Seed of the Broom

by Seed Of The Broom (NCP) (lit)

  “You married the widow of Lord Mellor,” Henry said.

  “I did sire,” Caradoc’s reply was impassive. He had thought to add, “and as you commanded,” but on reflection he thought it sounded rather bitter. He supposed that one did not express regret for obeying the command of a King. He had had to learn the art of survival at an early age. If you were in doubt you said nothing. An appropriate silence was worth a thousand words.

  “The Queen does not recall that Mellor had taken a second wife. Pray who is the lady and who are her family?”

  “My wife has no family, sire.”

  “No family?” Elizabeth of York leaned forward. How hard her eyes were, Caradoc thought, like blue glass beads. Her lips were pursed. In her she saw the cat ready to pounce.

  “Her mother died soon after she was born. She was raised by her father, who has since died Majesty.”

  “Her name?” Henry asked the question. It had been on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue also to do so. Caradoc had seen it in the arching of her well plucked eyebrows. Caradoc loathed thinly plucked brows. He recalled Kate’s fine and furry, their centers arching into two dark peaks.

  “Before becoming Lady Mellor, my wife was merely Catherine Merryweather.”

  “No title or position, no possessions, a love match do you think, lady?” Henry inquired cynically.

  “As I understand…” Achieving the art of survival had given Caradoc an ability to lie quickly. “The lord had desired a mother for his son, and Kate has been that, a good mother sire.” Aye and more besides, he thought to himself. Hang them both, he could so easily spill the truth. No one could blame him. The jade had lied. They both had deceived him and probably laughed behind his back. They must have roared laughing at his lack of suspicion. He glanced at the Queen and saw that her mind was running very quickly.

  Richard. He thought of him suddenly, seeing no likeness in his sister, she had no soft expression, no blissful innocence in her eyes. Would she care that her brother lived? Richard had assured him that she would not. That she would be happy to do away with him, for Richard was a real threat (unlike the hapless Simnel) to her position…and more importantly to the Tudors. Damn him, Caradoc thought. Damn them both! But he could not bring himself to play the dice with Richard’s fate.

  “Merryweather,” the Queen whispered the name as if trying it out, how the wheels of her memory clicked over. She said the name again more strongly. “There was a Merryweather at the castle of my….” She stopped abruptly, her hand trembling ever so slightly. “At the house of detested usurper, Gloucester. At Middleham, she cared for Gloucester’s poor wretched wife, Anne Neville.”

  “It is the same lady, Majesty, “ Caradoc said. No sense denying that. Some truths were easier to tell.

  “So Mellor married a lady’s maid, trusting his son to her,” Henry murmured.

  “She was a patient nurse to Anne Neville sire, as plain as a turnip, a simple soul but one that was loyal to her mistress,” Elizabeth said.

  Hearing her words, Caradoc decided that Queen Elizabeth was not shrewd at all, in fact she was a very poor judge of character, for there was nothing simple about Kate, and there were times, too, when she could be so very beautiful.

  “Really a perfect choice for the rearing of a child. She would be good and kind. Mellor adored his son and the company that he usually kept were, like himself, selfish and licentious. He did his lad a good turn by finding this lady.”

  “The boy fares well, Catherine Merryweather has treated him kindly?” Henry asked.

  “Oh aye sire, the boy adores his stepmother and has come to no harm but good. In fact…” Cradoc hesitated a moment but the truth would, he was sure, serve Richard well. “He leans towards the Cloister. He spends much time with the Abbot and contemplates taking holy orders.”

  Henry gave a smile, it was wintry, reflecting his personality rather than his lack of interest. “How happy would my life be if all the sons of York supporters thought the same, indeed there would be no stormy seas for us to battle against. We would be able to move more quickly into an age of prosperity. We should have our own renaissance all the sooner.”

  Caradoc thought that escape to a dim corner of the room was imminent, for it seemed as if the matter was at an end. It was the Queen however, who forestalled him, who said that he looked melancholy, why was that? Did he miss Mistress Merryweather and the boy so much? Caught of guard the truth of a sorts tumbled out.

  “I was thinking of my home,” he said. He had been too, but also the prospect of living with this terrible secret. He would live with the terrible secret though. He had decided that even before leaving Mellorsdale. He could never betray Richard.

  “That bleak and windy Dale,” the Queen teased gently.

  “I think the lord dreams of the lands west of the Severn and Dee is that not so?”

  “Indeed sire.”

  The Queen did not understand, she looked puzzled, geography was not her strong point.

  “Wales dear, he dreams of Wales. You may send the Welshman out of Wales but you may never drive Wales from the Welshman’s soul. Once Wales has touched your soul you can never forget. It is long since you visited your homeland. You will go tomorrow. I have papers to go there. I do not see why your way to Mellorsdale should not allow you to take a detour. You have been loyal to our cause. It is little that I can do to honor that loyalty.”

  “Your Highness is most generous.”

  “And you have married the lady, she is not high born and we were not aware of that. We should have made it our business to discover this. If you would like an annulment it can be arranged.”

  “With your Majesty’s permission, I should like to stay married. I am well content.” He heard the lie and was somewhat bemused that he had said it, for it was not the thought that had come into his mind.

  “So be it.”

  The trip to Wales was something that he would enjoy, the scent of the mountain air, the fast thrusting steams and rivers, the mystery of the coastline. It would all be a balm to his troubled mind and a reason too, for delaying his journey to Mellorsdale.

  He knew how he felt about Richard but he was uncertain as to what he would do about the boy’s stepmother. His wife. The only real things that he knew about her was that he loathed her, that the mere sight of her would fill him with anger and rage, that he had to consider just how they could live together and yet be apart at the same time.

  * * * *

  Word of the defeat came quickly to Mellorsdale. A ragged band of men who had been at the battle were making for France and spent a night at the Abbey. Richard, who had since returned to the Abbey came and spent a night at the castle. In part to inform Kate what had happened, but also to hide himself from any who might recognize his distinguished features. His faith, that had brought a kind of peacefulness to him, did not prevent him revealing a certain contemptuous anger at the plot that had been hatched. To foist such a person on the country aroused his sense of justice. It was an assault on his honesty.

  “From what you say it was but a ruse. They would have crowned your cousin Lincoln.”

  “Is that any better? My sister has more right than he!”

  Kate laying on her bed let him fume, watching as he paced the room. There were moments when the child came to the surface, when reason fled. He was a boy who had become a man too soon. It saddened her. She felt she had somehow failed him. They should have fled to safety in a foreign land. Then, even if an invasion was not forthcoming, he would have been a constant and tangible threat to the Tudor, forever making him uneasy on his throne and a witness too, against the infamous lies that had been spread about Richard of Gloucester.

  And Efan, was he even now betraying Richard? She turned uncomfortable, tried to sit up, but could not do so without Richard’s help. She felt as a beached whale.

  * * * *

  Outside a gale raged, sending waves of smoke down the chimney. The smoke ran up her nostrils, making her feel nauseous. There would be no peace f
or her until Efan returned, until she knew as confidently as Richard that, whatever his emotional feelings, he would guard their secret, that he would protect this precious bud of York, as she had protected it.

  No word came, no letter telling of his whereabouts. His men had returned. They knew only that he was at the Court. They brought no letter, no greeting even. The man whose head she had mended a long while ago, had winked at her and said did he but know, then he would have been back long since!

  Would it though, Kate wondered, really have made that much difference? It might be that the fact of her body swollen with his child would have made him loathe her all the more. Not physically, that was not a consideration, but because of all she represented, a liar, a deceiver, yet giving life to the child of his loins. He might yet even detest them both, for the child was half hers. There would be things about the child that would remind him of her.

  None of these worries did Kate’s health much good. The good Dame fussed and cajoled but the depression would not lift. If it had not been for the child she might have fled herself, been long gone before he returned, removing herself before she could remove her ( as she felt certain that he would) but the child had stolen her energy as well as her spirit. She was a victim of its own strength. Large and slow, suffering sickness and discomfort. Pains at her breast and back, that no amount of stewed herbs eased.

  “I should not rage at you,” Richard said one day when he had been complaining about his situation.

  “If not I, then who else? “ she asked gently, “and any diversion is welcome.”

  “You do not look well. You should be blooming.”

  “How would you know?” she teased.

  “I have not led all my life in an Abbey. Really Kate, you should take better care of yourself.”

  “I am trying,” Kate declared, then smiled. She had to be very trying to all those who cared about her.

  “Do not worry, Kate. God will be gracious to us all.”

  But I am not worried about God, Kate wanted to say. I am worried about our vindictive and insecure brother-in-law. He has hacked at the fruit of the broom and will, if he ever finds out, hack away that most precious seed. You!

  Almost as if Richard could read her words, he took her hand in a comforting clasp. His eyes locked with hers. There was something in that gaze, a peace emanating from him, soothing her shredded nerves. She had never seen it before. It was a kind of spirituality.

  The door opening just then was an ugly intrusion. Dame Caradoc came rushing in, skirts flying, wringing a handful of gown in her hands. “Kate, Kate, he comes!”

  Kate tried to struggle to a sitting position, her face turning gray.

  “Bless you girl, do not distress yourself so. He will not be angry with you now.”

  “Who comes good Dame?” Richard asked.

  “Why my son, of course. Who else would come to this desolate part of the world? He has sent a messenger. He will be here in about two hours,” she said and clapped her hands with delight, but Kate could not bring herself to echo it.

  * * * *

  The castle keep seemed large and quiet. Beyond the keep there was the sound of Blacksmiths, the noisy clamor of men, the miserable cry of beasts at slaughter. Preparations for the long cold dark winter were in full force.

  Richard was there, taller still and Efan’s mother at his side, small and fussy, oddly nervous. He hugged his mother, feeling her trembling a little, her frail bones easily felt through the thick material of her gown.

  He could not hug or kiss Richard. The boy was too old now, but he allowed a hand to stray briefly to Richard’s shoulder, a quick squeeze and then away. No animosity came, no flare of anger, it was simply wonderful to see Richard again.

  The keep was immaculately clean, no corner harbored dust. The fur skin rugs had been well beaten, even the hangings had been laundered. “You have been busy Mother,” he acknowledged.

  “All must be clean,” she announced with pride, then shot a look at Richard, a look that was oddly nervous.

  “For your homecoming, Efan,” Richard said. “My stepmother is in her bed. She has not been too well. Will you come and see her?”

  “What ails her?” he asked of either of them.

  “She will be fine in a week or two,” Richard avoided a direct reply. The mouth of his mother opened, then closed shut. Folding her lips tightly together, she avoided Caradoc’s eyes.

  “And why are you here and not with those parsimonious over-praying priests?” Caradoc asked suddenly.

  “Priests who pray, Efan and none parsimonious. Simply, I came to see my stepmother and decided to stay to welcome you home. Your good mother has persuaded me to sup here. I cannot resist such an invitation from so charming a lady.”

  Despite her mood, Dame Caradoc blushed ever so slightly. He was a charmer, Caradoc thought. Always saying the right kind of things, the things that pleased women. He had never acquired the art and never even considered it necessary. He saw though that it would have its uses.

  “Will you come and see Kate?” the Dame asked her son.

  “All in good time.”

  Dame Caradoc hissed. She seldom lost her temper, but that was a sure sign that her patience was running out.

  “You should go immediately,” she said.

  “Should I? Tell me why I should?”

  The reply was a long time coming. Dame Caradoc loathed deceit. They had persuaded her to say nothing, but she did not like it. Kate could not hide the truth for more than an hour or so. He had eyes to see and he was no fool It was stuff and nonsense to talk about him having to want her for herself and not for the child. Dame Caradoc had never heard the likes before. A healthy heir was really all men were interested in anyway, and in her experience all men were much the same.

  “Because she has been ill,” she said at last.

  “A fever brought on by fear, I imagine.”

  “Fear of what?”

  Caradoc did not answer, but called for ale and bread, then went to the fireside to warm himself. The servants came on tiptoe in answer to his demands, then sped away as if fearful that he would curse them.

  He called for Edgar to bring his books. He never could be bothered with the books and was not even interested but all was done to put off the inevitable. He would have to see his lying, cheating wife sometime. On his long journey he had imagined how it would be, had seen himself casting her out, setting her on the road to nowhere, or having her locked away in some convent. However, if she had been ill he could not in all conscience do that. Perhaps she had not been ill though, perhaps it was another cunning move to disarm him. That was it. Thrusting the books back at a startled Edgar, he strode across the hall and mounted the steps.

  Dame Caradoc and Richard watched him go. Richard slid an arm around the Dame’s shoulders. “It will be all right. Do not worry, Dame.”

  “Why does she play this game?” she demanded. “They are both as bad as each other.”

  “Kate is proud, Dame. She will be loved for herself or not at all.”

  “Then she chases a rainbow, Richard, for there is no such thing. Men marry for all kinds of reasons. Love is never one of them, but as the mother of his child she will have his respect. Kate will have to learn to accept and be grateful for that.”

  “I regret to say that Kate will never settle for anything less than his love.”

  There seemed to be a number of servants in the hall pretending to be about their chores, but their eyes were anxious, and going all the while to the stairway. The Dame thought to dismiss them all and then relented. They were concerned. That was all.

  Chapter Nine

  Slowly and very quietly, Caradoc opened the huge door. There was an enormous fire burning in the grate. Animal furs covered the arrow slits, but the room was well lighted by wall torches and around the bed by two huge candles.

  The bed hangings were open and revealed Kate, lying in the bed, covered to her chest in animal fur. Around her shoulders was a sheep’s fleece. Sh
e was sewing something small and white. Her rich brown hair was caught in one long plaint that hung over her shoulder. Quietly he pulled the door to a close and stepped back into the corridor.

  She had to have known of his arrival, yet she lay so calm and unconcerned, confident that he had not revealed her secret. The jade! Anger, that had mellowed since and dissipated, grew once more…but it was the kind of anger that he did not enjoy. The anger twisted his insides out, physically pained him. He knew why but would not, dare not name the passionate emotion that caused it.

  He knew now why she had done what she had done, not entirely for the boy, certainly not for the late Lord of Mellorsdale. He had commanded it, Richard of Gloucester, the man she admitted that she loved. Everything that she had ever done since coming here had been done for him…everything!

  Now he entered the room, throwing back the door so it bounced against the wall, catching it, then slamming it behind him. She had jumped. He saw her arm move, she was pushing her sewing under the coverlet. Doubtless an altar cloth or something for the accursed monks!

  “Madam,” he said, coming deeper into the room. On the table beside the bed was a bowl of applies, a flask of wine, a jeweled goblet. The lady nursed herself well. He took up the flask and poured some wine into the goblet and drank it slowly, conscious of her eyes watching him. She did look very pale, but there was a gentle curving plumpness about her cheeks that was rather appealing.

  “My lord had a good journey?” she asked at last.

  He did not answer. Beyond the door he had thought to just throw her out, bag and baggage, order her away from his door, have her chased away by the servants if she did not go, wherever she went would be no concern of his, yet now seeing her, that resolution faded as quickly as it had been born.

  “Why did you agree to this madness?”

  “Did Richard not confess all?” she answered. Impudence. No shame or contrition in her manner or her voice.

  “I am asking you woman!”

  “Because the King asked me if I would do so,” she said calmly.