Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (136 page)

Rochford was a little hamlet of half a dozen houses gathered around an ale house at a crossroads. My family's great house was set back behind high brick walls with a good-sized park around it. I could not even see it from the road. I had no fear that any of the house servants would see me, and no-one would recognise me if they did.

An idle youth of about twenty lounged against a cottage wall and watched the empty lane. It was very flat and windy. It was very cold. If this had been a test of knight errantry it could not have been more discouraging. I put up my chin and called to the man: ‘William Stafford's farm?'

He took the straw from his mouth and strolled over towards my horse.
I turned the horse a little, so that he could not put his hand on the reins. He stepped back when the powerful hindquarters moved around, and pulled his forelock.

‘William Stafford?' he repeated in complete bewilderment.

I brought out a penny from my pocket and held it between my gloved finger and thumb. ‘Yes,' I said.

‘The new gentleman?' he asked. ‘From London? Appletree Farm,' he said, pointing up the road. ‘Turn right, towards the river. Thatched house with a stable yard. Apple tree by the road.'

I flipped the coin towards him and he caught it with one hand. ‘You from London too?' he asked curiously.

‘No,' I said. ‘From Kent.'

Then I turned and rode up the road looking out for the river, an apple tree, and a thatched house with a stable yard.

The ground fell away from the road towards the river. At the river's edge there were reed beds and a flight of ducks suddenly quacked in alarm and up sprang a heron, all long legs and bow-shaped breast, flapping his huge wings and then settling a little further downstream. The fields were hedged with low quickset and hawthorn, at the water's edge the ragged meadows showed yellow, probably spoiled with salt, I thought. Nearer the road they were dull and green with the fatigue of winter, but in spring I thought William might get a good grass crop off them.

On the far side of the road the land was higher and ploughed. Water was glinting in every furrow, this would always be wet land. Further north I could see some fields planted with apple trees. There was a big old solitary apple tree leaning over the road and the branches brushed low. The bark was silvery grey, the twigs chunky with age. A bush of green mistletoe was thick in one fork in a branch and, on an impulse, I rode my horse up to it and picked a sprig, so I was holding that most pagan plant in my hand as I turned off the road and went down the little track to his farmhouse.

It was a little farmhouse, like a child might draw. A long low house, four windows long along the upper storey, two and a central doorway on the lower. The doorway was like a stable door, top and bottom. I imagined that in the not very distant past the farmer's family and the animals would all have slept inside together. At the side of the house was a good stable yard, cobbled and clean, and a field with half a dozen cows beside it. A horse nodded over the gate and I recognised William Stafford's hunter that had galloped beside me on the sandy beaches at Calais. The
horse whinnied when he saw us, and mine cried back as if she too remembered those sunny days at the end of autumn.

At the noise the front door opened and a figure came out of the dark interior and stood, hands on hips, watching me ride down the road. He did not move or speak as I rode up to the garden gate. I slipped down from the saddle unaided, and opened his gate without a word of welcome from him. I hitched the reins to the side of the gate and, with the mistletoe still in my hand, I walked up to him.

After all this long journey, I found I had nothing to say. My whole sense of purpose and determination scattered the moment I saw him.

‘William,' was all that I managed, and I held out the little twig of mistletoe with the white buds as if it was a tribute.

‘What?' he asked unhelpfully. He still made no move towards me.

I pulled off my hood and shook out my hair. I was suddenly, over-whelmingly conscious that he had never seen me anything but washed and perfumed. And here I was, in the same gown I had worn for three days, flea-bitten, lousy, dusty and smelling of horse and sweat, and hopelessly, helplessly inarticulate.

‘What?' he repeated.

‘I've come to marry you, if you still want me.' There seemed to be no way to mitigate the baldness of the words.

His expression gave nothing away. He looked at the road behind me. ‘Who brought you?'

I shook my head. ‘I came alone.'

‘What's gone wrong at court?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘It's never been better. They're married and she's with child. The Howards never had fairer prospects. I will be aunt to the King of England.'

William gave a short barking laugh at that, and I looked down at my filthy boots and the dust on my riding habit and laughed too. When I looked back up his eyes were very warm.

‘I have nothing,' he warned me. ‘I am a nobody, as you rightly said.'

‘I have nothing but a hundred pounds a year,' I said. ‘I'll lose that when they know where I have gone. And I am nobody without you.'

He made a quick gesture with his hand as if he would draw me to him, but still he held back. ‘I won't be the cause of your ruin,' he said. ‘I won't have you become the poorer for loving me.'

I felt myself tremble at his nearness, at my desire for him to hold me. ‘It doesn't matter,' I said urgently. ‘I swear to you that it doesn't matter to me any more.'

He opened his arms to me at that, and I stepped and half-fell forward. He snatched me up and crushed me against him, his mouth on mine, his demanding kisses all over my dirty face, on my eyelids and cheeks and lips and then finally plunging into my open longing mouth. Then he lifted me up into his arms and carried me across the threshold of his house, and up the stairs into the bedroom, into the clean linen sheets of his duckdown bed, and into joy.

Much later he laughed at the fleabites, and he brought me a great wooden bath which he filled with water and set before the big fire in the kitchen, and combed my hair for lice while I lolled my head back and soaked in the hot sweet-smelling water. He put my stomacher and skirt and linen to one side for washing and insisted that I dress in his shirt and a pair of his trousers which I kilted in around my waist and rolled up the legs like a sailor on deck. He turned out my horse into the meadow where she rolled with pleasure at being rid of the saddle, and cantered around with William's hunter, bucking and kicking like a filly. Then he cooked me a big bowl of porridge with yellow honey, and cut me a slice of wheaten bread with creamy butter, and a slab of thick soft Essex cheese. He laughed at my travels with Jimmy and scolded me for setting off without an escort, and then he took me back to bed and we made love all the afternoon till the sky darkened and we were hungry again.

We ate dinner by candlelight in the kitchen. In my honour, William killed an old chicken and spit-roasted it. I was armed with a pair of his gauntlets and delegated to turn the spit while he sliced bread and drew the small ale, and went to the cool pantry for butter and cheese.

When we had eaten we drew up our stools to the fire and drank to each other, and then sat in a rather surprised silence.

‘I can't believe this,' I said after a little while. ‘I thought no further than getting to you. I didn't think about your home. I didn't think what we would do next.'

‘And what d'you think now?'

‘I still don't know what to think,' I confessed. ‘I suppose I will become accustomed. I shall be a farmer's wife.'

He leaned forward and tossed a slab of peat on the fire. It settled with the others and started to glow red. ‘And your family?' he asked.

I shrugged.

‘Did you leave a note?'

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.'

He cracked a laugh. ‘Oh my love, what were you thinking of?'

‘I was thinking of you,' I said simply. ‘I just suddenly realised how much I loved you. All I could think of was that I should come to you.'

William reached across and stroked my hair. ‘You're a good girl,' he said approvingly.

I gave a little gurgle of laughter. ‘A good girl?'

‘Yes,' he said, unabashed. ‘Very.'

I leaned back against his caress and his hand strayed from my head to the nape of my neck. He took it in a firm grasp and shook me gently, like a mother cat might hold a kitten. I closed my eyes and melted into his touch.

‘You can't stay here,' he said softly.

I opened my eyes in surprise. ‘No?'

‘No.' He lifted his hand to forestall me. ‘Not because I don't love you, because I do. And we must be married. But we have to get the most we can from this.'

‘D'you mean money?' I asked, a little dismayed.

He shook his head. ‘I mean your children. If you come to me without a word of warning, without the support of anyone, you'll never get your children. You'll never even see them again.'

I pressed my lips together against the pain. ‘Anne can take them from me at any moment, anyway.'

‘Or return them,' he reminded me. ‘You said she was breeding?'

‘Yes. But –'

‘If she has a son she'll have no need of yours. We need to be ready to pick him up when she drops him.'

‘D'you think I might get him back?'

‘I don't know. But you have to be at court to play for him.' His hand was warm on my shoulders through the linen of the shirt. ‘I'll come back with you,' he said. ‘I can leave a man to run the farm for a season or two. The king will give me a place. And we can be together until we see which way the wind is blowing. We'll get the children if we can, and then we'll get clear and come back here.' He hesitated for a moment and I saw a shadow cross his face. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Is it good enough for them here?' he asked shyly. ‘They're used to Hever, and there's your family's own great house just up the lane. They're gentry born and bred. This is only a little place.'

‘They'll be with us,' I said simply. ‘And we'll love them. They'll have a new family, a sort of family that no nobleman has ever had before. A father and a mother who married for love, who chose each other despite wealth and position. It should be better for them, not worse.'

‘And you?' he asked. ‘It's not Kent.'

‘It's not Westminster Palace either,' I said. ‘I took my decision when I realised that nothing would compensate me for not being with you. I realised then that I need you. Whatever else it costs, I want to be with you.'

The grip on my shoulders tightened and he drew me off my stool and onto his lap. ‘Say it again,' he whispered. ‘I think that I am dreaming this.'

‘I need you,' I whispered, my eyes searching his intent face. ‘Whatever else it costs, I want to be with you.'

‘Will you marry me?' he asked.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the warm column of his neck. ‘Oh yes,' I said. ‘Oh yes.'