That morning, as Martha watched Kate traipse off behind John to the orchard to help with the harvest, she made up her mind to speak to her daughter at the end of the week’s punishment. Kate needed to learn of a woman’s changes and where babies came from. Martha’s own mother had dutifully sat her down one day at age twelve and so terrified her with tales of bleeding “down there,” men’s lustful desires and the pain of childbirth that she had thought to throw herself into the pond on the Bishopsbourne estate. She grinned and shook her head as she thought about that day and vowed she would make it a lot less frightening for Kate if she could.
Martha picked up the mugs from the table and was carrying them out to the well to wash when she heard the sound of a horse cantering up the road to the farm. Matty, who was crawling around the farmyard, pulling herself up on anything within reach, sat down with a thump when she spotted the liveried horseman.
“Da-da,” she said, pointing at the man.
Martha laughed and said, “No, sweetheart, ’tis not your father,” and she scooped the child up in her arms and walked forward to greet the visitor.
“God’s greeting, sir. Is it John Bywood you be seeking?”
The young man swung out of the saddle.
“Aye, mistress, or if you are the goodwife of Farmer Bywood, I am bidden to give you this message from your kinsman Richard Haute. He wills that you and your family travel to Ightham for a visit today fortnight. He bids you fond welcome and hopes you will stay two or more nights at the Mote. I am to return with an answer, if it please you.”
“Sir, your master be gracious, but I must speak with my husband before we give you an answer. Pray come inside until he returns and take a cup of ale for your trouble.”
“IGHTHAM MOTE! We be invited to Ightham Mote?” Kate could not keep the excitement out of her voice as she faced her parents at the supper table.
“Do not wave your spoon around as if you be some peasant, daughter,” scolded Martha. “If we go to the Mote, you three children must be well mannered. No wiping your face with the back of your hand, Geoff, and Johnny, you must learn not to stuff your mouth so full.”
Her husband nodded in agreement, although he was prone to picking his teeth with the point of his hunting knife, a habit Martha hated but dared not criticize.
“May we go, Father,” pleaded Kate, her eyes touching him with their innocent exuberance.
“If the apples be picked and stored by then, as I warrant they will be, then yes, we can go.” John and Martha had decided earlier to accept the invitation and had already sent the messenger back to Ightham, but John wanted to remind Kate of her penance.
Kate jumped up from her chair and ran to put her arms around her father’s neck. John was taken aback by this show of affection, and his reaction was to send Kate back to her seat to finish her soup.
No one noticed Matty, who had managed to climb out of the restraining harness in her chair and was using the table leg to pull herself up. Johnny felt her fingers grab his tunic and looked down to see her take her first few steps.
“Look, look! Matty be walking by herself!”
Ightham was forgotten as the family gathered around Matty, who, unaware of the attention she was attracting, was intent on getting across the floor to sit next to Fenris.
“Rith, Rith,” she lisped, falling for the third time, picking herself up again and staggering a few more steps in the dog’s direction. Her family stood proudly around, clapping and laughing. Martha felt the child inside her quicken and smiled.
IN THE FARMYARD the market cart stood laden with the necessities of a family of six leaving for several days. To present to the Haute household there was a sack of John’s finest apples, some of Martha’s precious dried herbs and the boys’ contribution of two dozen eggs from the farmyard chickens. One of John’s field hands was holding firmly to Fenris’s neck when the older children climbed into the back of the vehicle, giggling and wriggling with excitement.
“Giddyapp,” John urged Roland, the sturdy cart-horse, once his family was settled, and the cart lurched forward down the lane.
The ten miles to Ivy Hatch took the Bywoods several hours to cover. The solid wooden wheels groaned and creaked in and out of ruts and potholes, and the road was sometimes blocked by another cart filling the narrow path. A few horsemen raised their hand in salute as they cantered by, and the children shouted greetings and waved back. Rumbling through Pitt’s Wood on the way to join the London road, they saw laborers carrying baskets of tin from the mines that had made Kent famous for centuries.
Kate had gone to the Tunbridge market once or twice with her father, but this was the boys’ first foray from the farm. The children easily kept themselves amused. They sang songs, played spot the bird, flower or tree, and lay back among the soft bundles, watching the treetops form a natural cathedral in the sky. At times the road was so narrow that the children were able to pluck a hazel switch and test the brown nuts between their teeth.
Not far from their destination, the boys fell asleep. Kate absently twirled a twig between her fingers and mulled over a conversation she and Martha had had recently.
“You be growing fast, Kate, and ’tis time . . . there are . . . things I must tell you . . . much you should know . . . about being a woman.”
Kate had been startled by Martha’s hesitation; her mother was rarely unable to speak her mind. “You mean, about birthing, Mother? I have seen lambs birthed.” But she didn’t exactly know how the lamb came to be in there.
“Aye, about birthing. . . . But ’tis how you get with child I have to explain,” Martha had braved on. “And it begins with your monthly courses.”
Lying in the cart, Kate wondered when her courses would begin and how she would deal with being fertile, as her mother had put it. She put her hand on her stomach to see if she could feel anything, but it was flat and taut as usual. The idea of having a child inside her was too bizarre to imagine. Then she tried to envision the unsavory act of conceiving. Kate’s eyes had widened with horror at Martha’s inadequate description, which had cited rutting sheep. Kate closed her eyes and tried to imagine her father climbing on her mother’s back but shook off the embarrassing image. It all seemed impossible and horrible. Seeing Kate’s disgust, Martha tried to reassure her that the process was not all unpleasant. “’Tis a husband’s way of showing he loves you,” she said. And that was her last word on the subject.
Kate stared at the trees fanning out around the cart and promised herself she would never allow a man to climb onto her. She would have to find another way of getting a baby. She turned over onto her stomach and forced herself to think of something else.
Fortunately, the threatening rain held off during the morning, and by the time the Bywood family had left the London road and passed through the hamlet of Ivy Hatch, the sun was making an effort to show itself. John reined in Roland with some effort as the horse edged down a steep, winding hill flanked by high banks and overhanging trees that formed a tunnel above the cart. The children clung to the sides of the swaying vehicle, and Martha passed Matty back to the relative safety of the enclosed space.
They rounded a bend. A low stone wall marked the left side of the road, and beyond the wall Martha could see a large stewpond with an impressive house behind it. She exclaimed with an excitement her children had not heard from her before, “There, children, there it be!”
“It has a moat,” cried Geoff, standing up and rocking precariously. “Will there be soldiers? May I learn to fight?”
John turned and shouted to his son to sit down immediately. “Why do you suppose it is called Ightham Mote, silly,” said Kate, pulling him down beside her.
“Nay, Kate,” her mother said over her shoulder. “This meaning of mote comes to us from the old times. It means meeting place.”
“Bah!” muttered Kate under her breath. “A moat’s a moat, Geoff, and that be a fair example.”
The cart rumbled down a drive and through some gates and up to a narrow stone
bridge leading to a towered gatehouse. A stable hand came running to hold Roland’s bridle. Kate looked around her and smiled with pleasure. She unconsciously smoothed her skirt and ran her fingers through the long hair that tumbled from her tightly fitting coif, hoping to untangle some of the knots. Johnny jumped down to help her and Geoff clamber off, and the boys leaned over the bridge to look at the moat.
Kate was the first through the gate and into the courtyard, where she stood alone and made a slow circle, taking everything in. It was as though she had visited this place in her dreams. It all looked so familiar. In one quiet, intuitive moment, she knew that Ightham Mote would become much more to her than a place she once visited for three days with her family.
The great hall faced her with its massive oak door, and smoke curled from the vent in the roof above the open-hearth fire inside. To the left of the hall was a two-story half-timbered addition, which Kate guessed included the family’s private chambers. She went over and touched the old stone wall that surrounded the courtyard, not knowing that it had stood for a hundred years. A shiver of excitement went through her young body, and she raised her arms as if in salute to what seemed to her to be an old friend.
She was unaware of the picture she presented to a girl of about her own age standing next to her parents, who had come into the courtyard to welcome their guests. Anne Haute gazed in admiration at her cousin’s flowing chestnut hair as Kate slowly twirled around. She stood by her mother while her father greeted Martha with a hearty laugh and an affectionate hug. Anne was petite for her age, plain, with kind brown eyes and a nervous smile. She wrung her hands in quiet anticipation.
John hovered behind his wife, awkwardly holding Matty, a little overawed by the house and the servants who came to help unload the baggage. Martha impetuously bent forward to kiss Elinor, who gave her cheek dutifully and bade her guests welcome with some grace. Matty had fixed her eye upon the silver and ebony rosary that hung from Anne’s waist and wriggled to get down from her father’s tight hold. She began to totter towards the new plaything, and Anne bent down and caught her just as she was overreaching her target and would have fallen. The adults all laughed, and Richard chucked the child under the chin.
Kate’s reverie was broken. She skipped over to her mother, curtsied to Richard and Elinor with a quick “Good day, sir. Good day, madam” and then turned her attention to Anne, now holding a contented Matty, who was sucking enthusiastically on the rosary.
“Hello, you must be Anne. I be Kate, if it please you. And I be eleven years old. How old are you?” She looked at her gawky cousin and grinned.
Anne blushed and looked to her mother as if to ask permission to answer this forthright young woman. Her mother sniffed but nodded.
“Aye, my name is Anne, and I, too, am eleven,” she replied shyly. “And what is the baby’s name?”
“Mathilda. Matty be what we call her, and she be one year old,” Kate said. “Will you show me the house. ’Tis so beautiful and so grand.”
She took Matty from Anne, who led her through the door and into the great hall. John and Martha were about to call Kate back to help with the baggage, but Richard herded them towards the house. The two boys had not moved a muscle since racing into the courtyard, so overwhelmed were they to be in such exalted company in such an impressive place. Now Martha held out her hands to them, and they forgot about being brave and grown up and gratefully took one each.
“Let me show you to your chamber, Martha,” Elinor said, not unkindly. “You must rest after your journey, especially in your condition.” Martha smiled and nodded, and followed Elinor into the house, trailing the boys either side of her.
“DOES THIS MEAN more trouble, Richard?” John was seated next to his host at the banqueting table that evening. The Bywood children sat with Anne on the side, Geoff’s chin level with the tabletop.
“Because the duke of York has returned from Ireland, you mean,” Richard Haute answered his guest. “Nay, my friend, York has the country’s best interests at heart. He has sworn allegiance to Henry, but he is still the rightful heir to the throne, as Henry must allow.”
“How be he heir, cousin?” Martha asked politely, and Richard gladly filled her in.
Richard, duke of York, was the direct descendant of the fourth son of Edward III and as such stood behind Henry in the line to the throne. “And through his mother he is a descendant of Lionel of Clarence, Edward’s second son, and so by right is in line ahead of Henry. ’Twas those rights made him Parliament’s natural choice of Protector during Henry’s first mad period, you see, Martha,” Richard explained.
Martha’s eyes were glazed over. This was too complex for her, and she was longing for bed.
“Unfortunately, the king regained his faculties long enough to be poisoned against York by his queen,” Richard droned on. “The hatred between the Lancastrians and Yorkists came to a head when York and his lords were excluded from the Great Council of Coventry last June. Flight to Ireland was their only recourse. Now they are back on English soil and ’tis said York has won over the Londoners.” Richard lowered his voice. “In case you have not guessed, John, I am for York.”
Elinor drew in a breath, but Richard ignored her. “In truth, York controls the parliament now, and the king must do as he says. I do solemnly swear I have not acted before against my king, but ’tis time to make a choice. I do not wish harm to our anointed king, but when the time comes, I shall welcome York as king.”
Martha’s and John’s simple lives were barely affected by who wore the crown. They never expected to be in the presence of the exalted names Richard tossed out on the table and did not believe those nobles cared a whit for the Bywoods or their farm. They listened with polite interest as Richard explained that Henry would now be forced into accepting the duke of York as his heir upon his death and the duke’s heir succeeding him.
“And if ’twill come to pass, I warrant the duke will truly make an enemy of the queen,” Richard predicted. “York will have denied her cub the throne, and her lullaby will be a battle song.”
As if on cue, a tall young man dressed in green and yellow with a harp in his hand came forward, bowed to Richard and began to sing.
“Richard, duke of York, Job thy servant insigne, Edward, earl of March, whose fame the earth shall spread, Richard, earl of Salisbury, named prudence,
With that noble knight and flower of manhood Richard, earl of Warwick, shield of our defence . . .”
Richard let his minstrel finish and raised his cup. “To York,” he said under his breath. “Well done, Will. I see you wasted no time setting the ballad to music.” He beamed at the harper, who bowed and backed away. “I plucked the ballad from the door of a church near Bishopsbourne not a month since and gave it to Will, directing him to put notes to the words. He has talent, has he not?” The question was directed at Martha and John.
Martha smiled wanly. Her head was pounding. Placed at the head table, she was able to see the rest of the household, who sat at tables at right angles to the family, and noticed that their fare was simpler. The score of servants kept by Richard and Elinor impressed her. Her eyes wandered to the rich hangings that covered the walls; the colorful figures seemed to come alive in the dancing flames of the torches and rushlights. The banqueting hall was filling up with smoke from the centrally located fire. The rain that threatened earlier in the day had begun to fall, and the smoke escape in the roof had been shut against the raindrops. Martha was feeling unwell, and the atmosphere was not helping. She had barely touched her food, mouthwatering though it was. She caught Kate’s eye at the other end of the table and saw the look of concern on her daughter’s face. She smiled gamely and picked up her spoon. It was only then that Martha realized John was squeezing her arm and asking for her response.
“I be sorry, John. I did not hear you,” she apologized, smiling weakly. John was oblivious to her pallor, perhaps because the candles on the table were few and far between and he could not see her very well, but more lik
ely because Richard, in his amiable mood following Will’s song, had just proposed something that had held his complete attention.
“Richard and Elinor are asking that we allow Kate to come here to Ightham to live as companion to Anne,” he whispered.
Martha stared at him in disbelief. On one hand, this was indeed a chance for Kate to better herself far beyond any marriage she and John could arrange for her. But on the other, her daughter was her friend and her strength in many ways. The thought of losing Kate so young had never crossed her mind.
“She be too important to me with the other children, John,” she began. But she turned to Richard and put her hand on his arm. “You be right generous, cousin. Surely you do not need another mouth to feed.”
“She does eat a little too heartily, Richard.” Elinor looked pointedly at Kate popping another sugared plum into her mouth. She pursed her lips and, without considering her words, added, “I cannot see that she would be company for our daughter, husband, for she is naught but a peasant girl.”
“Enough!” bellowed Richard, thumping his fist on the table. The chatter in the hall came to a sudden halt. He smiled broadly and waved the household to talk on. His servants, used to his temper, turned their attention once more to their food.
He lowered his voice. “Enough of your arrogance, Elinor. Martha is my kinswoman and no peasant—and neither is her daughter. I am much taken with the girl, and I see Anne at ease for the first time these many years. If her mother and father allow it, we shall be happy to welcome Kate to Ightham as another daughter.”
Elinor pouted and sulked, as was her wont, and retreated behind the veil on her hennin. She was a little afraid of her husband, who was jovial enough most of the time but who was blessed—or cursed, depending at whom it was directed—with a violent temper.
Martha requested a night to ponder Richard’s offer and asked John to escort her to their chamber. Elinor rose with Martha and showed unexpected concern for the pregnant woman, surprising and pleasing Richard. She insisted on accompanying Martha herself and calling for her maid to help. Kate, too, was tired and, asking permission, she shooed the boys in front of her to their beds.
A Rose for the Crown Page 4