A Rose for the Crown: A Novel

  “Fetch me a bowl of water, Molly, and make some bandages quickly. My lord is wounded.” Kate ripped the soiled tunic off him and attempted to remove the heavy jacket. “God’s nails, this is worse than women’s garb to remove,” she complained.

  Richard opened an eye and grinned. “That’s my Kate. Here, let me help you. First you must remove the arm guard.” He raised himself up, wincing as he unthinkingly braced himself on his wounded arm. “Certes, ’tis nothing, Kate. You should have seen the man who did this after I was finished with him. It was just before John—”

  “Soft, my love. I am truly sorry about John, but you must be quiet and let me undress you.”

  The arm guard and chain mail had not protected him from a sword cut, and both were caked with blood. The two women eventually removed both and exposed the deep, four-inch gash that had narrowly missed the bone.

  “Ouch! Have a care, Kate. That hurts!” Richard could have been a little boy who had just scraped his knee, and his whine brought a smile to Kate’s face.

  “Bring me my silks and a large needle, Molly. They may finally have a more practical use than decorating kerchiefs.”

  Molly did as she was told and watched, fascinated, as Kate made three large stitches with scarlet thread. Richard moaned in pain, and Molly refilled his wine cup twice before Kate was done. In no time, the wound was liberally daubed with plantain ointment from Kate’s traveling supply of potions and then bandaged. She tucked him into bed, gently resting his wounded arm on top of the covers. Richard’s eyes finally closed, and Kate pulled the string that released the curtains around him and stepped away from the bed.

  As she was returning the ointment to its proper place, she let out a wail. “Katherine! I forgot Katherine!”

  Molly had been busy doing Kate’s bidding, knowing her charge was taking a nap next door. She presumed Kate had given the girl into someody’s keeping while she had brought Richard to their chamber. Her eyes widened with fear.

  “Where is she, mistress?” she whispered.

  “I left her in the hall, on the throne. Poor child, she will be terrified. There are soldiers dying down there, Molly. Blood everywhere. You stay here, and I shall find her. Pray God, she stayed where she was.”

  Kate closed the door quietly behind her and took off running down the hallway again. She had to step over dozens of men lying bleeding and spent on the hall floor to get to the dais. She expected to find a hysterical child when she got there, but, curled up unnoticed in the chair cushions where Kate had left her, Katherine was fast asleep.

  THE NEXT EVENING, after twelve hours of sleep and a day of rest, Richard was in better spirits. A messenger from Edward told him to take advantage of the respite, for in a few days they would muster more men to deal with Queen Margaret. Thanks to Kate’s ministrations, Richard’s wound looked healthy enough, and no fever had ensued. He spent the day dozing and playing with his children. The presence of his little family gave him peace after one of the most dramatic events of his life.

  Rob and Francis Lovell, another of Richard’s comrades from those years with the earl of Warwick, had been invited to share supper with Richard and Kate. Francis was younger than Richard and shy. He seemed surprised to meet Kate and the children.

  “Does he know of me?” Kate whispered to Richard as the two young men played hide and go seek with Katherine.

  A worried frown creased Richard’s forehead. “Nay, Kate. I swore to you I would tell no one but Rob. I am a man of my word. But Francis is my friend, I am proud for him to know you. I hoped you would not mind.”

  “If he is your friend, I am sure we may trust him. But let us speak of this later. We must attend to our guests.”

  Later, when Molly removed Katherine and persuaded her to go to bed, Richard sent a page with an order for supper to be served. It was only then that Kate was told the story of the battle.

  “The fog was so thick that Richard’s wing outflanked Exeter’s—that means our line extended past Exeter, and we were bogged down in a marsh trying to get up the slope to the enemy—” Rob began.

  “Because Exeter’s artillery was inflicting no damage on us—which should have happened—I realized there was something wrong with our position. In other words, Kate, we outflanked them, as Rob said,” Richard interrupted. “But we had to cross the bog and climb a hill to find the enemy. When we did, and we finally engaged his ranks, somehow both sides had turned away from the center line, do you see?”

  Kate did not, but she nodded.

  “What we didn’t know, madam, because we were now so far away,” Francis jumped in, “was that Oxford’s flank on the left of Warwick’s army had routed ours under Hastings’ command, and Hastings’ soldiers had fled in the fog. We just kept pushing Exeter, and Richard called to us to fight on as he was doing, even though we could barely see a face in front of us—the fog, you know.”

  All three men were sitting on the edges of their seats, reliving the battle. Kate was quite confused with all these military terms, but she did not have the heart to tell that to these eager young soldiers describing their first battle.

  “We were being pushed back to the hill tripping over our dead. And then John . . .” Richard paused and sadly shook his head. “I did not tell you, Kate, but John Milwater was killed not three paces from me.” Richard and the others crossed themselves. “May God keep his soul.”

  Kate crossed herself. “Aye, may God rest his soul. And to think only yesterday . . .” She could not finish, it was pointless. “Go on . . . I think.”

  She hoped she would not hear of others she knew. She dared not ask about Martin. And what of Jack and his son, Thomas? Perhaps Cousin Richard had been there? Oh, why did men have to go out and fight? Richard reached over and patted her hand. Sensitive to his audience, he had left out the goriest details and waited to continue.

  “If I understand correctly,” Kate asked, pulling herself together and trying her best to sound knowledgeable, “our side was not doing well. How did the battle turn around?”

  Richard smiled proudly at her, and all three men relished telling her the rest.

  “Somehow in the thick of things I received a message from Edward to hold on and, in truth, that was all I could do. ’Twas then I was struck,” Richard said grimly, remembering how tired he had been though Edward’s fate depended on him. “Then a miracle happened. . . .”

  “We heard ‘Treason! Treason!’ somewhere to our left and suddenly our foes began to fall back.” Rob leaned forward, his eyes shining.

  Kate, not for the first time, looked puzzled. “Treason? Who? Why?”

  “’Twas Oxford’s men,” Richard explained. “They had routed Hastings all the way to Barnet and were happily pillaging the town when Oxford succeeded in rounding them back up and marching them back to the field. However, some of Montagu’s men—Warwick’s brother, you remember—saw Oxford’s banner of the Streaming Star through the mist and thought it was Edward’s Sunne in Splendour, and so they fired a volley of arrows into the midst of what they thought was their enemy. But it was their own side! Oxford’s men thought Montagu had turned his coat and so cried ‘Treason!’ This did so dishearten Montagu’s forces, they panicked, and Edward took advantage. Mistaken identity, Kate, it was as simple as that!” Richard said triumphantly.

  “Hmm,” Kate said, not finding any of this simple at all.

  “But it turned the tide, and soon Montagu was slain and his men fled,” Francis said.

  “What of Warwick? Where was he?” Kate asked, trying not to imagine what a battlefield must look like after all the carnage.

  The three young men went silent, all remembering the noble earl who at one time was their lord.

  “Slain, like his brother Montagu. Both Nevilles are dead and will be laid out in St. Paul’s for all to see.” Richard’s regret was mirrored in the other two faces. He did not tell her that the most powerful lord in England had been cowardly struck down as he fled the field, hampered by his heavy armor. It is doubtful th
at Edward would have pardoned him had he been captured alive, but he might have died a noble’s death upon the scaffold.

  “How . . . many? Jack Howard? Martin Haute?” Kate whispered their dear names.

  “In all, more than one thousand men fell,” Richard said, and the others nodded. “Jack Howard survived, though his son was grievously wounded. Of Martin I cannot tell. But we shall find out, I promise you.”

  RICHARD AND KATE had four days together before Edward summoned his brothers and his other commanders and moved to his stronghold at Windsor. During the four days, Richard spent much of his time dictating letters that were sent to every corner of the land seeking men for the coming campaign. Edward meant to pursue Queen Margaret and her commander, Somerset, and rid the country of her—and the Lancastrian threat—once and for all.

  Kate and Molly were escorted on daily excursions by Rob Percy and his squire at Richard’s request. Some morbid curiosity took Kate to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where she stood in a sea of citizens before the catafalques bearing the Nevilles. A black cloth covered their loins, but the rest of their naked bodies were displayed with hideous wounds marking how they died. The press of overdressed and sweating bodies coupled with the sickly sweet smell of incense made her light-headed, and she would have swooned had Rob not taken her arm and led her to a stone seat in an embrasure. It was as though she had not seen these two corpses but Richard’s exposed in the same manner, his beloved body covered with knife wounds. She took in a breath on a sob and covered her face with her hands.

  “Hush, hinny.” Rob soothed in his Northern dialect. “We shouldna have come. My pardon. Let us find some refreshment. A good cup of wine will set you aright.”

  With Molly helping her on the other side, Kate walked slowly out of the cathedral through a side door and into the drizzle. The fine rain felt good on her face, and her spirits slowly recovered. They made their way through the churchyard to St. Paul’s Gate that led into Cheapside. In a few minutes, they were in the more cheerful atmosphere of the Mermaid Inn and Rob was pouring her some wine.

  “I know not what came over me, Rob. ’Twas as though I saw Richard there.”

  Rob smiled. “Richard is the king’s brother. These men were traitors and laid out as traitors. Nothing like that can happen to Richard.”

  She gave a weak grin. “No, no, you are right, Rob. I am just a foolish woman with too many fancies in her head. Let us drink a cup to our brave warriors. To Richard! To you, Rob!”

  They both raised their cups and finished their wine before joining Molly and the squire under a tree in the courtyard.

  Kate did not tell Richard of her strange fancy. She did not want to jeopardize the happiness of their short time together. She decided it was nothing but a morbid thought brought on by her courses that began the next day. Richard laughed at her chagrin at their onset and made a special effort to spoil her in other ways. He gave her a jeweled brooch of gold. “The emerald is you, the diamonds are my children,” he told her.

  The days flew by, and on Friday morning, he kissed her farewell. “You must go home to Chelsworth, Kate, you will be safe there. We know not how we shall fare against Queen Margaret. As long as people believe the children are Hautes, not Plantagenets, they will be safe. Besides, your father-in-law needs you to nurse him.” He had discovered that Martin had indeed been wounded at Barnet and had arranged for him to be transported home with Kate and an escort of two men-at-arms.

  “God keep you, Richard. I shall pray for you and Edward every step of your journey. Promise to send me word when it is over and you are safe?” Kate stroked his cheek and committed his every feature to memory. He smiled and kissed her again.

  “Aye, my fair Kate. You shall hear from me. God keep you—and my children.”

  This time he did see the tears coursing down her cheeks as she stood on the steps of the castle to wave good-bye.

  BACK AT CHELSWORTH, Kate spent the next two weeks tending Martin’s wounds. He had been felled by an arrow in his shoulder, which the battlefield surgeon had attempted to remove without success. Only when one of the nuns at the hospital of St. Mary Bethlehem had given it the time and patience needed had the metal tip been eased out by her skilled fingers. By then, infection had set in and with it the inevitable fever. Martin teetered between life and death for several days before Richard had knowledge of his whereabouts.

  Martin was not an easy patient, Kate noted. He chafed at being bedridden and snapped at her, the servants and his estate manager, to whom he railed about being unable to further serve his king. Kate overheard them talking and understood her father-in-law’s frustration and thus she remained patient with him, ignoring his moods.

  “For once, you have no choice but to do my bidding. You may join the king as soon as I deem you fit and not before, Father,” she told him one particularly exasperating day. “Why a man should want to go back into the fray after what you have endured is beyond my understanding. Despite knowing ’tis a man’s world, I would not be a man for all the jewels in the crown.”

  Martin harrumphed and then gave a snort of laughter. It was the first one she had heard from him since returning, and it gave her hope of his recovery.

  “Daughter,” he teased her, “you are harder to bear than that leathery old hag of a nun. And it pains me to admit I am grateful for your skill and your patience.”

  “Tomorrow, if the sun shines, we shall see how your legs work outside in the garden.” Kate helped him out of bed for a turn upon the chamber pot and left him to his privacy, pleased with his progress.

  It was one of those glorious days in early May when Kate finally allowed Martin out. The sun sparkled on the river, lambs frolicked in the fields beyond and the air was alive with birdsong. Martin breathed deeply, remarking on the earthy smell of tilled soil and the delicate scent of the hawthorn blossom. He exhaled and breathed again. There was a dull ache in his shoulder as he did so, but he felt strong at last and sent up a Deo gratia as he surveyed his estate. Kate took his arm and gently walked him among the herb beds, pointing out the growing plants and giving their medicinal values.

  Across the Brett, the field hands were bent double weeding between the bright green shoots of wheat. As Kate and Martin came to the riverbank, a horseman rode full tilt down the hill and over the bridge. They stood stockstill, both wondering if he rode for Haute Manor. Their question was answered in a moment when the foam-flecked mount pounded into the stable yard. The messenger leapt off before Wat had time to help and demanded to see the master of the house. Wat pointed to Martin a hundred feet away.

  Martin moved to meet the young man who wore the Howard colors. “Pray God it is good news, Kate.”

  The messenger bowed and pulled a parchment from his pouch. “’Tis from my mistress, Lady Howard. My master is still with the king in the west but bade me ride to tell his lady the good news. ’Tis she who has sent me here.”

  “Good news. Did you say good news?” Martin demanded.

  The man grinned, still breathing heavily. “Aye, sir, ’tis set out in the letter.”

  Kate told Will to take the servant to the kitchens for refreshment. Martin walked stiffly back into the garden and sank down on Philippa’s favorite wooden bench. Kate sat next to him, waiting for him to read the letter, her nervous fingers fumbling with the keys attached to her belt. Martin scanned the first few lines and then began to read aloud.

  “To Master Martin Haute greetings from Tendring Hall and my Lord Howard. Please convey the news in this letter to my dearest Kate as soon as you receive it.

  “His Grace, King Edward has won a decisive victory outside the city of Tewkesbury, so my lord says.” Kate clapped her hands and leaned back, smiling. “The march began in Cirencester on the last day of April and from then ’twas a race to engage the queen’s army ere she crossed the Severn. They came to Tewkesbury hard by the Severn, and Edward knew he must strike or Somerset would lead the enemy back into Wales and safety. In three days they marched without stopping, and both
sides were footsore upon the eve of battle. The battle was bloody indeed, and when ’twas done, the queen’s son, Edward of Lancaster, was slain in the field. Somerset was taken and the queen and her party were in flight. ’Tis said Edward took no prisoners.”

  Martin paused. He stared straight ahead, his mouth in a grim line. “Christ’s nails, I wish I had been there! Oh, to have been part of that glorious day.”

  “Or part of its carnage, Father. How do you know ’twas not part of God’s plan that you be kept safe?”

  Martin looked at her, his eyes lackluster, the white beard standing out on his gaunt face. “Why would He keep me safe, Kate? He has seen to it I lose two sons and my life’s companion. Who needs me now? I am but a shell of an old soldier with no more purpose in life than . . . than . . . that worm down there.” He kicked at a clump of earth and sent the worm writhing into the grass.

  “Be still, Father. I did not mean to offend you. You are important to your son, to Maud and me. You can still be of use to the king—or the queen, and you must keep all this”—she encompassed the house and land with her gesture—“running smoothly for your grandchildren. Think of them.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Martin taking in her words before he went on with the letter.

  “Kate must know that Richard commanded the vanguard once again. Somerset was found in an abbey with others and brought to trial before Richard as Constable and was executed without delay.”

  “Good riddance!” Martin growled, and then addressed the letter, “But my lady, what of the She-wolf?”

  It was as if Margaret had anticipated the question.

  “William Stanley pursued the queen over the river and found her hiding in a religious house with only a group of ladies about her, including her daughter-in-law Anne Neville, now a widow, who is in Clarence’s custody, so Jack says. Poor little thing.”