Kate’s courses came with a vengeance two days later, leaving her moaning with pain as severe gripes twisted her innards into knots and made her curl into a ball in an effort to alleviate the agony.
Joan gazed upon Kate with contempt when she brought more rags. “Good thing ye didn’t write to Hugh,” she said, ignoring Kate’s suffering. “Imagine his disappointment, the poor lamb. Ye’d best get with child, and soon,” she advised, glaring at Kate as if she’d somehow refused to allow herself to become pregnant.
“What can I do?” Kate moaned.
“I have some potions I can make up for ye. Helps make the womb more receptive to a man’s seed,” she replied knowledgeably. “Ye’d best let me help ye. I won’t have my Hugh left without an heir.”
Kate nodded miserably. She’d gladly take the potion. Now that she’d had a taste of maternal happiness, she felt an even greater emptiness than before. When Hugh returned, she’d try to be a better wife to him and not cringe inwardly when he reached for her in the night. She’d welcome his touch and pray that her resolve paid off.
Chapter 38
December 1462
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
The sky was an impenetrable gray, the heavens so low it seemed as if they would just keep sinking until they skimmed the snow-covered ground. Guy moved closer to the fire, desperate for its meager warmth. Numerous fires dotted the open ground surrounding Bamburgh Castle. The men stomped their feet and moved around to keep warm. It’d finally stopped snowing, but the air hadn’t warmed up enough to allow the accumulation to melt. A thick blanket of white covered the earth, making the disgruntled soldiers even more miserable, especially those who didn’t have tents of their own and had to sleep rough night after night.
The castle sat on a hill just above them: massive, forbidding, and impregnable. A few knights jokingly implied that they’d rather be besieged than cool their heels out in the open, exposed to rain, snow, and gusts of cold wind that left their faces numb. The rations were inadequate as well. King Edward saw to the welfare of his men, but in the dead of winter, sufficient supplies were hard to come by. They weren’t starving by any means, but men needed meat to maintain their strength, not porridge or slices of bread spread with drippings, which only made them hungrier for something more substantial.
No one had imagined they’d be back at Bamburgh so soon. The Lancastrians had surrendered the castle to Warwick’s forces back in July, but in the months since, they’d regrouped and mounted an armed rebellion. Bamburgh Castle was one of three Northumbrian castles serving as strongholds for Lancastrian supporters since the Battle of Towton, and Warwick meant to see the rebels crushed. If he didn’t, the rebellion might spread south and threaten Edward’s reign, which thus far had been successful. Warwick had managed to negotiate a short-lived truce with the Scots, with whom England was at war, and used the two-month respite from fighting to put down the resistance building at Bamburgh, Alnwick and Dunstanburgh castles.
Bamburgh Castle had been under siege since the beginning of December. Cut off from the world, the Lancastrians were running low on supplies and surrender loomed with utter inevitability, but they still held out, infuriating the Earl of Warwick and making him more determined to bring the rebels to their knees. Guy hoped the siege would end by the end of the year. He dreamed of going home for Christmas and spending the holiday in warmth and comfort. He’d been as ready to fight as he’d ever be, but spending weeks out in the open with nothing to do but watch the castle was taking its toll. Guy’s arm ached almost constantly, and his headaches had returned, brought on by gusting wind and changes in the weather. He didn’t complain about his suffering to anyone, but there was no glory in starving the enemy out, only boredom.
He’d accompanied Hugh when he’d presented himself to Warwick and his brother, John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, upon arrival at Bamburgh Castle a fortnight ago. The Neville brothers were well aware of the connection between their families, and Hugh would be damned if he allowed this opportunity to pass without trying to at least find some favor. Warwick and Montagu had been gracious enough, now that they were all on the same side, but had treated Hugh and Guy with the respect due to knights, not the warmth accorded to family. Hugh had fumed at the rejection, but Guy simply put the Nevilles from his mind. He expected nothing. The two Neville men were too experienced in the ways of the court and too shrewd in the art of warfare not to see through Hugh’s feeble efforts. They would not take any interest in their distant kin by marriage unless they had something to gain by the association, and Hugh and Guy de Rosel had nothing to offer men who had everything.
“There you are,” Hugh said as he settled next to Guy. His cheeks were ruddy with cold, and he seemed to be in a worse mood than when he’d left Guy about an hour since. “Here, have something to eat.” He had brought a loaf of bread, some roast pork, and a skin of ale. “The meat is not as fresh as it should be, but tastes better than horsemeat.” Hugh chuckled without mirth. “I hear they’ve started in on their horses,” he said, his chin jutting toward the castle. “They’re starving.”
“They must be freezing too,” Guy said as he accepted the meat and bread. “They must have burned though the firewood by now, and most of their furniture.”
“They’re still warmer than we are,” Hugh scoffed. “I’ve never been this cold for this long. Lord, I long for my bed, and the warm, pillowy breasts of my wife.” He sighed as he tore off a chunk of pork with his teeth.
The pork tasted rancid, and Guy stopped eating his share after the first bite. He’d rather be hungry than sick. Several men in the camp had the runs and groaned loudly as they hurried toward the areas designated for the purpose.
Hugh grimaced and threw the pork on the fire. “I’m not eating this maggot-ridden carcass. The bread will have to suffice.” He took a long pull of ale and passed the skin to Guy, who was chewing on his own stale heel of bread with little enthusiasm. “And what is the point of all this?” Hugh asked, making an expansive gesture that encompassed the castle and the surrounding area swarming with Yorkist soldiers. He’d clearly been drinking with some of the other knights and was feeling loose-tongued and riled up. “They’ll surrender in the end anyhow; they might as well spare us all the suffering. The Duke of Somerset and Sir Percy know full well that reinforcements are not coming, not in time to help them anyway. Margaret of Anjou is in Scotland, trying to raise an army. Much good it will do her.”
“Don’t underestimate the woman,” Guy replied. “She managed to recapture Bamburgh two months ago, with the assistance of the French. Not an easy feat.”
“And promptly lost it again. She’s an admirable woman, I’ll grant you that, but she doesn’t have enough support to pose any real threat to Edward, and Warwick is too experienced a tactician not to anticipate her every move.”
“Margaret will never give up, not as long as she has her boy to think of,” Guy replied. “She’ll see him on the throne, or she’ll die trying.”
“Likely the latter,” Hugh scoffed. “She’s just ceded Berwick Castle back to the Scots on behalf of her husband and put Robert Lauder of Edrington in charge. I hope Kate understands the implications of this and keeps well away from the castle. You know how she likes to walk.”
“Surely she’ll come to no harm,” Guy replied.
“I’d like to think not, especially if she’s with child.”
“Is she?” Guy asked. “Have you had news from home?”
Hugh shook his head. “No, I haven’t had any news, not since the last letter, but I would be very pleased to find my wife with child on my return,” Hugh replied hopefully. “I really thought she’d have given me a son by now. Or a daughter, at the very least.”
“So, why are you so worried about your yet-to-be-born children?” Guy asked. Hugh was holding something back; that much was obvious.
“I’ve heard some talk.”
“What sort of talk?”
“Warwick visited Kate’s father after the Battle
of Towton to express his condolences on the death of Dancy’s sons. The two have maintained a steady correspondence since then, it would seem,” Hugh explained. He stared into the flames, his elbows resting on his thighs and his body unusually tense.
“Why does that matter?”
“It doesn’t, really. It only matters because Warwick’s had news of Dancy, which he was only too happy to share with me when he saw me earlier while inspecting the camp. He actually stopped to talk to me for a minute, an honor I could have done without in this particular circumstance. No doubt he just wanted to watch me squirm.”
“What news?”
“Dancy’s remarried, and his new bride, who is twenty-five years his junior, has given him a healthy son. I know you’re not very financially minded, brother, but even you can grasp the ramifications of this union.”
“Kate will never inherit as long as the boy lives,” Guy said, his tone wooden.
“Even if the whelp doesn’t live, Dancy’s wife is young enough to give him a dozen more sons. I won’t see a farthing off my father-in-law. Not as things stand now. Had Lady Dancy lingered…”
“God rest her soul.” Guy crossed himself in memory of Kate’s mother. He knew Hugh didn’t mean to be cruel; he was just being practical, as Hugh was wont to be.
“There is one thing I miss about my lady Margaret,” Hugh said, lowering his voice so no one could overhear. “She allowed the men to plunder. I was making out very nicely for a while there,” Hugh reminisced. “And would have profited even more had it not been for William’s tender sensibilities.”
“William was a man of honor,” Guy flared.
“William was our father’s heir. He inherited the title and the estate simply by the virtue of being born first. He could afford to be sanctimonious. And now Adam is Baron de Rosel,” Hugh reminded Guy bitterly. “What am I to leave to my children, Guy? Unless I distinguish myself in battle, I have no hope of ever attaining a title or lands. And if we can’t plunder, how are we to fill our coffers?”
Guy shook his head in dismay. With two older brothers, he hadn’t given much thought to his own prospects, but it was time he did. He was going to be six and twenty, a middle-aged man.
“We must find you a worthy bride, Guy,” Hugh said, clapping Guy on the shoulder.
“I’ve no desire to marry,” Guy replied. “I’ve nothing to offer a wife.”
“You’re young—relatively—and not too ugly, and you come from a distinguished family that’s related by marriage to the king himself. You might have a weak arm and difficulty seeing straight, but as long as your prick still works, you should acquit yourself well enough.”
Guy raised an eyebrow in mockery of Hugh’s words. “Hugh, I think we best end this conversation now, while we’re still on speaking terms.”
“I’m only looking out for you, Guy.”
“And I’m looking out for you,” Guy replied acidly and left the warmth of the fire. He was cold and his feet were wet, but he needed to walk to release some of his ire. As he moved further from the walls of the castle he saw several women making their way toward the fires. The women were of varying ages, but they all had one thing in common: they were widows, fallen on hard times. The women were huddled in their cloaks against the cold, but their eyes were full of intent, scanning the men and evaluating which of them might be more likely to respond to their advances. For as long as the siege lasted, they had a steady supply of customers, and the coin they earned would last them until the spring, if they were lucky.
Some of the women made their way toward men they’d serviced before, and some just walked between the fires, striking up flirtatious conversations with the soldiers. Most of the women didn’t have to walk far before someone took them up on their offer. Since the camp was situated on completely open ground, there was nowhere to go for privacy. Only the higher ranks were allocated tents. The foot soldiers took the women right there, laying them down in the snow, or simply unlaced their breeches and let the women do their work.
Guy shook his head as a lass of about twenty approached him, smiling shyly. “Good evening, sweeting,” she said quietly. “Are you interested in a bit of company?”
“Not tonight,” Guy replied, not wishing to offend her. She was a comely lass with abundant dark hair and luminous eyes. She’d find the company she was seeking soon enough, possibly even with Hugh, who’d availed himself of the harlots at least once or twice a week. Guy didn’t judge him, but for some reason, he felt angry on Kate’s behalf.
Chapter 39
August 2014
London, England
“Perhaps you should wait until you know more before you tell Seth,” Gabe suggested as he set the table for dinner. “He’s been through enough. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, he has, but I just feel awful about withholding this from him,” Quinn replied.
“Have you been able to track down Hetty Marks?”
“I have, actually. She still lives in Leicester, and has a Facebook page. I sent her a message. I hope she responds.”
“What about searching for Quentin on Facebook? There can’t be that many women named Quentin residing in the UK,” Gabe suggested.
Quinn transferred some cheesy pasta into a bowl and set it on the table. “I did a search for a Quentin. I got eleven results in Great Britain. Most of them were teenagers, and there were two women who appeared to be well over forty. None of them looked like they could be the right one.”
“Perhaps she moved abroad, or isn’t a fan of social media.”
“That’s possible, of course, but most people these days leave some sort of electronic footprint.”
“That they do. I’ll tell Emma dinner is ready,” Gabe said, effectively putting an end to the conversation.
Quinn set the salad bowl on the table and poured Emma some milk. Her hand began to tremble and she nearly spilled the milk on the table as a terrible thought occurred to her. She might not have found anyone named Quentin who fit the profile because her sister might be dead. She’d assumed, and desperately wanted to believe, that her twin had been treated and released after Sylvia left her at the hospital, but what if her medical issue had been more severe? What if Quentin had never left that hospital alive? Child mortality in twentieth century Britain was very low, but it still happened. And given that Sylvia hadn’t thought to seek help for Quentin immediately, she might have wasted precious moments that made the difference between life and death.
Quinn kept this awful thought to herself while they ate. There was no sense telling Gabe about her fear. Hetty Marks would know if Quentin had survived, and if Ms. Marks answered the message Quinn had sent, she’d put her mind at rest, one way or another.
Quinn forced herself to put Quentin out of her mind for the moment and smiled as Emma went on and on about her upcoming party. She was so excited. Emma had made a lot of friends over the past few months, and was finally beginning to feel like she truly belonged. Even her Scottish accent, which had been quite strong when they’d met her in Edinburgh, had softened as she unwittingly imitated the pronunciation of those around her. Emma was beginning to sound more like Gabe, who still had a trace of a northern accent, but after years of living in London almost sounded like a bonafide southerner.
“Is Grandma Sylvia coming to the party?” Emma asked.
“I think we’ll just have the children,” Quinn replied. “It won’t be any fun for the adults.”
“But she is my grandma,” Emma protested. “And Jude will be there.”
Gabe and Quinn exchanged looks.
“Grandma Phoebe is coming down for your birthday,” Gabe announced.
“But what about Grandma Sylvia? And what about Grandma Susan and Grandpa Roger? I miss them.”
“Sweetheart, you know they live in Spain,” Quinn explained patiently.
“Why? Why do they live in Spain?” Emma demanded. “They are not Spanish.”
“My dad has severe arthritis, Em. Living in a warmer climate helps him feel bett
er.”
“Will he die if he comes back? Like Grandpa Graham?” Emma asked, her eyes round with worry.
“No, he won’t die, but if he remains here permanently he’ll be in quite a lot of pain. He can come and visit from time to time though.”
“Grandma and Grandpa Allenby came for the wedding, and they are going to come for the new baby,” Emma reasoned. “Don’t they think my birthday is important?”
“Of course they do. I’m sure they’ll send you a lovely present.”
Emma stared at Quinn balefully and stabbed at the lettuce on her plate. She was clearly hurt, but Quinn wasn’t at all sure what to say. Her parents were comfortably off, but they couldn’t afford to fly back to England for every occasion.
“I’m finished,” Emma announced, pushing her plate away. “Can I go to my room?”
“Of course. Wash your hands first,” Gabe reminded her. Emma stomped off and Gabe turned to Quinn. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “Emma has to get used to dealing with disappointment. It’s a part of growing up.”
“She’s only going to be five, and she’s had to deal with so much pain already.”
“I know, but your parents are not coming, so Emma can either accept that as fact or feel bad and allow her disappointment to ruin her party,” Gabe reasoned.
“Should I have invited Sylvia?” Quinn asked, and giggled when Gabe’s eyebrows shot upward.
“After the conversation you two just had? I think not. Let it be, Quinn. Emma will have a wonderful party regardless.”
“I know. I just want it to be perfect for her. It’s her first birthday with us, and five is kind of a big deal. It’s a rite of passage, since she’ll be starting primary school next month.”
“Don’t remind me. The pressure is on to make a decision about the move,” Gabe replied.
The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past Book 4) Page 22