard, too, was benefiting from some of that inheritance, but he took pity on the lady and asked Edward to place her in his jurisdiction somewhere in the north, her home. Edward gave his assent, despite Clarence’s protestations.

“’Tis said the king is not well disposed towards George at present,” Margaret continued, “for it seems he has been seen hobnobbing with that other Neville brother, the Archbishop of York. Jack suspects mischief, for it may be that the archbishop, for all his vows of loyalty to Edward, may be looking to put Clarence on the throne.”

“You cannot mean it. Truly the man is boil-brained. How often and how far will George try Edward’s patience?”

Margaret shrugged her plump shoulders. “Jack does not understand why Edward tolerates George’s antics. A lesser man than the king’s brother would have been called traitor and executed by now. Certes, he is truly a thorn in Edward’s side.”

Kate snorted. “A dagger might be a better description. One more thrust and Edward may finally turn on him.”

*   *   *

M
ARGARET WAS FURIOUS
with the king.

“How dare he choose Jack!” she railed, as she and Kate sat under their favorite tree in the walled garden two years later. Cat, Katherine and John played hoodman blind in the warm September sunshine with Edith, Agnes and Molly, all unconcerned by Margaret’s raised voice.

“He is getting too old for this sort of thing. His leg bothers him at night now—you remember the boar’s goring, Kate. Surely Edward could have picked a younger hostage.”

England had declared war on France earlier that summer of 1475. Or rather, Edward had taken his army and invaded that country in order to regain the English possessions lost by the weak Henry a quarter-century before. Reminding the people of the glory of Agincourt, won in 1415 by the brave young warrior-king, Henry the Fifth, Edward had no trouble raising the money for the invasion. However, despite marshaling an army as large as Edward’s, Louis of France was loath to fight. As August dragged on, Edward’s money was running out. Louis cunningly laid waste to the countryside in Edward’s path, leaving the army hungry. Nevertheless, Edward was not giving up his quest and stubbornly dug in. A well-placed word in Louis’ ear was all the Frenchman needed to agree to a conference. Thus, at the end of August, the two kings met in the town of Picquigny and agreed to a seven-year truce. Edward and his chief councilors would leave France with a large annual pension and Edward promised to marry his daughter, Elizabeth, to the dauphin. The two kings also agreed to support each other against rebellious subjects. Jack Howard was one of those who helped draw up the treaty. To oversee its peaceful completion, he had been left behind in Paris when the army marched back to Calais and took ship for home in mid-September.

“I am sure he is well provided for. He is the king’s emissary. He is no prisoner. You should be proud the king looks to him.” Kate appealed to Margaret’s practical side. Margaret had become crotchety of late, she thought. Perhaps it was because she had had three teeth extracted in the last year. Kate hoped she was not ill.

“Aye, I know you are right. Edward’s letter assured me Jack was perfectly safe. I just worry about him when he is away from me, ’tis all.”

John Bliant put his head around the garden door and hurried over to
Margaret with a letter. Margaret tore it open and smiled when she saw the familiar hand. Kate tactfully rose and went to play with the children, and Bliant bowed and left.

Cat was a charming eight-year-old, intelligent and sweet natured like her mother. She was the apple of Jack’s eye. Despite the infrequency of the Haute visits, she and Katherine were best of friends. Katherine was a hoyden, but at almost seven, she was beginning to acquire the graciousness of a young lady of her class. Kate worked hard on the girl’s manners and etiquette but knew it was time for Katherine, daughter of a duke, to go to a noble household. Kate had promised Richard she would send the children to him when John was six, and that time was inching closer.

Kate joined in the game just as John was being blindfolded. She watched him with a mother’s glowing pride. He was five and a half, and with his face covered, he looked every inch a Bywood. Robust was the word Jack had used. He reminded Kate of Johnny at the same age. Under his blindfold, though, his features and coloring gave away his father, the jutting jaw, thin mouth and gray-blue eyes a miniature version of Richard’s face. His temperament was a happy mixture of his mother’s cheerfulness and his father’s quick intelligence and equanimity. Very little upset John, and he was the darling of the entire Haute Manor staff. He was beginning to work his magic on the Tendring household, Kate noted, as Agnes allowed herself to be caught and covered him with kisses.

“Kate, do come here and listen,” Margaret called. “Jack particularly begs me pass this on to you.”

“ ‘You must inform Kate Haute of Gloucester’s part in this business.’ He means the treaty. You knew that Edward had agreed to leave France with a handsome pension in hand? Jack received a fine settlement, I must say.”

When Kate had heard of the terms, she was surprised that Edward had accepted them. Edward had taxed his people hard to outfit his army, and now they wanted results in a glorious victory—not a pensioning off.

“Richard’s was the voice of dissension at the treaty, and I cannot blame him. He is young and ready to fight for England’s cause, and ’twas the first time I saw him naysay the king. He made us feel ashamed for accepting Louis’
money so readily. But Edward was entrenched. For my part, I cannot complain of my twelve hundred crowns.”

Kate was astonished. “Twelve hundred crowns! ’Tis no wonder Jack and the others agreed to Louis’ terms. ’Tis certain Richard received more as the king’s brother. One would have to be knotty-pated not to have accepted, but I am proud that Richard stood up for England’s honor!”