Kate lifted Philippa’s hand and put it to her cheek. “Certes, I can. But no talk of dying, I beg of you.”
Once outside the solar, Kate let the tears fall down her cheeks. Martin sat slumped in a chair by the fire, and the sounds of the children being fed carried from the kitchen. Kate ran to the dejected figure and kneeled by him.
“My dear Father, you know I cannot prevent her from dying. The canker is growing too fast. But I will do everything in my power to make it easier for her, and I do counsel you to put on as cheerful a face as you are able. We must make her last days on earth as happy as possible. Can you do that for her?”
“Aye, Kate. I will try. I have not been the best of husbands, I know, but I do love her in my way.”
“You are the best of husbands, I will not hear otherwise. She knows she is cherished, and that is more than many wives ever know,” Kate said, with a trace of bitterness.
KATE SPENT THE NEXT few days restoring routine to the house. The servants looked to Philippa for orders, and while Martin was capable in the matters of property and the estate, he was at a loss to run the house. He leaned gratefully on his daughter-in-law, and he spent most of his time organizing his papers, riding over the property or sitting at Philippa’s bedside. A pall hung over the house like a cloak, and prayers were delivered up during meals and before bed for Philippa’s recovery.
Back in her old chamber, Kate climbed gratefully into the small tester bed every night. Molly was there to help her disrobe and to brush her hair, a ritual that soothed Kate’s frayed nerves and tired body. She was reminded of George each time she entered the room, memories of ugly arguments and petulant pleadings. Molly, sensing the tension, would knead her neck and shoulders and prattle on about what had happened in the kitchen or the laundry. Kate was grateful for the diversion and by the time she snuggled up to Katherine’s warm little body, she would drift into dreamless sleep in a very few minutes.
Young Martin and his new bride came early on the first Sunday after Kate’s arrival. The household walked along the river path to the church, where candles were burning for Philippa. The village prayed for their fellow communicant, lying close to death at the manor.
“’Tis good of you to come, Kate,” Young Martin said, as he offered his arm on the walk back from church. “My father is grateful, this I do know. Magdalena is too young and inexperienced to be of much help to him. And now she is with child . . .”
“She is with child! Oh, Martin, how happy you must be.” Kate pressed his arm. Magdalena was the daughter of a Calais wool merchant, and the two merchant houses had formed an invaluable alliance through the marriage. But it was not a contract either party had been forced into, Kate thought, when she first met the petite, flaxen-haired Flemish girl. Magdalena could not take her eyes off her husband, and he appeared pleased with her. Kate wondered how Young Martin had persuaded his father that Magdalena was a better match than the Tyrell daughter. A child of their union must have been conceived in love, just as mine were, she mused. Now the Hautes would truly have their grandchild, she realized guiltily.
Her deceit weighed heavily on her during this difficult visit. She prayed hard in the church for guidance. Should she tell Philippa? Would it be cruel? Would it only serve to assuage her own conscience? Or would it be right? She could not decide. She sighed heavily, and Young Martin asked if all was well.
“Aye, Martin. But your mother’s condition affects me greatly. ’Tis my belief she has only a few days left on this earth, and I grieve for her already.”
Martin drew her aside. “A pity her son was not more deserving of your love, Kate. Nay, you do not need to pretend with me. Since my return to Lavenham, I have learned of my brother’s unnatural behavior, and I can only think he must rot in hell.”
He did not know Kate well enough to ask about her children. He had his doubts that George had fathered Katherine and John, but he was not about to cause his parents any more heartache by voicing them after their reaction to George’s murder. Philippa had cried for days; Martin had withdrawn and become angry with anyone who crossed his path. Philippa had finally confessed to her son that she had never really loved George, because she could not understand him. Her excessive grief, she said, was a manifestation of guilt that she had not been a good mother to George.
“Do not say so!” Kate whispered to Young Martin as loudly as she dared. “God made him the way he was.”
Young Martin was shocked by Kate’s blasphemous statement. One should not question God’s laws—or His flaws, he thought. But he chose to ignore it and put it down to her agitated state of mind. It was Philippa herself who resolved Kate’s dilemma. That evening, she requested a private moment with Kate, and as Kate had become her physician of sorts, the family respectfully left them alone.
“Kate, my dear,” Philippa began hesitantly, and Kate smiled fondly at the familiar nose-pulling. “You and I know I am not long for this world, and in truth, I ask God daily to be free of this pain. I have no doubt I shall see all of you once more in heaven, and I am not afraid. But I cannot leave this earth without knowing the truth about George.” Kate stiffened. “I do not want you to be kind because I am dying,” Philippa went on. “I have always trusted you, Kate, and I have always loved you as my own. You were the best thing to happen to George. But I am troubled by doubts. I fear he was cruel and did not deserve your love. He deceived us all to marry you, and I thought it was because he loved you. But I was not blind. I know you were estranged, and I marked how little George was interested in his child. It did rankle with me. Can you find it in your heart to tell me true, Kate? Was George the father of your children?” The effort exhausted her.
Kate was so taken aback by this long speech—and certainly by its ultimate question—that she could not hide her blush. She tried to stammer an evasion, but Philippa frowned and stopped her.
“Nay, Kate, do not lie any longer. I would know the truth about my son and about your children.” Her face suddenly creased in pain. She took a few shallow breaths and allowed Kate to administer a spoonful of poppy juice. When she had gathered strength, she continued, “I fear for your soul, too, Kate. By lying to me, you will also feel God’s wrath. I wish to help you rid yourself of any guilt. Now tell me.”
With as much tact as possible, Kate told her of George’s rejection of her and his unnatural leanings. She confessed they had never consummated the marriage. Then she told of her liaison with Richard, duke of Gloucester, admitting, “He is the father of my children, in truth.” She paused, watching Philippa’s face. “Say you do not hate me, Mother. I could not bear that. You have been so dear to me, and I cannot suffer to think I may be giving you more pain with this truth.”
Philippa took her hand and squeezed it. She managed the first smile for many days, and tears wet her eyelashes. She looked fondly at Kate.
“The only sadness is that those two poppets are not my true grandchildren. I should be shocked, I suppose, that my son was a . . . sodomite”—she whispered the word and crossed herself—“but it answers many questions for me. I thank you for your absolute discretion, Kate. It could not have been easy to hold your counsel. I commend your loyalty to us. Richard of Gloucester is indeed fortunate.
“One more thing before the others become suspicious. I cannot leave with this secret in my heart and not tell my husband. I pray you allow me to let him have the truth.”
Kate could gainsay the dying woman nothing. “Aye, Mother, if it will ease your rest. I confess your son told me only today he knows of George’s disposition, but he is not aware the children are—” She broke off.
“Bastards?” Philippa’s blue eyes glinted. “Aye, Kate, but royal bastards! Your children will fare better than my legitimate grandchild ever will. Strange, is it not?”
Kate could not stop a chuckle. It felt good, especially as Philippa laughed, too.
“God bless you, child. I pray you find happiness in the years to come and that you look on your time with us here with favor.”
Philippa asked to speak to Martin and Young Martin, and Kate called them in, knowing her secret would now belong to the family. That night, Kate slept more soundly than she had for many months. She felt at peace and thanked God for Philippa’s tolerance and gentleness. As she fell asleep, she remembered the dream she’d had only a few days before the messenger arrived from Chelsworth. It was all clear to her now.
Philippa, too, was at peace. With her family around her, the parish priest intoning the last rites, she passed away quietly the next morning. Outside, perched high in a tree, a blackbird heralded the new season, and a lone magpie flitted off over the meadow.
KATE GRIEVED SORELY for Philippa. It was ten years since her own mother’s death, but she doubted she could have felt as bereaved as she did now. Philippa was buried in the family plot next to George and Robert. Kate stood a little apart with Magdalena, watching the three surviving Hautes bid wife and mother a final farewell. Martin and his son stood stoically, each holding one of Maud’s hands. Kate realized the girl was about the age that she had been at Martha’s death, and tears rolled steadily down her cheeks in sympathy. On the other side of the grave, Philippa’s parents, Amelia and Adam, stood stooped over the gaping hole in the ground. It was hard for them to believe they had outlived their daughter. Adam’s arm was around his wife’s shoulders. Both looked frail. Even when a fickle April sky sent a shower earthwards, the family and faithful servants did not move, though several mourners from the village ran for shelter. Kate sent Molly to the church porch with Katherine and John. She was clutching a bunch of primroses, Philippa’s favorite flower, and stepped forward to offer several to the family members. As they dropped them in the grave, she began to sing.
“Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain!
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For I of my life am weary.”
“Aye, she was indeed weary of her life here on earth.” Martin spoke low. “But I shall never weary of her memory. May the Lord God bless and keep her until I shall greet her at heaven’s door. Farewell my dear, good wife.”
Maud buried her face in his side, sobbing. He went down on one knee and gathered her to him, oblivious of the mud he sank into.
“There, poppet, ’tis good to cry. We should all cry for our loss, but we should rejoice in her life. Let us go home and drink a cup to her memory. She would like that.”
The next day, in the solar so recently occupied by Philippa, Martin sadly told his family he must ride to join the king. He should have been in exile with Edward, but his small boat was one of those broken up in the storm in the Wash, and he was lucky to reach shore all in one piece. He had slipped home undetected, unaware that the king and his party had taken flight from Lynn. For the first few weeks, he lay low at Chelsworth, though Henry and Warwick had not hounded Yorkist sympathizers after regaining power.
It was agreed by the Jacobs that Maud should lodge with them while Martin was gone. Amelia and Magdalena went upstairs with her to gather her belongings for the ride to Lavenham. Adam Jacob went to see to the horses, leaving Martin and his son with Kate. For the first time since Philippa’s disclosure, Martin broached the subject of George.
“I am not adept at pretty speeches, Kate, nor am I good at speaking of things I do not rightly understand. But I need to address the matter of your marriage with George and your treatment at his hands. I must apologize for my son. He spurned my advice and broke his trust with Howard for his own greedy gain. ’Tis unspeakable what he made you endure, and I must commend you for your silence and your loyalty to the family name. It is possible George may have endured far worse than a vagabond’s knife had his sodomy been discovered. Men have been known to burn for the act.”
As he spoke, he stared at a spot on the floor. He was plainly embarrassed, but his honor compelled him to acknowledge Kate’s goodwill. “I must confess, ’twas a grievous disappointment to Philippa and me to know Katherine and John are not our grandchildren, but I cannot blame you in your deception, Kate.” He raised his eyes finally, and for the hundreth time Kate marveled at their brilliance. “It shall not change my affection for them, but in the matter of inheritance I cannot provide for them. I hope you understand.”
“Dear Father, I did not expect anything. ’Twas a terrible burden for me, and I did not know how I could tell you. When I agreed to wed George, ’twas with a happiness I cannot describe, for I truly believed I loved him and he loved me. I understand that in your eyes and the eyes of the church I have committed adultery, and this I have confessed many times, but as a wife I felt betrayed, rejected. Forgive me.”
A contrite Kate was so unusual, that Martin could not forbear a reluctant smile. “I forgive you, Kate. And if I did not, I fear I would know the wrath of the king’s brother.”
Young Martin sat immobile, his anger against his younger brother contained but not far below the surface. For the first time Kate noticed that he pulled at his long nose just as his mother had. Her eyes welled up at the thought of Philippa, and Young Martin, mistaking her tears for shame, leapt up and went to reassure her.
“’Twas not your fault, Kate. I am sure you had no choice in being summoned to Richard of Gloucester’s bed. A woman does not refuse a royal summons and seduction.” His voice was harsh, born of the concern he felt for his beautiful sister-in-law and anger against George. He was not prepared for Kate’s reaction.
“Your pardon, Martin, but Richard of Gloucester did not summon me, nor did he seduce me. ’Twas an entirely mutual decision. My babes were conceived in love, and Richard has sworn to protect them and claim them as his own when he is able.” She was standing, facing the young man with two pink spots burning on her cheeks, her eyes fiery. Young Martin backed off, and his father chuckled.
“Hold, children! Martin you are presumptuous, but your heart is in the right place. Go and find your wife and make ready for your departure. Kate, sit down and calm yourself. I would speak to you of other matters.” Young Martin cast Kate a resentful look and left without another word. He was clearly in awe of his father.
Kate sat down. Martin watched her twist the ring on her finger, which seemed to give her comfort, and the indignation soon left her face. He sighed. So many plans to complete before he must ride to join the king. Philippa’s death complicated matters. There was Maud to think about, and although he was happy to let her go to Lavenham, her future should be brighter than that. Who was to look after his affairs while he followed the king? He had thought long and hard about it, and each path he followed led back to Kate. Why should she not preside over his house in his absence? She was his daughter-in-law, albeit a widow, and was perfectly capable of handling the daily routine of the manor. On the other hand, it should be his duty to find her another husband. It would not be difficult with her looks and her portion of the Draper inheritance. However, he was convinced more than ever after her outburst that Gloucester’s mistress was content to remain in seclusion and be available to him whenever he wanted her. Yes, perhaps she would agree to move back to Chelsworth and provide a safe and quiet home for her children.
He cleared his throat and tendered her his proposition.
“So, what think you of my offer, Kate? I must leave immediately, if I am to be of any service to my king, and I need to know your answer.”
He could have demanded she take on the responsibility; she was still a junior member of his family. But Martin had come to admire Philippa’s diplomatic style and over the years watched how she used honey to sweeten the dispositions of the household rather than vinegar, which soured them. He was determined on his course, but he waited while Kate mulled it over.
Her first thoughts were of Margaret. How she would miss her no-nonsense friend and mentor! Knowing she could run up the hill to the Hall and share anything with Margaret was a
comfort she had come to take for granted. Jack, too, gave her advice, and his connection to the court gave her immediate access to news of Richard. But the question of her widowhood had been brought up on more than one occasion by the Howards, and she knew another suitor might be foisted on her ere long—a niggling thought that troubled her otherwise contented existence at Tendring. In the quiet backwater of Chelsworth, with her father-in-law in need of her, she could live her life in seclusion. Chelsworth was only nine miles from Tendring, so frequent visits to Margaret could be planned in good weather. It would not be so lonely, she decided, and only a short distance farther for Richard to ride. Besides, she knew she could not refuse her father-in-law. He was still responsible for her, and she was his to command. She was grateful that he was considerate of her wishes and loved him the more for it.
“Aye, Father, I will do as you wish. But I do have one condition.” Martin raised an eyebrow at her impertinence but allowed her to continue. “My children and I must have leave to see Richard when it is possible, and I must have your word that you—and Young Martin—will not reveal the children’s real identity until such time as Richard deems prudent. No one else in this house will know they are not your grandchildren—except for Molly and Wat, of course. Can you agree to this, please?”
Martin was so relieved Kate had not refused that he raised her from her chair and kissed her warmly. “Certes, I shall not breathe a word, and before he leaves, Young Martin will also make that vow. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
And so it was arranged. Kate would return to Tendring to close up her house and bring her precious pieces to Chelsworth at the end of the week. She wrote a letter to Richard telling him of the new development and entrusted it to Martin. He, not Jack, would have to serve as intermediary this time, she decided.
A Rose for the Crown Page 46