Kate could not stop herself from looking up at him, could barely hide her excited delight. “You will know the real person I am,” Kate said, “when you see how helpful I can be to your mother. I do not judge people harshly. I do not set myself above others. Your mother has obviously suffered much and the fault if not hers!”
“Then,” he said, “it is done. You will guide my mother. Now change places with your stepson. I would get to know him also.”
Now it was Kate who rested her hand on Richard’s thigh, squeezing it gently, certainly not as fiercely as he had held onto her own, for she would be black and blue in the morning.
As Kate observed Richard responding to Caradoc’s gentle questioning, it was difficult to remember that his responses were not a credit to her. They came as a result of his upbringing. Richard had learned the difficult art of survival. He was more confident in his lies, more charming, completely disarming Caradoc who had never learned diplomatic skills from the cradle. Richard had learned to be all things to all people, learned when to be silent, when to accommodate and when to smile. And that smile, radiant, warm, touched by innocence, worked a spell over the man who had learned the skills necessary for survival in a much harder school.
“Madam,” Caradoc said, leaning across Richard. “The boy will show me the estate tomorrow. I have a liking for his company.”
Kate, her heart hammering, inclined her head. They had won time. God Bless the Abbot and his wise counsel.
Once alone in their apartments, they hugged one another, held hands and whirled in a merry jog around the room. They had succeeded. They could not restrain their joy. “No man calls him son. He is base born. We can treat with such a man for we are devilish clever,” Kate said the words and then was amazed to feel an overwhelming sense of guilt rise quickly inside her, stealing her joy and pricking her conscience.
“But of course that is not his fault,” she murmured.
“And it will make him cunning Kate,” Richard counseled wisely. “He may be a base born dog, but he has learned to survive. We must treat with him carefully.”
“Aye Richard, meet cunning with cunning, flattery do you think?”
“Oh aye Kate, for flattery is nectar to such as he.”
Chapter Three
Richard was less enthusiastic and much quieter as he set off the next morning. “You are sure you are confident enough to go through with this?” Kate asked.
“Of course, Kate. Don’t fuss so!” His answer was tainted with mild irritation. He looked pale and anxious and she could well understand how he felt. It would not be easy to play act with Caradoc. He had had a hard life. He was clever, had to be to
have risen so far and from such humble beginnings. He would be far more astute than Richard.
After Richard had left with Caradoc, Kate sought out Edgar to tell him what had happened. He cautioned care. It was reasonable to assume that the mother would be even worse than the son. “Such a woman!” he said, “ a scullery wench, putting on airs and graces.” Edgar shuddered. “They make the worst kind of mistress. Remember the boy’s mother. She was never a kitchen wench to be sure, but think how insufferable she became when she was the Queen of England.
“True, I must confess I had not though of that.” Kate was dismayed. “She may test our patience to the limit then.”
“Aye Madam, she will surely do so.”
“If only word would come. Still, it cannot be helped,” Kate said, brightening. “We have a stay at least and I shall endeavor to do my best to make her happy, impossible as they task may be. I am well used to dealing with demanding people,” she admitted, remembering how difficult the Lady Anne had been at times. But then she had incentive to do just as her lady asked, for she had been infatuated with her lady’s husband and would never have wanted to be sent away. Ah well, she would have to make the best of it, after all there was more at stake than her feelings.
Later Kate wandered the upper apartments looking for a chamber that might please Caradoc’s mother. The room adjacent to his own was vacant, but she suspected he would not want his mother so close. It might spoil his pleasure!
Along the passage was a room that overlooked the land, not so windy or cold as those chambers with an aspect over the sea. It was comfortable and appeared warm. She scoured the castle for rugs, found a tapestry in one of the chambers used by one of Caradoc’s men and had it removed, shaken and put up in apartment she had chosen for his mother. She set about removing the old rushes herself, and swept the floor. Then she gathered fresh rushes and herbs and took them to the room, spreading them over the floor so that it would be sweet when the lady arrived She then ordered fires to be lighted to air the room, set out four goblets and a pitcher, a silver bowl for washing, warm furs for the bed, fresh rush lights.
Once the work was completed Kate spent some moments admiring the chamber. It looked warm and inviting, a bowl of honesty silver bright in the shaft of sunlight, on the bedside chest. She thought Caradoc would be pleased. She was not positive that he would be. However, at least he would see than an effort had been made to make his mother welcome.
Kate retired to the solar, found some tapestry work that she had been engaged on before Caradoc had come, and commenced to work again. She had barely begun when the sounds of hooves striking the cobbles of the inner courtyard disturbed the peace. Voices were raised in alarm. Kate ran from the room and was half way across the hall as the great door swung open.
Caradoc stood, Richard in his arms, a gaggle of anxious servants and men of his retinue at his heels. “Lady,” he said with some gravity.
Kate gave a terrible cry, then rushed to his side. Richard lay limply in Caradoc’s arms, as pale as death, his red-blond hair slicked damply across his brow. “The boy took ill,” Caradoc said. “Suddenly he slumped over the saddle.”
Richard’s eyes flickered open, looking at her, a pitiful glance. She touched his forehead, it burned hotly. She thought of the late King and the tragedy before the Battle of Bosworth field. He had said. “A summer chill we thought, but was a galloping, horrible malady that took him quickly.” Blind terror made her act.
“Quickly, take him to my apartment,” she commanded Caradoc.
“Cold,” Richard murmured, reaching out a hand towards her, “so cold, so very cold…”
“Caradoc will carry you,” she said, without thinking to be polite.
Once at the apartment, Caradoc lay Richard very gently onto the bed. “It came so suddenly,” Caradoc said.
“Yes, it does. Help me to remove his clothes,” she commanded.
Without bothering to wait for a reply, Kate began to unlace Richard’s riding jacket. After a moment Caradoc pulled off the boy’s boots. As he finished the task, Kate went and brought a nightshirt, gently raising Richard to slip it over his head. Caradoc put the boy’s arms into the sleeves, hesitating only as Richard moaned and tried to lean back.
“Now,” Kate lay Richard down, covering him with furs. “I must ask you to see that the fire stays hot and furious all day and night, that the arrow slits are covered.” She stroked Richard’s hand gently. “I need some old wine.”
“Old wine?” he questioned.
“To add to warm water, to cool his body. Believe me it works. It does not smell so good, but that does not matter.”
“He is cold. I do not understand why you will cool him,” Caradoc persisted.
“But his body is burning. Do you not trust me? I would give my life for this boy!”
She stared up at him. He nodded after giving her words some consideration. “Good,” she said. “Now, will you stay a while? I must go and gather herbs for a posset.”
“Aye,” he said, sinking onto the bed, self consciously tucking the furs around Richard.
Edgar who had stood by wringing his hands, followed Kate. Silently they gathered the herbs. Kate directing him which to take, neither daring to express their fear. If Richard were her own flesh and blood, she could not have been more concerned. Not only did sh
e love him for himself, but he was doubly precious as the remaining seed of the broom. She had to ensure that his body fought the fever.
In the kitchens, watched by silent servants, Kate crushed the herbs in a mortar and pestle, until they were like fine dust. She boiled red wine and mixed the herbs with it, carrying the heavy pan herself up the spiral staircase, unaware even of its weight.
“Raise his head,” Kate instructed Caradoc. Then she carefully spooned the liquid into Richard’s mouth, ignoring his moan of protest. Caradoc without instruction held fast the boys protesting hands. “It smells vile,” he said.
“But God willing, it will break his fever.”
Day and night, servants came to stoke up the fire basket. Kate never left the room, not even going to change her gown. Sometimes she was curled up inside the bed, holding the boy to her. “She will catch the fever herself,” the servants muttered. Never adding “and a good thing too,” though some might have thought it. Her dedication prevented them from saying derogatory words out loud. Sometimes it was even possible to forget that the lady was only the boy’s stepmother. She could not have been more dedicated were she the boy’s natural mother.
Occasionally Caradoc appeared. He would creep into the room and look at Richard and murmur a question to Kate about how the boy was. Her distress moved him. She would always answer that she did not know, but that she prayed that he would do well. To Caradoc her devotion was touching. She made a mockery of the tales of the wicked stepmother. He knew that no natural mother could have given more devotion. To a man who was naturally suspicious of everyone, it was a heart warming revelation.
On the day that Caradoc’s mother arrived, Richard’s fever broke. He awoke fully, looking with some amazement at Kate sleeping beside him, her bound hair half out of its plait, dark shadows like cruel marks, beneath her eyes. Very gently he touched her face. At once she awoke, gave a little sob and gathered him to her. “I feel so weak,” Richard muttered, “it exhausts me just to raise my arm.”
He fell back weakly. Gently she stroked his hair from his face, joy bursting out of her when his forehead felt cool. “You have been ill for two days and nights. Food will restore your strength and rest too.” She left the bed, raised him and made a bank of pillows for him to rest against.
Richard’s eyes that had for a moment gazed adoringly into Kate’s moved towards the doorway. Kate turning around quickly and saw Caradoc in the entrance. He filled the narrow space with his bulk, the black velvet of his doublet stretched tautly over his upper arms. He was not only a powerfully built man, but a man, too, of immense power. Kate, exhausted from having taken only short snatches of sleep, wondered miserably, how she could have thought that she could handle him. The effort seemed just then far too great.
“Richard,” Caradoc’s voice sounded husky, “you are better then?”
“Much better, my lord,” said Richard. Kate noticed that he was, even in his weak state, far more confident in his approach than she was.
“Glad I am to see it, lady.” Caradoc looked at her. “My mother has arrived. She would speak with you. As Richard is better might she come in?”
“Of course, “ Kate said, feeling at her worst but not daring to refuse to simple a request.
He stepped deeper into the room, holding back the hanging and speaking in a foreign tongue to someone outside. Kate took a deep breath and held it inside her.
The figure that entered barely passed in height, Caradoc’s waist. She wore a severe head-dress. The small amount of hair that showed was white. Enormous very blue eyes dominated a small heart shaped face. That as a girl, she had to have been pretty more than beautiful, was obvious. Small and delicate, she came to the center of the room like a dormouse. Before reaching Kate she curtseyed low. The humility of the woman, set against Caradoc’s arrogance, moved Kate so deeply that she had to step forward and raise the woman. “Please there is no need. You must not curtsey to me, ever!” The woman was as light as a feather, Kate realized, as she urged her upright. She realized that even in her own worn out state, she could have lifted Caradoc’s mother right off her feet!
“And the young lord is well again?” Dame Caradoc asked.
“Oh yes, and it is such good news. Come, meet him.”
Kate ushered the woman close to the bed, aware though she did not look in his direction, that Caradoc was watching them very carefully.
“Oh, poor boy, so pale. Better is it now?” she asked, her accent more pronounced than her son’s, yet with the same musical lilt.
“Yes, thank you, Dame,” Richard said then after hesitating, holding out a hand. Dame Caradoc grasped the hand warmly and suggested that something light should be taken to break his fast. Eggs and milk perhaps. Richard smiled at the suggestion. “I will make something for you too, lady,” Dame Caradoc said.
“Please, Dame, you must rest, for you have had a long journey,” Kate protested.
“I like to be busy. I am not tired, too happy to be tired now that I am united with my son.” She turned and smiled warmly and with maternal pride, at the man in the doorway. “And you have made my apartment beautiful, lady, a kindness must be returned.”
Kate said, solemnly glancing now at Caradoc. “I am pleased that you approve.”
“You have fine taste lady,” he said. There did not appear to be any sarcasm in the sentence, yet she felt it had to be there somewhere. He was not a man to give compliments. However, Kate merely inclined her head.
“I will not be too long,” the Dame promised. “Will you come and show me the way?” she asked of Caradoc.
“Of course,” he said.
Richard lay back against the pillows. “She seems agreeable,” he said in the wake of their departure.
“Indeed, yes,” Kate agreed.
“Yet, the son is such a brute.”
“Because, perhaps, he has had to fight all his life. He would have to have become more brutish than those brutes who tormented him.”
“But Kate, if it is cruel for men to torment people like him, because of their misfortune of birth, why has he not learned the lesson?”
“I do not understand Richard.”
“He would without doubt torment me should he know my birth, Kate. If he is prepared to plunder the property of the son of a man not on the right side, what would he do to one who has claim to what his own master has plundered?”
Kate shivered. Put like that, their situation became even more daunting. Caradoc would not give them any quarter. He would very happily betray them to his master and then…well then it would be over for them both. There would be only one way out…death.
* * * *
Elizabeth of York, or if he willed it, the Princess Elizabeth, was tall, well formed with hair the same brilliant red-gold of her father’s, not beautiful but not plain either. Her face was a little on the plump side, round and smooth of cheek, the skin like a soft furry peach.
Henry Tudor did not think that he liked women very much; apart from his mother, who had ever adored him and whom he liked for her absolute devotion to himself. He knew that he did not inspire men over much, not being handsome like Edward the Fourth, who was always known as the Sun in Splendor, and by whom in recent memory all kings must be measured.
Henry was thin, ascetic, cunning and somewhat parsimonious. It was his Uncle Jasper who inspired men, rugged and Welsh and full of the kind of personality that appealed to men and women alike. Henry did not mind. He could be spiteful and cruel but he was never jealous. Ambitious and crafty, unlike Richard of York, who had died in battle ( a battle that Henry had watched but had taken no part in) he trusted no man. Loyalty was, in his opinion not something you could rely on.
All said he should legitimize and marry this girl. It would unite the Houses of York and Lancaster, the white and red rose blending together, all would be peace and harmony. His argument against it had been because of the wretched sons, Edward and Richard. Legitimize Elizabeth, restore her to her rightful place and should one of the sons turn
up, where did that leave him? It was a dangerous card to play.
Someone had started the rumor that they were dead. The sycophants at Court took to it immediately, so that the flames of rumor were fanned to a roaring furnace.
“I think it is so,” his mother said. “You do not know their mother as I do. She is quiet and she grieves. I never saw her like that. I think that she knows it.”
Dead but no bodies? Put to death? But by whom? Richard, his own brother’s children? “Why not,” his mother asked. “Did he not steal their throne?”
“Yes, but only because he believe himself justified. He was the best of brothers,” Henry said without regret or conscience.
Of course he knew that he had to do it. He had to take the enormous gamble. He dare not marry anyone else. The country would be torn asunder were he to do so. If only he could be certain though. Spies continued to tour the land seeking information of the two boys, all to no avail. A mystery such as this could create havoc throughout his reign. Rumors of the boys’ death at the hands of their uncle had to be started amongst the common people.
“Elizabeth, do you wish to marry me?”
“Oh yes sire,” she sounded so young, so eager, charming even.
“Then it shall be. Come we shall walk a little.”
Alone with her mother Elizabeth cried. Not tears of joy but of misery. She did not wish to marry Henry Tudor. Her mother merely shrugged irritably. They had been through all this before. For someone in Elizabeth’s position duty came first. She was the daughter of a king and it was her duty to marry a king. Elizabeth knew there was no point in arguing. Her mother and her ambitious family desired it. They would have married her off to her own Uncle Richard had he been victorious, as if he would have had her. Elizabeth knew he would not. He saw her as a daughter. He had been neither ruthless, nor particularly ambitious. She had always been just a little bit in love with him, like a lot of other women.
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