A Rose for the Crown (96 page)

In a lucid moment, Katherine mustered the energy to talk. “Mother, you must know that Father is in danger of losing his crown. William even fears for his life.”

Kate was shocked. She knew Henry of Richmond was hovering, waiting to invade. She had heard that Richard had signed a proclamation stating all troops throughout the land must be ready at an hour’s notice to defend the kingdom against the Tudor threat. The alarm beacons were prepared, and sheriffs ordered to remain close to their towns. However, she had never thought Richard’s crown was seriously in jeopardy.

“Why do you say so, Katherine? Who would fight for Henry? Oh, no mind—save your strength, my child.”

Katherine murmured something, but Kate could not understand her. She begged her child to stop talking and concentrate on getting well. But by the time the sun was setting, Kate knew she was losing her firstborn. Her tears flowed unchecked down her face as she cradled Katherine’s head in her lap, praying for her child and her unborn grandchild. Katherine clutched her mother’s hand as if it was her lifeline, and Kate murmured prayers. They lay thus in the shadowed room, Kate trying to will her daughter to live. Katherine’s breath came faster and more desperate, and she put her hand to her head, trying to ward off the pain there. Kate gently removed herself from the bed and left the room for a moment to command Wat to fetch the chaplain from the Hall.

The priest stood at the side of the bed, giving Katherine the last rites. Kate kneeled on the floor on the other side, one hand clasping Katherine’s hand and the other telling her rosary. She prayed. Oh Lord, take me instead. Have mercy on me . . . have mercy on her father . . . on the child she carries . . . above all, have mercy on her soul!

“In nomine padre, fili et spiritus sancti,”
the chaplain intoned after anointing Katherine and signing the cross over her inert figure. He tiptoed from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone. Kate climbed back on the bed and gathered Katherine to her.

“Can you hear me, Katherine?” Kate willed her to listen. “I have loved you so much. Did you hate me when I gave you up? ’Twas hard, my dearest child, but I did it for you . . . and for John. You were everything to me, but your father loved you, too. He needed to care for you, too. I loved him, oh, how I loved him—and you, too, have been well loved, my
Katherine. By me, by your father, by William . . .” She knew she was probably incoherent, but she did not care. She had a lifetime of truths to impart. “Before you go to God, I need you to know you have another brother.” She thought she felt Katherine react so hurried on. “His name is Dickon and he looks like you. I had to give him up, too. Oh, Katherine, do not leave me, I beg of you. ’Tis not right for a child to die before her mother. The pain is too great to bear. Katherine, Katherine, my beautiful little girl . . .” But she knew Katherine was dead before she even finished.

Her grief was heard all the way to Tendring Hall.

The two male victims of the sickness died the next day, having been tended by Wat and Janet. However, Katherine’s gentlewoman recovered, though no one knew why. No other cases of the strange illness, later nicknamed the sweating sickness, were reported in the village of Stoke that August.

23
Suffolk and Leicester, August 1485

M
argaret helped her with the decision to send Katherine’s body back to Wales.

“We cannot bury her here, Kate. She is the daughter of the king and wife of an earl. She must have an appropriate tomb.” Margaret was coaxing.

Kate stared at her friend with golden eyes bloodshot and puffy. She could not think clearly and was grateful Margaret was there to comfort and advise her. She nodded her agreement from the cushioned cocoon of Jack’s high-backed chair. She heard Margaret speak to the steward about encasing Katherine in a cask of wine to preserve her body for the journey to Wales. “Like Clarence” was all Kate could think. All good Christians knew it was the soul that mattered at the moment of death, and she was relieved that Katherine had received the last rites. She wondered briefly if the unborn child would have a place with its mother in heaven. A grandchild! She bit her lip and tried to focus on what Margaret was saying. Of course, Margaret was right, it was up to William Herbert to honor his wife’s body. The other victims of the sweating sickness were given burial in the Stoke churchyard. Kate paid to have masses said for
them for a month and for her daughter and grandchild she gave to have them said in perpetuity.

Two days after her death, Katherine Plantagenet left her former home for the last time in a large cask draped with a Howard banner and transported on a cart drawn by the dead escorts’ horses. Kate followed barefoot, with Molly a few steps behind. The solemn procession moved up the lane and through the village. There, Kate watched it take the London road, and she blew a final kiss to Katherine. She could not stop her tears.

A rider looked curiously at the little procession as he cantered passed it. Drawing close to Kate, he called, “Pardon, mistress. Can you show me the road to Tendring Hall?”

Despite his dusty appearance, Kate immediately recognized the royal livery. “’Tis that way. You are almost there.” Must be for Jack, she thought, but her mind was on Katherine, and rather than stop to explain that only the duchess was in residence, she turned and walked to the church.

She lay prostrate on the cool flagstones, her hands outstretched to the high altar, and prayed for Katherine’s immortal soul. She thought of Richard and his pain, and only then did it occur to her that Richard must be told as soon as possible. He should know, too, he was to have become a grandfather. And he should hear this from me, she realized. But how? Should she write a letter, send a messenger? No, she concluded, she would go herself. Jack would know where he was—Margaret had said something about Nottingham. Her drying tears were sticky on her face when she finally got up on her knees and crossed herself. She had had no answers from God, and she was impatient to make arrangements to go to Richard. She went straight to the Hall and found a distraught Margaret barking orders to the steward.

“What is it, Margaret? Did the royal messenger find you?”

Margaret wrung her hands. “Aye, Kate. ’Tis bad news, and I have sent him on to Framlingham and Jack. God save us all, Henry Tudor is landed!”

“Sweet Jesu, what will this mean?”

“Jack is commanded to meet the king at Leicester with all the forces he can muster. I expect Jack to pass by here in the next day or so. Oh, Kate, I fear for him. If there is to be a fight, Jack will command part of
Richard’s forces, I have no doubt. But Jack is old, and he cannot see well.”

Her guard down, Margaret embarrassed her steward by running into Kate’s arms and bursting into tears. The man delicately took himself off.

“R
IDE ACROSS COUNTRY
by yourself with an invasion going on? Absolutely not! I forbid it,” Jack scolded Kate. “You do not seem to understand the danger you would put yourself in. Have no fear, I will inform Richard of poor dear Katherine’s end.”

“Inform? God have mercy! That is how you men see everything! As information to be passed on with all possible expediency,” Kate shot back.

It had been many years since she had had to obey a man, and Jack’s high-handed opposition to her plan irked her. “What about compassion for a man who has lived with grief daily since his son’s death last year?”

“Kate, I am going to say this once, for I do not have time to say it again. Henry of Richmond is marching east. He arrived seven days ago and has continued unchecked through Wales. Richard has given me another seven days to muster a force of a thousand or more from Suffolk and Norfolk and march them to meet him at Leicester. Men from all over the region are arming and will join me at Bury on the sixteenth—two days from now—and we need every man we can get. I will be responsible for those men and I will be responsible to the king in any endeavor he undertakes to keep his crown. I have no time to worry about you wandering about the countryside in all that turmoil just to dispense a little compassion to a man fighting for his crown and his very life! ’Tis ridiculous!”

“Jack, calm down.” Margaret saw his high color and tried to soothe him. “Kate will see reason, but not if you shout at her.”

“I will
not
see reason!” Kate jumped up and was prepared to leave. “You cannot stop me. I am a woman with my own means and old enough to take responsibility for my own actions. Jesu, I wish I had never told you of my plan.”

Jack scowled at her. Kate set her mouth and glared back. Margaret looked from one to the other and shook her head.

“I know not who is more stubborn,” she said. “The two of you are behaving like children. Jack, if Kate wishes to go and is prepared to take the
consequences, then you cannot forbid her. She is not married to you, my love.”

“Thank God!” Jack cried, and then chuckled. “You would have made Richard an indomitable consort, Kate. I would not go so far as to say henpecked, but . . .”

“Henpecked! Why, Jack Howard, you insult Richard,” Kate said, trying to control her quivering lower lip. She was determined not to laugh. “Margaret, stand up for me. Have I not always been as docile as . . . a . . .” she searched for the right word.

“A lioness in heat!” Jack roared. And then they were all laughing.

“’Tis good to laugh,” he said. “I fear there will not be much cause for laughter in the next few days. Kate, I will allow you two riders, who will join with Richard on my orders when you arrive. But I cannot spare you more.”

Kate ran back to him and kissed him. He pulled her onto his knee and hugged her. “Take care of Margaret if I do not return,” he whispered quickly.

Kate stiffened. It had never occurred to her that Jack Howard, veteran of Barnet, Tewkesbury and the Scottish campaign and Richard’s most trusted commander, would not come home. She got off his lap more sedately. Her eyes acknowledged his request.

“I thank you for the escort with all my heart,” she said. “I shall set out tomorrow, by your leave. Forgive me for taking some of this precious time with your wife. God go with you, Jack Howard.”

“And with you, Kate Haute. Perhaps we shall meet in Leicester.”

T
HE ROAD
K
ATE TOOK
to Leicester was crowded with men carrying pikes, bows, swords and other weapons. Some had armor strapped to their back. Their faces ran with sweat. Those on horseback kicked up the dust into the foot soldiers’ eyes and mouth, caking their exposed skin with grime. Carts trundled behind groups carrying more armor and weapons, and camp-following women trudged in their wake.

Kate was in no mood to dawdle, and she urged her escort into a trot or even a canter where it was safe. Molly was too close to birthing to have ridden with her, and Margaret had generously spared Edith to be traveling companion. Kate would have preferred Agnes, who was not as
prone to prattle, but she soon learned to tune out the woman, grateful when the road was crowded enough to ride in single file. They were unable to find lodging for the second night in Cambridge, so great was the influx of men on the move. One of her escorts struck up a conversation with a man-at-arms from the duke of Suffolk’s holding at Wingfield and learned Kate’s small group would be welcome to share their campfire a mile or two east of the city.

The soldiers, yeomen and field hands armed for the coming conflict, cast curious looks at the two women when they arrived. In the twilight, Kate’s wimple and Edith’s scraggy figure allowed them to be left in peace, but when one young man took out a pipe and began a familiar lament, Kate could not forbear to add her voice to the mournful melody. The men listened, rapt, and applauded loudly when the music died. They begged her for another song, and she chose John’s favorite to give them courage. Surely England’s hero of Agincourt would stand beside them in spirit when their turn came to fight under another Plantagenet king. She faltered a little on the final stanza, so apt it seemed:

“The gracious God now save our king.
His people and all his well-willing;
Give him good life and good ending,
That we with mirth may safely sing . . .”

She was joined by dozens of male voices in the final
“Deo gratias.”

“God save the king!” shouted one man from across the fire. Soon the cry was taken up by all camped in the field that night. “God send King Richard victory!
Deo gratias.”