Seed of the Broom

by Seed Of The Broom (NCP) (lit)

  But there was even more, more intensity and longing, burning at the very pit of her belly, aroused by Efan’s hand plundering her bodice, cupping her breasts, his thumbs gently teasing each center. Then his hands were on her body. This man whom she did not even like was touching her naked flesh. The shock should have made her move quickly, but she was caught by the twin emotions of horror and pleasure and the latter was becoming the more dominant force holding her fast, allowing her to melt against him, to answer his probing kisses eagerly.

  She felt her bodice slacken, to slide from her shoulders. He had undone her laces, pushing the lawn of her underdress aside exposing her breasts, his mouth leaving her own, to cup the dusky pink center. Her whole body shuddered and arched against him, even through the heavy folds of fine wool, she could feel the hard brutal masculinity, wanted it against her, closer, harder. “Help me!” she heard the sob in her voice.

  “Oh woman,” he groaned. He lifted her off her feet, lifting her free of her dress, the cold of the room not even diminishing the heat of her flesh. He crushed her against him, pushing her even closer against him, the thin lawn now no barrier to the intensity of pleasure. She cried out in protest as he moved away from her. “But wait angel,” he murmured. He lowered her slowly. She felt the sensual comfort of deep furs against her exposed arms and limbs. He came kneeling, bending, covering her body with his own.

  She felt the thrust of him, his hand now along the silkiness of her bared limbs, gently easing her aching thighs apart. There was a throbbing intense yearning at the very center of her, then she gasped in shame and pleasure as his hand cupped the secret heart of her, the fingers gently parting the moist petals. She murmured. “No,” but the word was strangled by his mouth plundering hers, yet again, his tongue was there…inside her mouth, sliding sensuously against the roof of her mouth. Her thighs that had come together, parted once more.

  “Mother…Mother where are you?”

  A torrent of harsh, alien words followed the calling. He moved quickly from her. Dazed, Kate coiled herself into a small ball of humiliation, trying to adjust the lawn of her underdress over her bare limbs.

  He stood between Kate and the door. A candle spluttered. There was darkness but for the fire. Kate closed her eyes against their conversation.

  It was a while before she realized she was alone. Had Richard seen? Humiliation swamped her. She lay trembling from unfulfilled desire and shame. Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet and struggled into her clothing. Then wrapped in her cloak she sat on the settle. Beyond the fur smothered doorway came the sound of merrymaking. If she followed the line of the wall, she should be able to cross the hall without any noticing her.

  Stealthily she followed the contours of the wall. The servants were tumbling and dancing, too busy to notice her, even should they see her. Her heart was beating as she reached the fur covered entrance. She slid beyond the furs and crossed to the stairway. Once there she ran up the spiral, not stopping until she reached her room.

  As she burst through the door, she collided with Richard. “There you are!” he cried. “I have been seeking you for ages. Where were you?”

  “I…in Edgar’s room, she lied, “I…the noise and everything, it was giving me a headache."

  “It is such fun.” He twinkled a laugh. “Do you know, I think I interrupted Caradoc in a tumble with a wench.”

  “Richard!”

  He laughed

  “Surely you do not imagine I do not know of such things! But I wonder who it was?” he asked eagerly.

  “I am sure you must be mistaken.”

  “Perhaps, it was dark but I could swear there was someone in the solar with him!”

  Relieved, Kate ruffled his hair. “It is not our business anyway.”

  “Of course not. I am tired too. It is time we slept, come Kate see me to my chamber.”

  He was, she knew, a little afraid of the dark. She took a taper and lighted the wall scones. He followed when lights illuminated the room. He was young and yet he was not young. A child and yet I some ways a man.

  Later, fearfully she lay in her own bed. There was silence around the castle. She feared the lord would come to her and yet a small part of her knew he would not. He would not risk Richard finding him out, nor perhaps the opportunity to be disturbed again.

  What a fool she had been! How reckless and with him of all people, and yet, when she thought of it a part of her throbbed excitedly. It was a long time before sleep came to claim her that night.

  Chapter Four

  The King loved two people in his life. His Uncle Jasper Tudor and his mother. Both had dedicated their lives to his cause. Both had courted extreme danger to achieve that cause. It was with pleasure that within days of his marriage he received his mother. He kissed her pale cheeks, would have liked to hug her, but they had never made such spontaneous show of their feelings.

  Margaret was a skillful woman. She had always, as her star ascended through her clever and prosperous marriages, been clever enough to ensure that generous benefits were given to the Clergy. Buying her way into heaven, the late King Richard had once remarked, with a cynicism that was not really part of his nature.

  “Do you recall Efan Caradoc?”

  “Aye, indeed, a good loyal Welshman. I gave him the estate of Lord Mellor. He had humble beginnings but rose by good service in our estimation.”

  “I have had word from an Abbot in Yorkshire. He is courteous but troubled, “ she said.

  “When are Abbots not troubled?” Henry smiled. Margaret did not share the smile. A pious woman, her every action, she believed, was justified in the eyes of God. Margaret perused the roll of parchment. "The Abbot says that Mellor’s son was in residence and so was his Stepmother, the wife of the late lord."

  Henry raised a thin eyebrow. “I understood that Mellor was a widower. Of the boy, I knew not whether he had survived.”

  “Apparently, Mellor married some young girl, the Abbot says. Once a lady in waiting to Anne Neville. Caradoc threatens to throw the boy out and then push the wife into a convent.”

  “So,” Henry shrugged. “He is all powerful, by our grace why bother me with this trivia? I have great affairs on my mind,” But his tone was leisured. He was never short with his mother. He respected her too much.

  “You know that it is the trivial things that make a King well loved. These are the things important to his people. Mighty matters might be resolved far easier sometimes, than what you call trivial matters. Trivial matters often can grow into mighty affairs that may topple a Kingdom.”

  “This I know, but what losses can accrue from the spawn of a traitor and a serving wench?”

  “However loyal Caradoc, he will for a long time be a foreigner in those parts. A reminder of the triumph of the red rose. Peace will come from uniting the red and white rose.”

  “I have begun that process, Mother.” Henry smiled his wintry smile. “Or have you forgotten my marriage? Not a love match but a duty done and an attempt to end these feuds.”

  Margaret was pleased with her son’s marriage, delighted by her daughter-in-law’s desire to align herself wholly to her new family, rather than her own.

  “It will serve you well my son. But will you show by example that you are like Richard of Gloucester. A tormentor, a man who disinherits young children?”

  “Mm,” Henry thought in silence for a long moment. “It would serve our purpose well to be compared favorably to that man. Perhaps Caradoc will take the boy into his service, test his worthiness, then we shall see…”

  “And the widow? The Abbot says she is young and that she fears the convent?”

  Henry sighed, becoming bored by these matters. He stood. Tall and thin, he cast a long shadow in the harsh, cold winter sunlight. “Tell him to marry her, if you will, to himself or some other. If to some other a small dowry would be appropriate. As she is young she may breed good Lancastrian sons and remember our charity.”

  * * * *

  Kate cowered in her ap
artments, unable to face the lord. Ashamed to meet his eye, she was battered into terror by her own bold nature, rather than this temerity.

  For long days she paced her apartments, wringing her hands, longing for the ice to melt so that she might confess her sins and find forgiveness. At night she tossed on her bed. Sleep filled her dreams with desire, and sleeplessness similarly tormented her. In the dark she longed for him, burned for him, hated him but hated herself even more!

  Kate sometimes suspected that the Dame had some idea of Kate’s shame. More than once Kate had seen Caradoc’s mother watching and weighing her. The Dame had never been censorious. She had never been cruel, only considerate and kind, but there was something in the way she smiled at Kate. There was approval there, certainly, but there was something else that Kate could not discern. She dared not query the look either, since she was afraid of what the Dame might say.

  Kate could not understand herself, nor the feelings that stampeded through her in the black of night. She had never known a man, had never had a man’s hands on her. She loathed the lord and yet she longed for him. It was base wantonness. She had to stamp it out of herself.

  For two days she could hear the lord ranting and raving. Shouting commands, being harsh and severe. He had taken a mighty ax and had ripped open the ice beyond the door, forced others to try and make a path so that he could ride, but it was impossible and he roared like a mad bull in frustration.

  “I like him not like this,” Edgar moaned fearfully, “there is no dealing with the man.”

  “Is it us Kate?” Richard asked fearfully.

  “Nay ‘tis confinement, nothing more.”

  But she knew that he had been thwarted, thwarted in his attempt to ruin her. Oh, she had complied, utterly, but his attempt at her seduction was for some devious reason. She, however, had colluded with him because of deep feelings, feelings that had been aroused by him and feelings she could not understand. How could her body so betray her and with such a man!

  A steady drip, drip that echoed around the castle as the first sign of the thaw. People peered out of arrow slits. Outside there was a gray, wet mist. There was no chilling wind. The sharp biting cold had gone.

  Later there was the rumble of ice sliding from some of the rooftops. It came sliding off the out buildings too, the shattering crash as it landed in the courtyard echoing loudly around the grim castle.

  A Welshman, walking under such a building the next day, almost had his skull cracked open by a large pointed piece of ice falling. They brought him bleeding to the lady to mend, the blood dripping onto his grubby leather jerkin.

  Patiently, Kate bathed the skull, cleansing the hole with medicinal herbs. The man squirmed and groaned, as if not trusting her administrations. “I will have you tied to the stool if you do not stay still!” she commanded.

  “It hurts so!” he moaned.

  “Of course it hurts. You are fortunate to be alive. Stay still and soon the throbbing will ease.”

  “It did not hurt half so bad until you put on that smelly stuff,” he grumbled ungratefully.

  “That smelly stuff as you call it, will stem the infection,” Kate said sternly. The man settled himself reluctantly back into his seat. Kate took up some gauze and began to bind the wound firmly. It would need to be changed daily. He must come to her every morning at eight.

  Above the clamor outside, they heard a sudden roar of pleasure that startled Kate. The man on the stool chuckled, looking up at her. “’Tis the lord,” he said, “on horse already, free at last!”

  “He will ride today?” she asked.

  “Of course. You cannot keep such a man in chains. He will be free, always he will be free.” He chuckled again. “A man needs a wench.” He stirred on the stool once more. “Begging your pardon, lady,” he said.

  Was that it? A need hot inside him that drove him to an available woman? And how available that woman had been, had they not been disturbed then she…tears stung her eyes. She had never known the fever, never physically been made to feel such desire. He would not think that about her, he would think her a doxy!

  “A pox on him!” she said, uncharacteristically to herself. “I loathe and detest him, hate him even.” But still that night she supped alone in her room, afraid to face him, afraid to confront those hot green eyes.

  Next day the roads had turned to slush. The shepherds marshaled their flocks and left through the great gate, as the Abbot and some others came through, to marshal theirs.

  Kate kneeling, hesitated, beginning a sentence only to choke on words. How could she confess such horrendous things, how to begin, what to say? “I am a wanton.” Nay she could not admit it, dare not confess such things to so saintly a man as she Abbot. In the end she confessed a stream of venial sins, her lack of charitable feelings for the lord, her rigid discipline towards the servants, silly inconsequential things that troubled her not one iota. The good Abbot blessed her, asked her to pray for patience, to pray to Mother Mary for guidance. It was a terrible sham and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was the first time she had ever been so dishonest to a man of God.

  To whip her guilt into a fry, the Abbot said that he would sup with her. Her apartments were comfortable and restful. He preferred her society to that of the lord. Kate doubted that he would say that if he had known the truth about her!

  However, if Kate imagined she had trouble now, these troubles appeared to be nothing less than negligible in the wake of the Abbot’s next statement. At first she could not believe him, did not wish to believe him! He had written to Margaret Beaufort explaining their predicament. He had sent word to the mother of the most dangerous threat to Richard’s life! He had brought them to the notice of the Court. The Court of the Usurper. The man who had sat on horseback and watched a battle. A man who had witnessed the slaughter of a King, who, unlike the cowardly Tudor, had fought as a warrior, who would never sit protected while asking others to fight his cause.

  “You should not have! Why have you done this thing?” Kate forgot to whom she was speaking, her anger arising from terror. She could not find it in herself to be rational at that moment.

  “My dear lady,” the Abbot was genuinely shocked. “I had no idea you could object. I told the lord what I should do. I sought to protect you from his intentions.”

  “And as a protector you sought the help of that woman, that conniver, who made her husband not join in battle, when his interference would have altered the scheme of things. You wish me to be protected by that pack of vile traitors.”

  The Abbot rose quickly, his arm waving in the air. “Silence! Do not speak of such words in this place, whatever your feelings. And do you not feel it better to be protected by these, or do you yearn for the convent?”

  Kate knew the answer. She would rather be incarcerated for life if that meant that Richard, the seed of the broom, was safe from all harm. “Your cause is just,” the Abbot continued, “and whatever the lady has done, she did because she believed it right.”

  “Believed it right. Who is she? She supped at the table of a King and was all the while betraying him!”

  “You must forget the past. There can be no more. Do you believe it only you who blessed the lord Richard? Do you think that only you care? There are people on the roads who weep because of what was done. Brothers who pray for his soul daily. But silently lady. We all grieve silently and secretly.”

  The Abbot left her shortly after. Of course he had meant well. She knew that. He did not know they were not what they said they were. He could not know that the boy was not merely Mellor’s son but was, the illegitimacy bar having been raised by the Tudor, the rightful King of England.

  Later, Kate peered out of the arrow slit. From her chamber she could see only dunes and the gray sluggish sea. She went out into the empty apartments on the other side. They were chilling and damp, the view over the countryside was grim, great mounds of melting snow, gray skies, empty cart tracks. Desolate. Would no one come, no one to save that previous spri
ng of broom. She rested her tortured head against the cold stone. Her body rigid with fear. If Beaufort came, if she saw, she would know, would see in the boy’s face that mark of his father.

  Richard came to her then, bright eyed, rosy of cheek. For him she had to be bright and optimistic, could not share her news with him and not with Edgar either. She needed not to have to deal with another person’s hysteria, for she had enough trouble containing her own.

  Since she knew that the lord had gone beyond the castle walls, Kate went down the stairs and into the hall. From there she crossed into the solar, but memories of her last visit there drove her quickly out and into Edgar’s room. There she busied herself with checking the supplies of dried meat, listing things that would be needed when the carriers came by. Working eased her tension. Kate worked late into the afternoon, silently and alongside Edgar. Of course they should have had Dame Caradoc with them, yet it was regrettably true that the Dame held them back from their tasks and had done so over the passing weeks. Although seeming willing to learn, the Dame was actually uninterested and much preferred scurrying around the kitchens, helping the cooks or polishing brass and silver, tasks with which she was efficient and proud to accomplish.

  “I think that should be all. Do you agree?”

  “Indeed yes, lady. We are well down on the spice. The spice peddler will not be here till Spring, but we can do nothing about that.”

  “We missed him last time, of course. Well herbs must suffice. There is a goodly supply. I really must do something about the herb garden come Spring.” Edgar raised a brow at her but remained silent. It would not do to remind the lady, who seemed unusually tense as it was, that she would probably not be around come Spring!