A Rose for the Crown Page 6

  Her thoughts came back to the present, and she found herself staring at the rich, red-brown sauce she had been stirring mechanically. “That be the color of his hair, in truth,” she muttered, causing the maid who was tending a milky broth next to her to turn her head.

  “Whose hair?”

  “Richard Plantagenet’s,” Kate retorted and was rewarded with a blank stare.

  “KATE, where are you?”

  Anne’s voice floated up from the foot of the stairs and broke Kate’s reverie. She had been gazing at the new hennin that had been made for her. The gauze was as fine as a spider’s web, she thought, made stiff by the use of arrowroot—another skill she had learned. The headpiece was blue to match her new gown, with dainty gold threads picking out a pattern of tiny flowers on the flat-topped cone.

  “ ’Tis time for our music lesson, Kate. Kate, are you there?”

  Kate needed no second bidding. The hour spent learning the magical instrument she had heard on her first night at Ightham was the highlight of her day.

  “I be coming!” Hastily she corrected her country dialect. “I am coming!” Kate smoothed the coverlet on the tester bed once more before leaving her chamber to join Anne.

  Will was seated by the window in Richard’s office and jumped to his feet when the cousins entered. He bowed low, which made Kate titter.

  “Good day, mistresses, how do you do?” Will spoke softly, raising his dark eyes and smiling. The girls ran to the bench he had just occupied and sat down unceremoniously as he drew up a footstool for himself. They shared a comradeship with the young musician that would not have won Elinor’s approbation, but as he was Richard’s favorite entertainer and these lessons were Richard’s edict, she left the three of them alone, only occasionally putting her head around the door. She need not have concerned herself. Both girls were intent on mastering the small harp from which Will evoked images of rolling hills and dales, rills and torrents, chivalrous knights and wispy wood sprites with his delicate touch and tender baritone. All her life Kate had hummed to herself, but she had never heard songs and ballads such as Will sang. Nor had she ever touched an instrument other than a tabor she had picked up once at a market stall and banged in time to the wild music played by a group of wandering gypsies. Their sound had thrilled her, but nothing could compare with the catch in the throat, the tug at her heart and the soul-soothing calm she experienced each time she heard Will play and sing. She had music in her, Will told her after two lessons, and already she was able to play two melodies and was memorizing the words to the songs.

  Anne was slower to learn and her voice had a nasal quality that was not pleasing. She reveled in Kate’s progress, because she knew her father would be happy that Kate had a special talent for something. Kate’s sewing was embarrassingly bad, Anne admitted, her attempts at writing only slightly better and her interest in housekeeping pitiful. She listened as Kate sang.

  “Foweles in the frith

  The fesses in the flod

  And I mon waxe wod, mulch sorwe

  I walke with for best of bon and blod.”

  Will nodded, pleased with his pupil. Kate asked him to explain the song’s meaning.

  “’Tis two hundred years old. It is the lament of a man who has lost his love. It means: Birds in the wood, fish in the river; I am going mad because I walk in misery for the loss of my perfect love.”

  “How sad,” Anne sighed. She asked Kate to sing it again. As Kate began to play, Will reached out and changed the position of her left hand so that she could better pluck a base string. Kate felt his touch and shivered slightly. It was a pleasant sensation to be touched by a young man. The tremor did not go unnoticed. Will withdrew his hand quickly and determined not to flirt with this maid, who was obviously easy prey. His place in the Haute household was far too important to jeopardize. He turned his attention to Anne, who blushed when he complimented her on her saffron gown, giving Kate her first taste of jealousy.

  After the lesson, Anne and Kate fetched their shawls and hand in hand walked out to the courtyard, humming the melody of the new lament. Gardeners were trundling barrows of the last of the harvest of vegetables across the cobblestones and into the storage barns built against the east wall. The haylofts were filled with bundles of straw gathered from the manor fields, ready to fortify the stabled horses during the winter months. Chickens stalked in and out of the barn, pecking at whatever fell through the cracks in the barrows and squawking at each other over every grain.

  Brother Francis, the Mote’s chaplain, appeared from the gatehouse and walked across the courtyard, the hem of his coarse, gray robe picking up bits of straw as it whisked from side to side. As well as being Richard’s clerk and confessor, he was responsible for teaching Elinor and the girls to read and write. Kate and Anne genuflected as he swept past them into the house.

  “God be with you, my children.”

  “And with you, Brother.” The girls were relieved that their next lesson with him was not until after matins next morning.

  They skipped through the gatehouse arch, over the bridge and straight up the path to the herb garden, swinging their joined hands. An old gardener uncurled his aching back and doffed his hat to them with fingers as gnarled as the roots of the old rosebush he was pulling up. They hurried past him to where Elinor was tending a lavender bush. She ignored their sunny smiles and bade them take up a knife each and carefully cut stems of lovage and hyssop for drying. Kate loved the hyssop’s blue, pink and white flowers and had learned the plant was used to cleanse the body in the bath or to help with breathing when the lungs were infected. She brushed against some lemon balm, breaking the leaves and releasing their citron aroma into the air. She breathed the refreshing scent and happily went about her task. Yarrow will stop the flow of blood from a cut, and borage will dispel melancholy, Kate remembered from Elinor’s teaching. She truly enjoyed learning the healing powers of these beautiful plants and how to season foods with them. Elinor would lead the girls around the immaculately laid-out garden and pause for them to identify the different herbs—the bright green of the parsley plant, the gray-green leaves and violet-blue flowers of sage, the bushy, aromatic samphire with its yellow-green flowers, and the lacy, blue-green foliage of the bitter rue.

  “Rue will ward off evil spirits,” Elinor had once told the girls, and Kate mischievously thought she might hang some of it inside her gown for protection from Elinor herself.

  In the small dispensary, Elinor came into her own. She truly loved turning plants into salves, potions and infusions. She also grudgingly admitted that Kate had a gift for it, too, and it was a relief to Anne to hear her mother’s tone soften as she taught Kate the three methods of using herbs to their greatest advantage. “First infuse the leaves, stems and flowers in boiling water in a lidded pot and strain off the liquid,” she instructed. Later she showed her how to bring the plant parts to a boil in cold water and simmer them longer for a potent brew. Kate enjoyed crushing herbs with mortar and pestle for a poultice best of all. After a particularly trying day with Elinor, imagining she was grinding Elinor’s head in her bowl, Kate put her heart into it, winning a compliment from her teacher. Kate savored her time in the tiny room where row upon row of plants hung drying from a beam. Above a table, shelves, some fitted with drawers, held dried roots, seeds, leaves and flowerheads of all the plants Ightham cultivated, labeled in Elinor’s neat lettering. Kate was beginning to reap the reward of her reading lessons, and she was now able to decipher many of the strange names—boneset, alecost, comfrey, hound’s tongue, elecampane—and remember which part of the plant was used for which malady.

  In the garden, the sun hung low over the orchards behind them and the air had a definite October bite to it. Kate was placing some plants in a basket when a horn sounded and the dogs began to bark. The girls ran to see who had stirred them, and Elinor picked up the basket and followed. Edgar, the Mote’s seneschal, bustled over the bridge and arrived in time to see his master and several attendants r
ein in their mounts at the stables.

  “Father!” Anne took Kate’s hand and raced towards Richard. Her father’s emerald cloak was covered with dust from the road, and he was wearing a two-day growth of beard. An enormous chaperon, its liripipe flung over one shoulder, crowned his head, making him seem larger than life. He saw his daughter and cousin flying across the grass to greet him and gave a shout of laughter, his blue eyes twinkling at the sight of them.

  “Cock’s bones, my beauties, what a sight for these road-weary eyes you both are. Come, let me look at you.”

  He held them both at arm’s length. Kate curtsied low. He seemed even more impressive than she remembered, and she felt small and insignificant beside him. Without Elinor to chastise her, Anne shed her timidity and flung her arms around her father. He noted the easy smile on his daughter’s face, and her spontaneous, affectionate greeting pleased him. He quickly ascertained that Anne was being winkled out of her shell, and he gave Kate an approving look. And then he saw Elinor, who was puffing across the greensward, and Kate noticed that although the smile never left his lips, it disappeared from his eyes.

  “Good wife, how goes it with you?”

  Elinor set down her basket and attempted to clean her plant-soiled hands on her apron, push a wayward strand of hair out of her face and look dignified all at the same time. He let go of Anne’s shoulders and took a step forward to greet his wife. He kissed her hand and then drew her to him and kissed her cheek.

  She stiffened and pulled away. “My dear, your arrival is unexpected. I fear you will have to make do with what meager fare I have planned for supper. Why did you not send me warning?”

  “Why, wife, I was released from my duties at Westminster and thought only of returning to Ightham with all possible haste to see you.” He surprised her with his flattery, and her reprimand was forgotten. Richard returned his attention to the girls. “Run along and prepare yourselves for the evening meal, sweetings. I have brought a guest with me, and I want you both to look your best. What is more, I have a surprise for you.”

  Kate and Anne, needing no second bidding, turned and ran to the house, missing Richard’s introduction.

  “Elinor, I present to you Martin Haute, our kinsman of Suffolk, who will stop with us for a few days before returning to the garrison at Calais.”

  A tall man of Richard’s age presented himself to Elinor. He was sunburned, bearded and handsome, had the bearing of a soldier and wore his blond hair in the cropped Norman style, which was unfashionable now.

  “Your servant, Dame Elinor.” Martin bowed, and Elinor quickly assumed the air of mistress of the house and graciously bade him welcome. Edgar stepped forward and bowed to his master, also bidding the guest welcome. Martin gave Elinor his arm. Richard clapped his steward on the shoulder and strode off with him to the house.

  Later, when the household assembled for supper, Anne and Kate hung back in their chamber, wanting to make a grand entrance dressed in their new finery. The stratagem was quite effective; compliments flew around the girls’ swelling heads. Kate’s blue gown was trimmed with darker satin at the bodice. Her new headdress made her look much older. Richard inadvertently let out a whistle of appreciation as he turned to examine her, but not before he had admired his daughter’s new red sarcenet.

  He nodded approvingly. “In truth, Kate, I chose well for you! What say you, Martin? Are not our young ladies a pleasant sight?”

  Martin had not been able to take his eyes off Kate since she entered the room, and he was ashamed of himself for having lustful thoughts of one so young. He forced himself to look at Anne. She was comely enough, but the garish color of her gown caused her to pale beside Kate. “Aye, in truth, both the maids are as fair as any I saw in London.” His flattery caused Anne to blush and Kate to giggle. “If either of my sons were here now, they would be slack-jawed and tongue-tied, I warrant.”

  “How old be—are—your sons, sir. And, if it please you, where are they?”

  “Kate, have you not learned any manners since you came under my roof?” Elinor cut in with a warning frown. “You may not speak unless you are addressed.”

  Kate bowed her head, chastened, but not before she noticed Martin’s mouth curl in amusement. She gritted her teeth and focused on a lavender stem in the rushes on the floor. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she offered half-heartedly, but Elinor shooed her to her place at the end of the table next to Anne. Kate found a moment to look up the table, and Martin winked at her. It seemed that being bold had won favor once again, she noted.

  While the rest of the group took their seats, Martin satisfied Kate with a few facts. “My eldest, Martin, is sixteen and stays in Calais to learn the wool trade. He will inherit my father-in-law’s business in Lavenham one day and my manor in Chelsworth. George, my second, lives in Suffolk with my wife and our younger children. Now he is thirteen, he has joined the household of the duke of Norfolk, thanks to our patron, Sir John Howard. I hope he will soon be squire to Sir John and one day perhaps a knight. Does that suffice, young lady?”

  Richard frowned. “Your son is with Tom Mowbray? King Henry’s man, I believe. Do you not fear a divided loyalty for your son?”

  Martin shrugged. “’Tis a high honor for one of my house to be taken into Norfolk’s household, king’s man or no. George learns the skills there to be his own man one day.”

  Elinor made a note to enquire further of the young Hautes in the not-too-distant future. Perhaps young Martin, with an inheritance in the offing, would make a match for Anne. But then, George had the Norfolk connection. . . . Plenty to think upon. She motioned to a server to bring in the next course and listened politely as the men talked politics and interjected an “Oh” or a “Is that so?” in relevant places. She found the discussions about rivalry between York and the king tedious, though she noted that Richard showed no fear in divulging his Yorkist allegiance to Martin. The two Haute kinsmen had met for the first time at Baynard’s Castle, York’s London residence, and had struck up an easy friendship while waiting for an audience with the duke. And if Martin was garrisoned in Calais, Richard must be certain he was Warwick’s man and so a Yorkist. Elinor understood policy enough to know the earl of Warwick had the honor to be Captain of Calais and, together with his powerful Neville family, was a staunch supporter of the York cause.

  “Do you believe the witch of Anjou will take the Act of Accord lying down?” Richard now asked Martin in a low voice.

  Martin chuckled. “I fear she will not lie down for anyone now my lord of Somerset is dead.” Indeed there was talk that her son, Edward of Lancaster, was actually Somerset’s conceived in desperation by Margaret to give England an heir. “In truth, cousin, I do not trust her and fear more bloodshed at her hand. Will you join with the duke, if it comes to a fight?”

  “Aye,” replied Richard grimly, tearing into a thighbone of chicken. “I cannot offer much in the way of fighting men. My manor is small. But what I have I will gladly pledge. Pray God, it comes not to civil war.”

  “You have no son to inherit?” Martin asked, changing the subject.

  At this implication, Elinor’s attention returned to the conversation. She bristled like a hedgehog preparing its defence. Richard recognized the signs and steeled himself for her rejoinder, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin and dipping his fingers into the bowl of water offered him by the ewerer.

  “I fear the good Lord has not blessed us with a son, sir,” Elinor snapped. “I have prayed with Brother Francis to St. Antony of Padua, but he hears us not. Anne is our only child, and we are of a mind to wait for a grandson.”

  Richard patted her arm kindly. “’Tis a sore subject with Elinor, Martin. Forgive her prickles.” He spoke over her head to his cousin and winked. “’Tis not for the lack of trying.”

  Elinor clicked her tongue and pursed her lips with distaste, glancing at the chaplain, who sat impassively at the opposite end of the table.

  As the evening wore on, the two men began to feel the effects of th
eir fatigue and the heady wine Elinor had ordered from the cellar in honor of their guest. Kate and Anne were bored by conversation about the merits of one kind of armor over another, about fighting for a cause they did not understand and about the price of good cloth in London. Kate muttered something to Anne, who slipped quietly from her seat and tiptoed round to her father’s chair and in turn whispered in his ear. Richard was surprised and delighted by his daughter’s independence. He caught her round the waist with his big arms and lifted her easily onto his lap. Then he clapped his hands and called down the hall.

  “Will, Will Makepeace, we will have music to please this lovely creature!”

  Will set his stool in front of the head table and picked up his harp. Then, without warning, Richard leapt to his feet, dropping poor Anne unceremoniously into his empty chair. “Play, minstrel, while I go and fetch the surprise for my two girls.” And he strode from the hall.

  Will began to stroke the strings, and Kate’s eyes shone, anticipating the song to come. Elinor, caring not a whit for music, carried on a conversation with Martin, who listened politely with his eyes but lent his ears to Will’s fine voice. A few minutes later, Richard returned carrying something covered by soft, brown velvet and an exquisitely carved wooden casket. He placed the box in front of Kate and the covered object in front of Anne, back in her own seat next to Kate.