Katherine (69 page)

She turned off the road at Coleby and rode through the gates to inspect her little manor. She had not been near it for nine years. The reeve that her Kettlethorpe steward had put in did not know her and jeered when she said that she was Lady Swynford.

"Ye're crazed, widow. Lady Swynford don't go riding about barefoot on a mule! Why dame, Lady Swynford's the Duke o' Lancaster's doxie, and goes clothed in jingling gold - leastways she did. I've heard tell in Lincoln that the Duke's tired of her - but that's as may be, get ye gone. We've no room for tricksy beggars here. Some hostel in Lincoln'll take ye."

Katherine went on her way. Soon the clouds merged and dipped lower. It began to rain, a cold October rain that soaked through her mantle. In time she entered the familiar village of Wigford, the Lincoln suburb that lay on the near bank of the Witham. On the left, in the centre of the long high street, there was a handsome stone mansion, with elegant carved corbels, an oriel window, and above the door a shield with the Duke's coat of arms painted on it. Katherine knew this house; she had dined here with John on the miserable visit to Kettlethorpe two years ago. It belonged to the Suttons, the wealthy wool merchants whom she had first met on the road to Bolingbroke in the plague time when the Duchess died.

She looked up at the Lancaster arms. The Suttons, having none of their own, proudly blazoned those of their feudal overlord. She hesitated, unable to control a coward shrinking. Tomorrow would do as well. She still had a few pence, and could spend the night in town. One more night before plunging back into all the humiliating things that must be done. Besides, she thought with feeble self-deception, like the reeve at Coleby, the Suttons might not know her.

Katherine got off the mule and tied it to the hitching ring. Of course, the Suttons would know her: they had seen her many times. The Suttons were Lincoln's foremost citizens. They had been mayors, members of Parliament. Thomas the clerk was now Chancellor of Lincoln Cathedral. They knew everything that went on in town and could best answer the questions she must ask.

She knocked. The door was opened by a liveried varlet, who did not hide his astonished disapproval at her appearance and was reluctant to admit her until she gave him two pennies, whereupon he thawed. He said that old Master John had gone to Calais on business for the staple, and Master Thomas was at the bishop's palace, that Master Robert was at home. But occupied. A deputy of woolmongers were with him.

"Tell him please that 'tis Lady Swynford, and I will wait." Katherine sat down on the wayfarer's bench in a cubbyhole beside the door.

She waited a long time. When Robert Sutton came at last, walking ponderously from his counting-house to the corner of the Hall where Katherine sat, she saw that he was embarrassed and uncertain how to greet her. Above his glossy dark brown beard, his plump cheeks were flushed. He took one scandalized look at her bedraggled robe, her feet, the wet limp coif that covered her short hair, and his eyes slid away, their thick lids lowered. He fingered the gold chain around his neck, he twitched a fold of his maroon velvet, squirrel-furred sleeve. " 'Tis a surprise, lady - -"

A very great surprise, since he had heard that the Duke had bundled her off abroad, sealed her away in some French convent. He had spent the last ten minutes, not with the woolmongers, but alone, wondering if he should receive her.

Katherine drew a deep breath and laced her hands together. The last time she had seen him, he had been deferential, charming, his eyes moist with covert desire. Now his full handsome face was wary, and he tapped his scarlet shoe impatiently. Ay, it will be like this, she thought. From now on.

"Master Robert, I shall not take much of your time. There are only a few questions I'd like to ask you. I've been a long while on pilgrimage, and know nothing of what has happened in the world."

He flushed again and hawked in his throat.

She saw that he wondered if she even knew of the Duke's renouncement and spoke quickly. "The Duke and I have parted, it was our mutual wish and decision."

He did not believe the latter, but he grunted uneasily. Her low voice softened him, and her dignity. As she spoke, he began to see glimpses of the beauty he had so enviously admired. But she must be thirty now, he told himself sharply, and a discarded mistress - and if it were money that she wanted-

"Master Robert," she said quietly, "have you heard aught of my children?"

"The bastards?" he said startled.

"The Beauforts," she answered.

He swallowed. "Why, I believe they're well - at Kenilworth." His wife, in fact, had been buzzing, since the juicy news about the Duke and Lady Swynford had filtered to Lincoln. Delighted with Lady Swynford's downfall, she had triumphantly garnered every titbit that travellers could tell them.

"How does my manor of Kettlethorpe?" said Katherine. "I know our wool goes through your warehouse."

"The manor does fairly, I think," he said frowning. "At least the clips are up to standard. By God's nails, lady," his jaw dropped, "you don't mean to come back and live at Kettlethorpe!"

"Ah, but I do," said Katherine, smiling faintly. "Where else should I go but my own manor, where my people have need of me? Where else should I bring my children, who have no honest claim on anyone else in the world?"

The wool merchant was dumbfounded. "Surely you mean to sell?" And then take the veil, he thought, far away where no one knows her.

"I will not sell the Swynford holdings," said Katherine, "that were my husband's and belong to my Swynford children - children," she repeated on a lower wavering note.

Sutton looked at her. "I heard the little maid Blanchette was betrothed to some great knight, and already she had a dowry from the Duke. She'll not need Kettlethorpe."

Katherine could not answer. She could not force herself to say, "I don't know where Blanchette is, no one knows but God. But the home she loved and that I took her from will be always waiting."

"Nevertheless," she said, "I shall live at Kettlethorpe. And now, Master Robert, I do humbly beg one thing of you."

He stiffened, crossed his velvet arms over his great barrel chest. "What is it, Lady Swynford?"

"That you will write in my name to the Duke. He has respect for you. He would not accept a letter from me. But I know that he listens to justice. Will you tell him what I propose to do, and will you request in my name that he send me my Beaufort children? Tell him that, when this is done, he shall never be troubled with me again."

Robert Sutton demurred for some time. He pointed out the practicality of her scheme. Her steward was in the Duke's pay, and would undoubtedly be withdrawn. It was folly to think she could run the manor herself, especially since her serfs were known to be unruly - why even here there had been a taint of the iniquitous revolt. Only the most violent suppressive measures had kept the villeins in their places. No doubt she understood nothing of this, having been on pilgrimage so long, but he assured her it was so. Katherine made no reply, except to say that none-the-less she would try to run Kettlethorpe herself.

Then Sutton with increasing embarrassment hinted at the discomfort of her position here; she would be ostracized. The goodwives of Lincoln would be outraged at the reappearance of so notorious a woman, and with her bastards too. Moreover, the bishop was a narrow, strait-laced man with a horror of scandal.

Katherine grew paler as he talked, her grey eyes darkened. But she remarked only that Kettlethorpe was isolated enough, and she would try to trouble no one.

Sutton ended by doing as she wished. He summoned a clerk and dictated the letter to the Duke. When he had finished, a much warmer feeling towards Katherine came over him He could not help but admire her courage, and too, a woman in her position would be grateful for a friend, for a discreet protector. Ay, it was true and unfortunate that Kettlethorpe was isolated, but not so far away that a trip might not be made occasionally. He looked sideways at the slender bare ankles, the faint outline of high firm breasts beneath the hideous black robe, at the cleft chin, the wide voluptuous mouth.

When the clerk had gone, Sutton glanced back into the Hall, saw no one there but servants laying the table. He put his damp hot hand on her bare arm and squeezed. His beard brushed her cheek as he whispered, "You can count on Robert de Sutton, sweet heart, I'll see that you get along."

"Thank you for all your kindness," she said, moving away. "I must go, Master Robert, go home."

Blessed Mary, it would be hard, she thought, as she rode Absalom across the Witham bridge and turned west along the Fossdyke for Kettlethorpe. She needed the Sutton goodwill, for business reasons, as well as for mediation with the Duke. And on the whole she had always liked Master Robert. Yet would it be possible to keep his goodwill, and still deny all the reward which she saw that he would expect?

Hard. The radiance of those revelations had inevitably receded. It shone still, but behind a veil of outer life with its niggling annoyances, worries, hurts. She was no longer simply "Katherine," she must adjust again to the various labels that the world would give her, and the demands fair and unfair that it would make.

She turned north at Drinsey Nook and saw the black forest ahead. The forest where Hugh had hunted, the forest at which she had gazed from the dank solar for so many unhappy years. Soon in the winter the wolves would howl again. She rode through the iron gates that marked the manor road. The mile-long avenue of wych-elms was unchanged; she noted the flocks grazing on her demesne lands, heard a shepherd's shout and the barking of a.dog.

Ahead on the right stood the tithe barn and the little church where lay Nichola, Gibbon - and Hugh. To the left, the shabby manor house where Blanchette had been born, where John had come that morning and saved the baby from Lady Nichola.

The bridge was up, the manor dark. When had it ever welcomed her? She pulled the mule over to the old mounting block, and stepped out of the stirrups. She stood there with her hand on a corner of the gatehouse, looking at the church, at the huddled row of cots that were the village.

You've but to call out to the gate-ward, she thought. But she did not call. She stood there until a small boy came trudging down the lane with an enormous load of faggots on his back. He started and crossed himself when he saw a black figure standing on the mounting block, and Katherine said, "Don't be afraid, lad, I'm Lady Katherine Swynford, this is my home."

The boy gave a sort of snuffling cry, dropped his faggots, and pelted towards the vill, shouting out something Katherine could not hear. That load is too heavy for a child like that, she thought, staring at the faggots. The rain changed to mist. Raw white fog curls floated up from the Trent. Her fingers gripped tight on the rough cold stone beneath her hand. She descended from the block and walked around beneath the gatehouse window. She called, "Gate-ward! Ho, gate-ward!"

There was some movement in the gate loft, a man's voice answered, but it was lost in the pound of running footsteps from the vill. A little man with flying light hair ran towards her and others followed him. "Welcome, dearest lady. Welcome. For sure I told 'em ye'd be coming back some day, would they be patient."

"Cob," she whispered. "Ay, I've come back - -"

"They've been praying for it every day." He jerked his head towards the group behind him. She could not see their separate faces, but she felt their quivering expectancy.

"When I told 'em what ye did for me, what ye'd been through in Lunnon, I told 'em ye went on pilgrimage - oh lady, they've been waiting for ye. 'Tis bad here now - not for me that am a freeman," Cob interjected proudly, "but the unfree - steward's mostly drunk. 'Tis cruel - -"

Katherine lifted her head and looked past Cob to the crowd of her silent, watchful people. "I shall try to make you all glad that I am home," she said.

"And after winter, followeth green May."
(Troilus and Criseyde).

On Lincoln town's high hill the raw March wind flew incessantly. It chilled bones, reddened noses, afflicted with snuffles and coughs the venerable bishop and the worshipful Mayor John Sutton as well as the ragged beggars who whined for alms in the minster's magnificent Galilee porch.

Wind or no wind - and the citizens were used to it - folk were all out in the streets, frantically nailing banners, greens and coloured streamers to the fronts of houses. It was the twenty-sixth of March, 1387, and King Richard and his Queen Anne were coming to Lincoln that night, the first time that Lincoln had ever been so honoured in the ten years of Richard's reign. The excitement was tremendous. The ostensible reason for this visit was that he and the Queen were to be admitted into the Fraternity of Lincoln Cathedral on the morrow. The actual reason, as many knew, was that Richard had set out on a goodwill tour through all his land. He had felt his popularity slipping, he had been having trouble with commons and lords alike, and with his Uncle Thomas of Woodstock, now Duke of Gloucester - particularly since his Uncle John, the Duke of Lancaster, was at long last in Castile, had been there for a year with Duchess Costanza and their daughter, and his two girls by the Duchess Blanche.

Richard's arrival affected Katherine too. During the six years since her return, she had seldom left Kettlethorpe, nor would have cared to do so now, but the King had commanded it.

On this bleak, windy afternoon, Katherine was sewing by the fire in the pleasant Hall of her town house on Pottergate, just inside the cathedral close. Her lap was filled with a sapphire velvet pool while she put the finishing gold stitches on the mantle she would wear to greet the King. Her sister Philippa sat in an arm-chair, propped with pillows, listlessly pleating a fine gauze veil. Hawise stood behind the kitchen screen pounding almonds into honey for a marchpane while keeping a watchful eye on the housemaids. Little Joan played on the hearth with her kitten. For some time there had been silence, except for Hawise's pounding and the crackle of the fire. The wind howled outside but there was no draught. A good snug house, Katherine thought contentedly.

This was the same house that the Duke had taken for her fifteen years ago when their John Beaufort had been born here, secretly. Three years ago she had decided that the elder boys, John and Harry, would benefit by spending the winter months in Lincoln, where the priests at the newly established Cantilupe Chantry took day scholars. So she had leased this house again. Whereupon the outraged citizenry had shown their displeasure by breaking into her walled close looting and beating the servants.

This was the culmination of many unpleasant incidents, which Katherine had borne with patience. In truth her burdens during these years had been even heavier than she had anticipated. Though her parting from the Duke was known to everyone, she continued to be reviled. Not only moral indignation motivated the folk of Lincoln, but resentment because of city quarrels between the Duke's constable at the castle and the town.

Katherine held herself apart, tried to administer her properties wisely and do the best thing for her little Beauforts. But the vandalism to her Pottergate house was another matter, since it had endangered the boys. She appealed by letter to the King. Richard responded promptly and gallantly, had sent a commission to investigate the charges, and fine the offenders. After that, she had been let alone. Entirely alone. Lincoln folk looked through her when they saw her on the street.

It might be because of that incident three years back, or because Richard had been intrigued by the little mystery when she met him outside Waltham and rescued Cob, or because he thought special notice of her would annoy his enemies - one never knew with Richard. In any case, he had sent word that Katherine was to dine at the bishop's palace on the morrow when the royal party would be there.

The three women in Katherine's Hall were all thinking of the royal visit. "Oh -
doux Jesu
- Katherine," Philippa sighed, lifting her thin, vein-corded hand and letting it fall despondently. "If only he would present you to the Queen. Then, then, your position might be better here."

Katherine put down her needle and looked at her sister with deep sorrow. Philippa faded daily. Sometimes she suffered much pain from the canker lump in her breast. Her rosy face was shrunken, her eyelids purple, feebleness had blunted her decisive nature. "But the King would not do that, you know,
Pica cherie,"
said Katherine gently. "I don't mind, and I shall as least see her. I'll tell you all about her."

Philippa sighed again. "Anne, Anne, Queen Anne," she said fretfully. "They say she's ugly, with her fat German cheeks, her thick neck. Yet they say he adores her. 'Tis strange - and no heir either - five years - Richard, of course - one always doubted he
could -
-" Her voice trailed off.

Joan, who had been quiet with her kitten, suddenly looked up at Katherine with big-eyed earnestness. "Mama,
why
does Sir Thomas hate the King?"

Katherine laughed as mothers do when their children say something precocious, a little embarrassing. "Why, I'm sure he doesn't. What an idea!" She bent down quickly and tied a wisp of blue velvet around the kitten's neck. "There, look at Mimi, isn't she pretty!"

But Joan was not a baby, to be so easily distracted. She was eight, intelligent and practical. A dark pansy-eyed child, round and red-cheeked, she looked much as her Aunt Philippa had, years ago, though she was prettier and had her mother's wide full mouth. "Thomas
hates
the King," she insisted. "I heard him say so, last year when he was here. He said the King was womanish, soft-bellied and double-tongued as an adder."

"Joan!" cried mother and aunt sharply. The child paid no attention to her aunt, who was usually cross, but she had no wish to provoke her mother's rare displeasure. She hung her head and picked up the kitten.

Katherine, who was always just, stroked the dark curls. "What ever you heard, mouse, forget it. You're old enough to understand that it's dangerous - and discourteous - to say such things about our King. Come, here's a needle for you, let me see what nice stitches you can make."

She gave the delighted child a corner of the velvet mantle and some gold thread. She resumed her own stitching and thought resignedly that the remark sounded like Tom, though she scarcely saw her eldest son, and knew little of what he thought.

Thomas Swynford was almost nineteen now, and a knight. He still served Henry of Bolingbroke, and what emotions he felt seemed to be for his lord. Tom had made two visits to Kettlethorpe since Katherine had come home, had approved, on the whole, her management of his inheritance, loftily ignored his bastard brothers and sisters, and been off again. Katherine knew that he had a dutiful fondness for her, and was also much ashamed of her reputation. He was teller than Hugh had been, but he had the same dusty ram's-wool hair, the same secretiveness. They had one clash. Tom had been angry when he arrived at Kettlethorpe and found that Katherine had been freeing her serfs. She knew better than to argue with him or put forth idealistic reasons, had given him proof instead that a manor worked by free, and devoted, tenants produced more efficiently than one run on the old servile system. Tom had grudgingly scanned the accounts, and ultimately agreed.

Yes, she thought, Tom is a good enough lad. None of her children had given her real anxiety - except - The years had passed without word. All reason demanded acceptance of Blanchette's death in the Savoy - and yet the ache, the void and the question were still there.

The minster bell began to clang for vespers. "The boys will soon be here," said Katherine gladly.

"Ay." Hawise stuck her head around the screen. "And I'd best be hiding me marchpane, them lads'd steal sweeties off the plate o' God himself. Lady," she said severely to Katherine, "put by your sewing, ye mustn't redden your eyes, when ye very well know who's coming to see ye - -"

"Oh Hawise," protested Katherine, with a laugh that mingled affection and exasperation, "you make pothers over nothing."

Hawise snorted rebelliously. Stouter, redder, and nearly toothless, none the less, Hawise was an unchanging rock. Stubborn as a rock too, at times.

"Ye'll not keep him dangling, I should hope!" she cried, wiping her hands on her apron, and stalking up to Katherine.

"By the Virgin, even Katherine couldn't be such a fool!" said Philippa with sudden energy. "Not if she really gets this chance." Philippa and Hawise were at one on this issue. Since the former had come to live with her sister two years ago, these determined women had learned to respect each other.

"Why you both should think he calls here for - for any special reason, I'm sure I don't know," said Katherine, defensively, and as they both opened their mouths for argument, she indicated Joan and shook her head. "Please - -"

Hawise shrugged gathering, up the mantle. "I'll do the last stitches - sweeting, ye're not going to wear that coif! It hides your hair. I'll bring ye the silver fillet."

"Thank God, Hawise has sense," sighed Philippa, lying back on the pillows. "It comforts me to know you'll have her, after I'm gone."

"Don't, dear - that's foolish," said Katherine quickly. "You'll be better when you've taken that betony wine the leech left."

Philippa shook her head and closed her eyes.

Katherine sighed deeply. I shall have to summon Geoffrey soon, she thought. He was living in Kent and dabbling in politics. He and Philippa were happier apart, but the separation was amicable as always, and he would be deeply shocked when he heard of his wife's condition.

Katherine picked up a distaff and began to spin abstractedly while she faced another more immediate worry. What shall I do about Robert Sutton, what is best? She had no real doubt as to the purpose of the wool merchant's announced visit this afternoon. The last time she had seen him he would have declared himself had she not managed to put him off, speaking - as though casually - about his wife, who was then but two months dead. God had helped her through these years. After an embarrassing time with Robert at the beginning, when she had thoroughly dashed all of his amorous hopes, they had settled into a friendly business relationship. Not truly friendly on his part, for Katherine knew he had fallen as deeply in love with her as his cautious, pompous nature would allow.

Katherine twirled the spindle and tried to think coolly. Marriage, honourable marriage with one of Lincoln's foremost citizens. The slandering tongues would be silenced, in public anyway. The lonely struggle would be over, she would be rich, secure. And the children - would it help them? Hawise and Philippa said "Of course." Katherine was not so sure. Robert was a possessive man, her anxious eye had seen indications that he resented the children. Still, she thought, it might be that she imagined his resentment. All her inmost self constantly sought arguments against this practical decision.

Her heart cried out that she did not love him, that the thought of lying in his arms sickened her. Reason answered that at thirty-six she should be finished with youthful passions and love-longings, that stubborn fidelity to a dream long past was stupid.

By day, it was only when she saw his traits in his children that she thought of the Duke. Young John looked most like him, the tawny gold hair, the arrogant grace of movement. But Harry had his voice, deep, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes so caressing, that it turned her heart over. They all had his intense blue eyes, except Joan.

But by night, sometimes she was with him in dreams. In these dreams there was love between them, tenderness greater than there had really been. She awoke from these with her body throbbing and a sense of agonising loss.

She had had no direct communication with him in these years, but he had been just, as she had known he would. There had been legal documents: severance papers sent through the chancery, which allowed her to keep the properties he had previously given her, and made her a further grant of two hundred marks a year for life "in recognition of her good services towards my daughters, Philippa of Lancaster and Elizabeth, Countess of Pembroke." No mention of his Beaufort children, but Katherine understood very well that this generous sum was to be expended for their benefit, and scrupulously did so.

Finally there had been a fearsomely legal quit-claim in Latin which the Duke's receiver in Lincoln translated for her. Its purport was a repudiation of all claims past, present and future which might be made on Katherine by the Duke or his heirs, or that she might make on him. Merely a matter of form and mutual protection, explained the receiver coldly, and added that His Grace with his usual beneficence had ordered that two tuns of the finest Gascon wine be delivered at Kettlethorpe as a final present.

So that was how it ended, those ten years of passionate love. A discarded mistress and her bastards, well enough provided for; a repentant adulterer who had returned to his wife. A common tale, one old as scripture. The Bishop of Lincoln had not failed to point this out in a sermon, with a reference to Adam and Lilith, and a long diatribe about shameless, scheming magdalenes. This sermon was preached at Katherine during the first hullabaloo after her return.

Later the bishop's sensibilities had not been so delicate when Katherine leased the house on Pottergate from the Dean and chapter for a sum double its worth; but she no longer attended Mass in the cathedral, she went instead to the tiny parish church of St. Margaret across the street.

She could not have endured the cruel humiliation that continually assailed her without the memory of Lady Julian, and the golden days in Norfolk. "This is the remedy, that we be aware of our wretchedness and flee to our Lord: for ever the more needy that we be, the more speedful it is to draw nigh to Him." These words always helped, yet on this problem of Robert Sutton she had received no answer. The serene certainty which she had come to rely on after prayer failed her in this.

That afternoon, in anticipation of the wool merchant's visit, Katherine kept her three boys with her. Though they were wild to get out on the exciting streets to watch the preparations for the King's procession, she had asked them to stay awhile, partly because they gave her protection, partly to observe closely how Robert would treat them.