A Rose for the Crown: A Novel

by Anne Easter Smith

  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!”

  “As a wife, I must confess to a preference for the money,” Margaret admitted. “’Tis a woman’s lot to worry if her man will return from battle with all his limbs intact. You tended Richard’s wound, so you know what a mace, an axe or a broadsword can do. Jack carries his scars, too, and I thank God he heals well.”

  “Aye, why men must go off to fight is still a puzzle to me.” Kate shook her head.

  Margaret touched her arm and nodded in the direction of John. “That is why, Kate. I know not how it begins so young.”

  John had a makeshift sword and was wielding it ferociously at an imaginary foe, lost in his own world of knights and dragons. Kate shuddered suddenly. All this talk of war had put her in mind of how soon little John would join the next generation of soldiers. Maybe he will want to take holy orders, she thought hopefully. The wall cast long shadows on the grass, and a cool breeze came up and rustled the leaves. The two friends helped each other up and shepherded the children indoors.

  “’Tis time for me to return to Chelsworth. Jack will return to you soon, and I must help preserve the last of the summer crops. I fear this will be the last Christmas season with my children. I promised Richard I would send them to him when John is six. It seems inconceivable he will be so in half a year.”

  Margaret took Kate’s arm in hers and could not find anything comforting to say. She knew how hard it was to send one’s children away.

  JOHN AND KATHERINE lay together in their mother’s feather bed, their bodies a mess of spots. Katherine had contracted the chicken pox and had passed on a far more virulent case to her brother, who was afflicted with a high fever and pustules in every crack and crevice. Kate propped her son up in her arms and forced some water between his swollen lips. She was dismayed to see he had spots even on his tongue. She daubed his face with a damp cloth and rocked him gently. His skin was on fire, and her ministrations seemed to bring no relief. She had applied chamomile oil to the irritated skin, which stopped him from scratching for a time. The potion she administered earlier to lessen the fever had not yet taken effect. Yet he was tossing less, and her presence calmed him. Katherine was sleeping off the effects of her potion, her fever gone.

  Molly tiptoed into the darkened room and set a jug of cider down for her mistress. She peered down at Katherine and tucked a wayward strand of hair under her nightcap.

  “How be little John, mistress? Poor mite, it be hard to put a pin betwixt the spots.”

  “He rests a little easier, Molly. Is Master Cook coping? I shall join my father for supper this evening, for I think John will sleep.”

  John opened his eyes and smiled up at his mother. She seemed to him the most beautiful creature in the world, and he snuggled closer to her. “Mother, I am so hot. Can you not take away the bedclothes?”

  “Nay, my son. I am hoping your headache will ease soon, and the warmer you stay, the more likely the sweat will break out of your body and purge you of the ill humor. Try and sleep, little one.” She kissed the top of his head.

  “Madam! Have a care. You have not been infected by this pox afore, and it be dangerous for one of your years to catch it, they do say,” Molly scolded. “Let me take John, for I had the cursed illness as a child.”

  Kate was reluctant to give John up, and she thought if she was to contract the sickness, then surely she would have done so by now. However, she allowed Molly to relieve her from the awkward position, and John seemed not to notice.

  Five days later, when John and Katherine were bouncing around again with only a few lingering pocks still needing treatment, Kate began to feel ill and found her first pock. The illness took hold of her in full force a few days later. Her fever raged for two days and two nights, and when she became delirious, Martin again sent for the physician.

  The young man looked grave after he had examined her. “We must reduce the body temperature immediately or she will die from an overheated brain,” he announced, which sent Molly to her knees begging for God’s help. Martin, too, crossed himself.

  The physician suggested a revolutionary idea to reduce her temperature, which got Molly off her knees and into hysterics. “’Twill kill my mistress for sure! Master Haute, don’t let him do it, I beg you!”

  Martin spoke to her sternly, although he, too, was skeptical. Keeping an invalid as warm as possible—which meant a roaring fire and all windows closed even in midsummer—was the general rule. Plunging Kate into a cold-water bath was contrary to all tenets he knew. But the man was adamant.

  “I have recently returned from Italy and the University of Padua, where they have many new medical theories. ’Tis wondrous how the cool water will reduce a burning fever. Now, be a good girl, Molly, and prepare the bath.”

  Martin left the room when Molly and the doctor lifted Kate, barely conscious, from the warm bed and gentled her into the tub. Her eyes flew open in shock as her body registered the cold water. She fought the frigid bath with flailing arms and legs, flooding the floor and soaking the two holding her down.

  “Dame Katherine, be still, I say! ’Twill lessen your fever, I promise you.” The doctor was firm but kind, and his authority calmed her. “Only a few minutes, and you may return to your bed.”

  Kate gulped down the cupful of Chelsworth’s clear springwater Molly offered. Her throat was sore. Her head hurt so fiercely that she wanted to die. Those exposed parts of her were liberally peppered with spots, and she clawed at the burning sores. Fortunately, she had prepared so much chamomile oil when the children were in need there was enough to soothe her now. Finally accustomed to the cold, she lay back quietly in the tub and tried to smile.

  “In truth, ’tis not so bad, Master Nettle. Have I been long with fever?”

  “Two whole days, mistress!” Molly wailed. “I did think you would die.”

  Kate shushed her. “Only think. Two days without me telling you what to do. It must have been a godsend.” She saw her servant smirk.

  The doctor felt Kate’s forehead and gave a smug nod. “You see! ’Tis as I said. The fever has abated somewhat. I shall give instructions to Master Haute for you to be bathed like this every two hours until there is a significant change in your body temperature.” He helped her from the tub and left the room as Molly dried her, dressed her in a clean chemise and tucked her back into bed.

  Later, Martin came to see her. For the first time in almost three days, Kate was able to swallow some broth. She looked gaunt and tired, but she was no longer delirious and she rested comfortably. He looked at her fondly. “I could not bear to have lost you as well, my dear Kate. It would have been too cruel of God.” He paused, not wishing to burden her with what had been on his mind. “I must confess I wondered what would become of the children. We have not made provision for them in the case of . . .”

  “Fiddle-faddle, Father! I am not about to die. But you are right. Richard must be ready to take them in such a case. Sweet Mary! Did I forget John’s birthday?”

  “John will forgive you, my dear. You were in no condition to remember. But I took the boy out with Walter and me in the fields, and I think he was able to forget your condition for a few hours. He is a good boy, Kate. He will make his father proud, I know.”

>   Kate smiled. “I warrant he will. He already makes his mother proud.”

  RICHARD DID NOT FORGET his promise to Kate. He sent John a dagger of Toledo steel with a finely worked silver haft for his birthday, and John could not have been more pleased. He strutted around the manor with it attached to his belt, fingering it with reverence. Kate had forbidden him to unsheath the weapon until he was properly trained.

  “Never use a weapon in anger, my son. Remember, words must always be your first line of defense.”

  “Aye, Mother, I shall remember,” the boy responded solemnly.

  It was not long after the dagger’s arrival that she received word from Richard to arrange for the children to leave home.

  “I know this is hard to bear, Kate, but we must be mindful of our children’s best way in the world. I have good word of John’s character from Jack Howard. He will begin as a page with me at Pontefract. Later, he will join the henchmen at Middleham, just as I did those many years ago. He shall be treated as my dearly beloved son and be a brother to little Edward. Sadly, Anne has miscarried of two babes since his birth, and the doctors fear he must be our only joy.

  “As for Katherine. I would keep her here with me, but I do not think Anne would be disposed to welcome the child into her household. It would remind her daily of the lack of a daughter. My sister of Suffolk will take her at Wingfield, not far from you. Elizabeth will be kind to her and love her as her niece. She expects Katherine in the month of May.

  “It is the king’s intention to reinter our father at Fotheringhay in July. ’Tis then I would receive John into my household. He will be in the bosom of my family for those few days, and there shall be no dissembling in my love for the boy. Elizabeth will bring Katherine with her, and I will have the double joy of seeing my children together. Kate, I long to see them, and my only wish now is that I care for them as lovingly as you have. They shall not be separated from you forever, ma belle, have no fear.

  “I shall make provision for you to stay at the White Boar (a goodly name I think) in Stamford and come to you there. Look for my badge on an escort from Chelsworth no later than the twenty-fourth of July.”

  Kate looked up from her seat in the garden and gazed at the bucolic scene in front of her. Katherine was gathering cowslips along the riverbank, her auburn hair a curtain down her back, and John was riding a hobbyhorse that Martin had fashioned for him and tilting at a wooden target hanging from a tree limb. Molly was bent double over a bedsheet she was rinsing in the river. A sadness came over Kate as she watched the people she cherished most go about their daily lives ignorant of the changes about to occur.

  Katherine turned as if she felt her mother’s eyes on her and waved a plant leaf aloft. “Arum, Mother. ’Tis good for purging, is it not?”

  “Aye, child, you have learned well. ’Tis also called cuckoopint, though I know not why.” Kate folded Richard’s letter and put it in her pocket. She would have to face telling the children about their future at some point, but not now.

  “Watch me! Watch me!” John crowed, charging the target once more and smacking it dead center with his stick. Kate clapped her hands and praised him. He is a natural with a lance, she said to herself, a trifle resentful. Richard will be pleased. She walked over to Katherine and examined the arum plant with its brown rodlike center framed by the shiny leaf. It always put her in mind of a thin, brown-faced monk in a habit. She pulled her daughter into the crook of her arm. Katherine had grown so much in the past year that Kate no longer had to bend to her. Kate saw Martin at the solar window and waved to him. He lifted his arm in salute and watched mother and daughter wander towards the church. Katherine wanted to place her bunch of cowslips on Philippa’s grave. Martin had lately paid for a family tomb, and her two sons now flanked Philippa. Katherine did not remember Philippa, but “Grandfather Martin” had told her stories of his beloved wife, and Katherine was at an age when she understood death was final. She was sad for the old man.

  “Who was Ge-or-ge?” Katherine asked suddenly, surprising Kate that she could read the name on the tomb. Kate was not prepared for the question, but Katherine’s dark blue eyes were turned to her and she knew she must answer.

  “He was Martin and Philippa’s son, Katherine. And”—she took a deep breath—“my husband.”

  She waited for the awkward question, but Katherine was satisfied.

  “Oh,” was all she said. “And was Ro-bert another son?”

  “Aye. He was a boy no older than you when he died. It broke his mother’s heart.”

  “Would it break your heart if I died, Mother?” Katherine was serious for once.

  “It would indeed, Katherine. But you are not going to die yet, my poppet.” Kate laughed. “You have your whole life ahead of you. In fact, it now seems a good time to tell you what does lie ahead.” Kate injected excitement into her voice as she made the spontaneous decision and hoped Katherine would be fooled.

  Katherine vaguely remembered her father, and from time to time Kate talked about Richard to the children. She had explained he had a busy life in the service of the king and that was why he could not live with them. That afternoon, she resolved to tell Katherine the truth. It was best she learned of her bastardy from her own mother and not from some minion in the duchess of Suffolk’s household. Katherine listened intently, her eyes wide and disbelieving. When Kate finished, the girl sank in a heap on the grass.

  “You will have to learn to sit more gracefully than that at Wingfield, daughter.” Kate’s eyes twinkled, and she sat down beside her. “Do you have questions for me?”

  “Nay, Mother. I must think on all this before I have questions. ’Tis strange, but I do remember high windows and jewels and rich garments from a day in my childhood. Can that be right?”

  “Certes! The last time we all saw your father was at a Yuletide in London. He entertained us grandly in his house at Crosby Place, Katherine. That is what you remember.”

  “And you, Mother? Do you not miss my father?”

  Kate looked away. She adjusted her wimple and gritted her teeth. “There are times when I miss him with all my heart, Katherine. But he is married to a great lady, and I cannot think on him in any way now except as your father.”

  “But Mother, if he loved you, why did he not wed you?” The inevitable question.

  “’Twas not possible, and you are still too young to understand, child. Do not question me further, I pray you. When you are older, you will come to know more. Come, let us find John.”

  “I understand I am something shameful for him.” Katherine’s mouth drooped and her eyes were bright with tears.

  “Never say that, sweetheart! He loves you, truly he does. You were born of love, do not forget that. It makes you very special.” Kate cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “If he was ashamed of you, he would never have agreed to send you to his sister, a royal duchess, now would he?”

  “Perhaps ’tis true. I know not. I will hate to leave you and John and Grandfather Martin and Molly and Chelsworth and . . . ohhh . . .” Her little face crumpled and she burst into tears.

  Kate took her in her arms to comfort her. “Have I ever told you the story of how I came to be sent away at almost the same age as you?”

  Katherine shook her head. She loved her mother’s stories. Her tears were forgotten as Kate began to describe her arrival at Ightham Mote so many years ago.

  THE HAUTE PARTY wended its way north through Stowmarket and past the village of Gipping, where Martin pointed out the road to Gipping Hall, home of his friend James Tyrell.

  “’Tis an isolated spot, Kate, but the hall is truly beautiful. Master Tyrell was making his presence felt at court before I left. He was one of Lord Richard’s circle and is now in the north with Richard.”

  Kate nodded absently. She was focused on making Katherine’s ride to her new home as pleasant as she could and pointed out trees and flowers as they passed. This part of Suffolk was far less populated than the area lying between Bury, Ipswich an
d Colchester, and they saw more sheep than people. Katherine had been excited yet apprehensive in the last few days, and she had alternated with mercurial swiftness between tears and laughter. The parting from John had been particularly heartrending, despite assurances that they would see each other in July. Molly would not let Katherine go when the time came, and her weeping caused Kate to chide her for upsetting the little girl. Deep down, she was just as devastated and was touched by Molly’s love. The whole household had turned out to see them off.

  The Wingfield church bell was ringing for none when their escort led the Hautes into the courtyard of the rambling manse that the de la Pole family called home. The great hall was quiet. At midafternoon, most of the servants were working outside, in the kitchen, alehouse or butteries. The groom of the hall, a tall, spare figure with a bald pate, approached Martin.

  “Her grace, the duchess is walking in the garden. May I take you to her, sir?” He spoke with the slow Suffolk burr.

  Kate looked about her with interest. Although the hall was quite large with an imposing vaulted roof, the hangings and furnishings looked shabby compared with the Howards’ accoutrements. Nor were the de la Poles blessed with coffers as deep as those of the duchess’s brother, the king, and Richard’s Crosby Place spoke of far more affluence than this, she thought.

  Out in the sunlight once again, the trio followed close behind the steward, down paths between the immaculately manicured shrubs and bushes of the knot garden and into a bower, where the rambling roses were in bud and threatening to burst forth in the unusually warm weather. A group of women sat talking and sewing.

  “Your grace, the Haute party, if it please you.” The steward bowed himself away.

  Kate was taken aback by the stunning similarity between Elizabeth de la Pole and her eldest brother, Edward. Big-boned, Elizabeth had weathered nine pregnancies, and she undoubtedly had a hard time taking off weight. She was a bloated version of her brother, but still handsome. With a simplicity that Kate did not expect, she stopped talking with her gentlewomen and rose to her feet to greet her visitors. Kate and Katherine swept low curtsies. Martin bowed and kissed her outstretched hand.