A Rose for the Crown

by Anne Easter Smith

  “A person usually expires at the height of a fever, or if he overcomes it and it breaks, he usually will get well,” was what Elinor had told her. So why was Robert not improving?

  “Where is Maud?” Kate realized she had not thought of the child since her return.

  “I am here, Kate.” The small voice came from under the bed. Kate lifted up the cover and pulled out the trundle bed on which Maud was tightly curled, sucking her thumb. Her big blue eyes were wet with tears and her chin trembled.

  “Is Robert going to die?” Young Maud voiced the one word no one had dared to utter since the ordeal had begun. Brigid drew in a sharp breath and crossed herself.

  “I do not know, sweetheart.” Kate knelt down beside Maud. She thought it was best to be honest. She remembered how betrayed she herself had felt when something dire had come to pass that a grown-up had promised would not happen. “We are doing everything we can to help him, but it is in God’s hands now. Perhaps Robert is begging God for a chance to come back to us. Perhaps He is still choosing.”

  She hoped her words were ambiguous enough to cover either eventuality. She was beginning to think that Robert was losing his battle to live and that God would claim another soul far too early.

  There were times when she questioned the decisions of this God of theirs—her mother’s untimely death, George’s unnatural behavior, Molly’s disfiguring mark. And then she thought of Richard and felt the love light flood into her again. If this is God’s will, she mused, looking at the ashen face on the pillow, then I must believe that Richard’s and my meeting was His will, too. For He has our fate in His hands.

  All night Kate kept vigil, alternating between the spiritual and the practical. At times she told her rosary or prayed to St. Nicholas, who protects young children, and then applied hot compresses to Robert’s forehead or sang softly to him. He moved not a muscle. Brigid lay on the truckle bed in the corner, and Maud was back under the bed, fast asleep. At dawn, Robert stirred, his eyelashes fluttering and his mouth moving. The movement caused a paroxysm of coughing, and Kate saw flecks of blood in the spittle.

  “Mother,” he whispered, when he had recovered from the spasm. “Mother, where are you? Come close. I cannot see you.”

  Kate stroked his forehead and leaned forward to soothe and reassure him.

  “Brigid!” she whispered fiercely into the dark. “Brigid! Wake up and fetch your mistress. Now!”

  Brigid sat up with a start and, hearing the urgency in Kate’s voice, pulled on her shoes and clambered to her feet.

  “And then fetch the priest, but do not tell your mistress. I fear Robert may not last the hour. Go quickly!” Kate commanded.

  In no more than two minutes, Philippa was by Kate’s side. “What is it, Kate? Is he well, did he waken?”

  Kate nodded and stepped aside so that mother and son could be alone. Robert was still muttering, mostly gibberish, but every now and then he talked about a light that was in front of him. Philippa chafed his hands, letting him know she was there, and Kate went to the other side of the bed with a candle, hoping to sweet Jesu that this was the light he saw.

  “Hush, child, you are safe. Kate has the light. You will be well now, Robert, Mother promises you.” Philippa’s hopeful face was focused on her child’s and only then did Kate allow her tears to come. Mother of God, I pray I never lose a child like this, she thought, wiping her cheek.

  Brigid led the rumpled parish priest into the solar not half an hour later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He came to the foot of the big bed, where Robert looked even smaller in its mounded depths. Philippa gasped when she saw him and then looked accusingly at Kate, whose tears gave her away.

  “I am sorry, Mother. I believed you would not want Robert to leave us unshriven. I hope I did not do wrong.”

  Philippa bowed her head. “You did right, my child,” she whispered.

  The daylight was creeping into the chamber as Father John prepared the oil for administering the last rites and began intoning the prayers for the dying. Philippa held her son’s hand as the priest anointed the boy.

  MARTIN RODE INTO THE COURTYARD a few hours after daybreak and flung himself out of the saddle at the manor door. He was aware of the silence around him when normally the house would be bustling with activity after breakfast. Then an unfamiliar sound reached his ears, and it was a second before he recognized it as sobbing. He strode into the solar and stopped abruptly on the threshold. Philippa, Kate and Brigid were kneeling beside the bed, weeping, and Maud was clinging tightly to her mother’s neck with her back to the small, lifeless form concealed by the bedclothes.

  “Sweet Jesu! Am I too late?” Martin cried as he reached the foot of the bed. The peacefulness of Robert’s face spoke of an unearthly serenity, and he knew he was indeed too late. He groaned. “My son! My son! Dear God, why did you have to take my son?”

  13

  Suffolk, Spring 1468

  Kate luxuriated in the wooden tub and allowed Molly to rub her long hair dry. Winter was over, and with spring came the Haute ritual of cleansing the house of its staleness. Every cobweb was chased away, every tester-bed drape shaken and hung in the fresh air, and every sheet, piece of linen and chemise was given to the laundress to wash away winter whiffs of smoky rooms, food stains and stale sweat. The large wooden tub was duly placed in front of the fire in the solar and the family members given turns to rid themselves of weeks of grime, lice and fleas. Kate was third in line after Philippa and Martin, and Molly had replenished the filmy water with the contents of a freshly boiled cauldron.

  Maud was being hunted for her turn, and Kate wondered if anyone had looked under the bed yet. She remembered hating the few baths she had taken as a child at the farm. Standing naked in a tub the size of a large bucket and being scrubbed all over with rancid-smelling soap was a great deal less enjoyable than being immersed in hot water, as she was now. Soaking was delicious, and even though today’s soap also smelled sour, Molly masked it by adding lavender to the water. The fragrance of the hair lotion of rosemary, chamomile and nettle also helped, while its properties made her hair shine like polished chestnuts.

  Kate stroked the smooth, flat skin of her stomach. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was what Brother Francis had taught her. So why not a life for a life? This new one for little Robert’s. Her courses had not come in February and here it was mid-March and there was still no sign. Her breasts were full and hurt to touch, but that was normal before her flow. It was the awful nausea that came over her every morning that told her she was breeding. The realization was doubly sweet. Not only was she to be the mother of Richard’s child, but she could hide his involvement with impunity because of dear St. Valentine. The patron saint of lovers had come to her rescue in an unexpected way.

  Robert had been buried in the churchyard adjacent to Haute Manor, a pitiful little grave around which the family and household prayed. Jack Howard sent a message of condolence and relieved George of his duties so that he could return to Chelsworth. It was an unusual act of generosity, for deaths among children were commonplace, and those parents who did not lose at least one child in infancy were among the fortunate. Moreover, a burial was a perfunctory affair, without undue ceremony. Martin and Philippa were no strangers to this misfortune, having lost a son a day after his birth some eighteen years before.

  “Perhaps his paternal feelings are heightened with the birth of young Cat,” Martin remarked, as he sat and composed first a letter of thanks to Jack and then a sadder letter to his eldest son in Calais.

  To keep her word to Jack, Kate had not mentioned the gift of the Chelsworth house. Jack said he would inform Martin at the appropriate time, and Kate was relieved that she did not have to take that responsibility. She assumed George would be pleased. It was clear that he did not enjoy being under his parents’ roof during visits home, but Kate wondered how curious he would be about the gift. She knew George was not the most stellar of Howard’s younger retinue, although he had discharged h
is duties on the French mission well. Kate found herself looking forward to having George to talk to in this house of mourning and welcomed him cheerfully when he arrived. George was surprised and pleased. He was even more relieved when Kate informed him that she would be a dutiful wife and postpone seeking the annulment.

  “Why, Kate, I am overjoyed to hear it. I vow I will make you proud of me, even if I cannot be a true husband to you.”

  After supper a few evenings later, he was overtly affectionate with his wife.

  “’Tis St. Valentine’s eve, my love,” Martin murmured to Philippa, as they watched George sit at Kate’s feet and stroke her hand. “’Tis possible your fears for them are unfounded. They look as cosy as two fleas on a dog.”

  “Aye, but do not be disappointed if Kate jumps off,” Philippa cautioned, pulling on her nose. “I am perplexed by her behavior of late, and I do not think it is because she moons after George.” She hoped the young couple would resolve whatever it was that had pushed them apart. However, her mind was never far from her recent loss, and she sank back into her cushion and withdrew again from the world. Martin held her hand as he conversed quietly with his son, asking him about Framlingham and his studies.

  Kate sat silently for once, wrapped in thoughts of Richard. She was unaware of the radiance she projected, though had anyone noticed, it could have been attributed to George’s homecoming.

  “I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you of my time in Coventry with her grace, the queen,” Martin said, his intense blue eyes sweeping them all.

  Philippa came out of her lethargy and leaned towards him. “Aye, my dear, forgive me for a laggard in not asking before. ’Tis indeed the right time now George is home to hear. Why did the queen summon you? And, do tell, is she as beautiful as they say?”

  “Aye, she is beautiful. Wondrous fair, as the poets write.” Martin smiled at Philippa’s anxious expression. “Yet I would not change her cold beauty for your gentle, loving face, wife. I heard she has the king by the short hairs and he is hers to command.”

  “Martin!” Philippa chided him. “Not in front of the children.”

  “Children, indeed! They are husband and wife together. They are not too young to know exactly what short hairs are. Am I right, George?”

  George was distinctly embarrassed, but Kate laughed. “I am confused,” she said. “Margaret told me the king has mistresses. Why, if he has such a lovely wife?”

  Martin gave a shout of laughter. “He has a lustiness that the queen cannot sate, it appears, Kate. If ever you are in his presence, be wary of the royal eye. He might find you a peach just ripe for the plucking, and,” he teased her, “I hear there is no gainsaying him.”

  “Stop talking nonsense, Martin”—Philippa was impatient—“and tell us the reason for your summons, I implore you.”

  “As you wish. I am to be usher to her royal chamber, which means I must be at court much of the year, I am afraid. ’Tis an honor, I know, but I confess I make a better soldier than servitor.”

  “Martin! This is an honor indeed. Who brought you to her attention? Who at court knows you well enough to recommend you to her grace?” Philippa asked, now well out of the doldrums.

  “’Twas none other than our kinsman Richard Haute. As carver to the young princess, he has the queen’s ear and thought on me when she looked around for an usher.” Martin wrinkled his nose. “It seems my loyal service at the garrison these long years has won me the post, more’s the pity. Kate, Haute begged to be remembered to you. He bade me tell you that Anne has been safely delivered of a daughter. You will no doubt be hearing it from her soon, for Richard had the news of it only the day before we spoke.”

  “Anne a mother! What wonderful news!” Kate’s eyes shone. “I wonder what they have named her? George, is it not splendid news?”

  George nodded noncommittally. He knew any talk of children would remind his parents of his and Kate’s lack of them, and so he changed the subject rapidly. The rest of the evening passed agreeably enough. When George and Kate rose to bid their parents good night, Philippa embraced Kate warmly, and Martin gave Kate a knowing wink on waving them from the room.

  “Good night and pleasant . . . ahem . . . ah . . . dreams!” he said, failing to find something wittier to say. George was puzzled, but after wishing his parents a good night, he headed upstairs with Kate.

  “The Advent season may usher in more than just Yuletide this year, my love!” Martin said. “’Twould be a fair recompense for our Robert’s loss, if God so chooses.”

  “A life for a life, you mean, husband?” Philippa nodded a little sadly.

  In her bath, Kate told herself, “A life for a life. ’Tis justly so.”

  * * *

  DEATH KNOCKED on another door that winter. A small packet was delivered to Kate by a carter on his way to Norwich not long after spring cleaning, and she recognized Geoff’s handwriting.

  “I send you ill tidings, my dear sister. Our father, John Bywood, died on Candlemas and Cousin Richard gave me leave to go to Snoll’s Hatch. Johnny has promised to care for the family. He asked me to send his love and thanks for the money you have been sending. In return, he sends you a keepsake from our father. The coin is French, from his time in the wars with King Henry. Remember him well, Kate, for he was a good man and loving father.”

  Kate unwrapped the coin with trembling fingers, gazed at it in her hand and then went to sit in her favorite spot along the riverbank. Sweet violets covered the high bank and, closer to the water, the burnished yellow of the kingcup reigned supreme. Kate picked a few violets and held them to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume. She uncurled her fingers and looked again at the écu. She remembered the lesson she had learned about loyalty after losing Geoff along the muddy banks of the Medway. The present dissolved into that day when her father told her the story of the man who was hanged for the coin. Her eyes filled with tears as she heard John’s voice in her head and remembered the smell of sweat and Kentish earth on his clothes. It all seemed so long ago. Dear Geoff, she thought, smiling down at his letter and admiring the grown-up text. How she wished he were with her this minute! His cheeky grin and chestnut curls would be a welcome sight. Would she trust him with her secret? She was not sure.

  A flash of silver caught her eye, and she felt a now familiar stirring in her breast as she looked at Richard’s ring. She pulled it off her finger and examined it for the thousandth time. It was intricately carved, like the twining stems of a vine, and set with two small rubies. One day, George had casually asked where she had acquired it. She made up a story that it had been Elinor’s, given to her by Cousin Richard as a remembrance after the burial, and that she had only just begun to wear it. He seemed satisfied. But she wanted to shout, I lied! This is Richard of Gloucester’s ring, given to me with love. And ’tis not all I have of his! But she had not.

  She pushed the ring back on her finger and remembered why she had come to the river. She reread Geoff’s letter and carefully folded it. Looking at the coin, she saw it had a small hole in the center. With a strong thread, Richard could wear it as a token from her, she thought. She vaguely wondered if her father would approve of her immediately relinquishing her only remembrance of him. Fiddle-faddle! As surely as my father loved my mother, he would understand my love for Richard.

  She resolved to send the coin to Richard, but when? She knew the routine. Richard must write to her through Margaret, Wat would carry the letter to Chelsworth and wait for her reply. It had been six weeks and no letter had come. Kate was unconcerned, for she knew Richard must be at his brother’s side, but now she knew she was carrying his child, she wanted him to know.

  “Kate! Where are you?” Philippa called from the herb garden. “Kate!”

  “I am coming, Mother!” Kate shouted back, standing up and brushing her skirts free of dirt. The violets fell in a forlorn heap at her feet. A squirrel chattered in alarm and scampered up a tree.

  “I am going to Lavenham if you will accompan
y me,” Philippa said, as Kate reached her side. “I have promised a new gown to Maud, now that the mourning period for Robert is past. She is growing so quickly. I shall have to buy some cloth, because my loom has been idle these past weeks. And I would see my parents. Will you come?”

  Kate ran inside, carefully locked the letter and coin in her coffer and threw her mantle over her shoulders. A day out in Lavenham was out of the ordinary, and she was happy to leave her chores behind. She had made the acquaintance of George’s maternal grandparents during the Christmas season, and they impressed her. Philippa’s stern and God-fearing father, a wealthy wool merchant, had worked hard to build up his business. He adored his only daughter, and Philippa’s confidence in Kate caused the old gentleman to treat her with kindness as well.

  On the ride, Philippa chattered on about her pride in her son, Young Martin, who was advancing well in the family wool business. Kate listened with half an ear; her body was fighting her daily discomfort and the swaying horse was not helping.

  Without warning, Philippa reined in her mount and asked, “I wonder if you and George will be blessed with a child soon. I do not wish to meddle, daughter, but ’tis more than seven months since you were wed.”

  Kate was taken aback, believing Philippa must have the gift of second sight. She hurriedly crossed herself under her cloak and fell silent for a few paces while she debated what to say. “’Tis strange you should ask now, Mother. You need not be concerned any further, for I am certain I am with child.” There, it was out.