The Golden Widows Page 25

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My older son is still affected by his father’s death.’

  ‘Hmm, yet there are plenty of cures for melancholy.’ The teasing lift of the man’s eyebrow suggested that she too might find his services useful. ‘Perhaps the boy needs to be bled.’ She imagined what Tom would say to that.

  ‘As for my other child over there.’ While Cat and Mary poked each other behind his back, Dickon was contentedly arranging the plum stones from his tart into precise formation. ‘He has not been the same since he had a bad fall a year ago.’ Mind, even before that, Dickon had never showed very much emotion and he had always counted the toy soldiers, the ones Tom had later destroyed, back into the chest when he’d finished playing with them.

  ‘Would you like her grace’s physician to examine your children? His fees are affordable. For you, my lady, a special price.’ The knight’s foot nudged hers meaningfully.

  For an instant, Elysabeth was tempted. Not just to have the physician’s opinion but to feel a man’s arms round her once again and this knight for all his silvery tongue was very personable. No, honour was more important. Besides, she saw Tom watching. He pulled a wry face and had her smiling.

  ‘I regret I cannot afford your price, sir,’ she answered demurely, ‘although I appreciate your offer. Pray excuse me.’ She should not neglect her right-hand neighbour, the duchess’s chamberlain, but the conversation with the latter proved donkey-like at first, full of starts and little progress, and she knew the knight was listening with amusement. Not only listening but sliding looks down her profile from beneath his ebony lashes, fingering her in his imagination, permitting his gaze to linger where her nipples disturbed the sleek drape of the woollen fabric over her breasts.

  ‘Her grace shows no ill from the day’s adventure.’ Another attempt at conversation.

  The chamberlain finished chewing his mouthful. ‘My lady’s left forearm is bruised and tender but she is fortunate.’

  ‘Some women of her years break limbs very easily. I assume she’s three score years and more.’

  ‘Aye, but sharp as an arrowhead,’ asserted the chamberlain, holding out his tankard for more ale. ‘It would take one of these new-fangled cannon balls at close range to knock her grace over and then she’d probably blow out the flame before you lit the powder.’

  Elysabeth bit her lips not to laugh. The knight leaned closer. ‘She’s had three husbands already and is looking for a fourth.’

  Patches the hue of summer poppies had bloomed upon their noble guest’s countenance, clashing with the rosy powder already brushed there. The lady’s heartiness owed much to her young host’s persistent wickedness in replenishing her wine. Elysabeth could see the king’s aunt was purring, and John was taking care not to be fulsome. He was too clever for that but their mother looked like she was aching to smash the ornate salt across his head.

  ‘Oh dear me, you have so…so many children, Jacquetta,’ declared Lady Catherine loudly, peering once more at the row of young Woodvilles on the lower table. Elysabeth suspected that it was a lazy spite rather than inebriation that was giving the old lady a confused estimate of her hostess’s progeny. ‘It must be very—’ a polite hiccough and she continued, ‘—hard to find marriage partners for them these days.’ Here, the dowager sniffed and pale-lashed eyes watered in maudlin fashion. ‘We have lost so many of our young men in this unfortunate civil strife.’

  Elysabeth found she was holding her breath as she watched her mother’s face but Jacquetta made no treasonous retort, merely she shrugged in Gallic fashion.

  ‘Ah, zere is plenty of time since most of our children are still in ze nursery. Our belle Elysabeth she is the exception. All she requires is a new lord to protect ’er rights.’

  As their guest of honour craned forwards, as if making a further assessment, Elysabeth’s admiring neighbour slid his hand further up her leg, intent on a more erotic destination.

  ‘I need a husband to protect my sons’ rights, Maman,’ Elysabeth corrected, fiercely preventing the opportunist fingers from delving into the woollen folds between her thighs. Undaunted, the knight beamed attentively at the conversation and curled his thumb round to stroke her palm.

  ‘You have no…er…suitors at present, Lady Grey?’

  ‘No, madame.’ It came out somewhat breathily as she tried to shift further from her lascivious neighbour. Such a tactic brought her up against the chamberlain’s thigh and slapped a sudden foolish grin upon his face. Now he too put a hand on her knee.

  ‘Nonsense, my daughter is just being modest.’ Jacquetta paused to lick the quince paste from her fingers. ‘We are ’oping she may make a match with the king’s chamberlain. They are neighbours and acquainted, you know.’

  ‘Mother, I don’t think—’ Elysabeth began.

  Lady Catherine flicked a crumb from the corner of her thin mouth.

  ‘I think you have missed the courier on that one, Jacquetta. The king, my nephew, has already arranged for Lord Hastings to marry my niece, Lady Harrington. Her daughter Cecily is a considerable heiress, you know, estates all over the West Country. Could I trouble you to pass me another wafer, if you please?’

  Jacquetta took the rebuff on the chin. ‘Would that be Katherine Neville? Ah, I think I met her once. A rather plain little demoiselle?’

  Katherine’s aunt and namesake drew a deep breath. ‘One has to face the fact that noblemen have always had to look to their purses when they choose their brides. Mind, your daughter still has her looks. I know one or two elderly wealthy widowers who might be interested if you would like me to raise the matter.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Catherine, we have other irons in the fire.’

  ‘But, Mother,’ began John and received a quelling look from Jacquetta.

  ‘Never mind, Lady Grey,’ murmured the knight beside Elysabeth. ‘There are consolations, “a bird in the hand…”’

  The chamberlain was equally solicitous. ‘I am sure that with your beauty, Lady Grey, you will soon find a suitable husband but in the meantime…’ Each man was stroking her through her skirt. The steward, the tardy tortoise of the two, conveyed a hard-shelled tenacity.

  Despairing of male vanity, Elysabeth considered slamming her sole back into the knight’s shin. Instead, she slid her fingers caressingly over each of the men’s soft hands, and joined them together!

  For a moment nothing happened. The two fools wore daft, triumphant expressions until Elysabeth pointedly lifted both her hands to straighten her coif, and darted a sweet smile at each of them, waiting for the hammer to hit the anvil.

  It was priceless. It took one scarlet mutual glare between the men to ensure that any further fishing expeditions remained in harbour. There was no more conversation and mercifully no more courses; the sweet wafers and quince paste were finished. Elysabeth rose thankfully to her feet with the rest of the company as John led Lady Catherine to the solar. He deposited her on a settle by the fire and drew up a cross-fold chair for Jacquetta. Elysabeth sat down beside their guest and had her hands patted.

  ‘Yes, you certainly are a pretty creature. Hmm.’ The old lady’s mind retreated from the present for a few moments, as she stared into the flames. ‘At least at my age,’ she giggled suddenly, her insides now laced with goodly wine, ‘I can wed to please myself,’ and then turning to Elysabeth, she declared, ‘The first time is for your family, the second time is for the security of your children – if you have any – and the third time is to please yourself.’

  ‘And the fourth?’ quipped John.

  ‘The fourth?’ It was uttered with amusement and almost a little astonishment as if at her advanced years she had not considered the possibility.

  ‘Why not, madame? A lady is surely as old as she feels and judging by your lively disposition, you must be as young as I at heart.’

  Colour once more suffused the dowager’s pale countenance ‘Well, yes, a pr…pretty speech, young man, but I should be an old fool to believe you. How old are you, ninet
een?’

  ‘Seventeen, madame.’

  ‘Indeed? So young.’ More sadness moistened Lady Catherine’s eyes.

  ‘If you will permit me to catechise you, madame?’ John persisted with a sinful glint, and when the old lady acquiesced with a nod, he asked, ‘Do you feel your age?’

  As intent as him, she too leaned forward. ‘No, Master Woodville.’

  ‘Do you forswear the marriage bed?’

  An angry frown flicked across her face but it was gone in an instant. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you enjoy the company of younger people?’

  ‘Since I am older than all my acquaintances, young man…’

  ‘But do you, your grace?’

  ‘Yes, very much so.’

  He opened his hands as if his point was made and she sat back smiling. ‘You have an agile tongue, John Woodville.’

  ‘And you have an agile mind, Lady Norfolk.’

  They eyed each other with mutual approval.

  Elysabeth would have rolled her eyes at John’s behaviour but the old lady was lapping up the attention like a famished old tabby, except that John was right, her straight demeanour meant that ‘old’ was not the word to describe her.

  ‘Please forgive me if I seek my bed now. I must rise early to resume my journey.’

  John drew breath and for a moment, Elysabeth thought he might make some unfortunate play on ‘rise’. Instead, he murmured, ‘Of course,’ and helped her grace to her feet.

  ‘I shall speak to my royal nephew on your behalf when I see him again. Maybe he can find a place for you in his household.’

  ‘That would be most gracious of you, madame.’

  ‘Lady Grey, I hope your circumstances improve. Speak with the abbot at St Albans about educating your sons for the monastic order! It will certainly suit the younger boy.’ All loftily suggested and before Elysabeth could even say ‘no’ and ‘no!’, the ancient bitch was giving another order. ‘Jacquetta, oh, there you are. Pray see me to my chamber! I cannot remember my way in this coney warren of yours.’

  ‘Do not lift your hopes, little brother,’ warned Elysabeth as they carried candles to the stairs later. ‘As if she’ll mention you to the king.’

  John shrugged. ‘Thought it was you who was all for buttering up the high and mighty. So, the old lady goes to bed happy.’

  ‘Yes, but tomorrow with a soberer head, she may think you false and fulsome.’

  ‘And Hastings, in his cups, may remember your beauty and wish he had not turned you aw—’ He cut off his words at the telltale rustle from the landing above, but to Elysabeth’s relief it was only Tom who loitered.

  ‘You excelled yourself tonight, uncle,’ he sneered. ‘A wonder you did not suck the mud off the old crone’s shoe beaks.’

  ‘Tom!’ Elysabeth hissed angrily.

  His eyes glittered like orbs of white. ‘Uncle John’s no better than that ragged whore who does her business with the old men in the laneway by the inn in Stony Stratford.’

  ‘Tom!’ Horrified at her son’s ingratitude and astonished at his worldliness, she grabbed her brother’s arm to stay his fist.

  ‘Don’t you call me a whore, you ungrateful, landless lump of Groby sh—’

  Elysabeth flung up her hands between them. ‘Be quiet both of you! Will you shame us?’ In the tense silence, she could hear conversation beyond the door of the guest chamber up the stairs but thank God no latch was raised.

  Tom was still blocking their way. ‘Oh, truth will out. At last I know what you really think, dear uncle.’

  ‘Go to your chamber this instant, child!’

  ‘A pity Lord Hastings would not take you in and teach you manners, Thomas Grey,’ growled John. ‘You need a good thrashing and I shall be very pleased to give you one.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not, Mother?’ sneered her son. ‘It’s all that I’m good for. Groby shit, eh, Uncle?’

  Beside her, John’s breath became even. ‘Then you can muck out the stables in the morning.’

  She did not argue with that.

  ‘Go, Tom, now!’ Amazingly he obeyed.

  John stormed off angrily to his sleeping chamber and Elysabeth, with a deep sigh, sat down wearily on the stairs waiting for Tom to cool his temper before she went to the cramped bedchamber to speak with him.

  Dickon was asleep but Tom was an angry hunched-up bundle beneath the sheet.

  ‘I cannot tolerate such behaviour, Tom. If your uncle punishes you in the morning you have only yourself to blame.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ he muttered, as she sat down beside him. ‘How long are we going to stay here like beggars? I thought it was only to be a few weeks but it’s almost half a year. When are we going to get Astley back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Until there’s a verdict on the three manors your grandfather settled on us.’

  ‘Then we’ll go and live on one of them?’

  ‘No, they are just farms, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Are you going to marry again? I saw the way those men you were sitting with tonight were looking at you.’

  ‘No, darling, only if I met someone who would be a good stepfather to you and Dickon.’

  And who was wealthy enough to love a landless bride.

  ‘You loved Father, didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I did, and I love you and Dickon. We’ll get your lands back, Tom, but it may take a while and it doesn’t help you being rude to your uncle.’

  ‘Why not, Mama? Uncle John’s only fought in skirmishes and he’s never had anyone he loves die, or been shamed like I was at Astley in front of all those soldiers.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, so do not blame him for being merry-hearted. And you must remember that he hasn’t any land either. Your grandparents have eight manors, that is all, and when they pass away, everything will go to Uncle Anthony because he’s the oldest.’

  Tom sniffed. ‘At least his father’s been pardoned.’

  ‘And so shall yours be. I’ll get the attainder reversed, I promise. But listen, my darling, we all have choices. You can go around with woes strapped on your shoulders for the rest of your life, or you can outwardly make the best of things, even if you are hurting on the inside. Everyone has a cross to bear. Perhaps God is trying to temper you into a better person.’

  He shrugged and then he looked round at her again. ‘Do not marry anyone just to provide for us, will you, Mama? It must be someone you truly love.’

  She smiled, ran her fingers through his hair, touched deeply by his understanding, and remembered another tousled head back in the summer – the only man she had found truly tempting since her husband’s death.

  The young man she had met at Kirby Muxloe.

  Kate

  12th January 1462

  Westminster Palace

  The tenez court where Lord Hastings had arranged for the actors to rehearse was narrow with a lofty, pitched ceiling, a sloping gallery of seats on one side and some very odd masonry protrusions, presumably pertinent to the game. Kate had never actually played tenez or jeu de paume as it was also known, but she knew that the parallel lines marked in whitewash across the floor were called chases. The massive net, rolled-up and lying alongside the gallery wall, was serving a new purpose, strewn with garments like a Cheapside slopseller’s stall.

  Most of the players, already masked and costumed, were huddled at the hazard end of the court. One young man stood apart while a kneeling young woman sewed his sleeves tight in at the wrists. Their breath was vapour and one of the older men clad only in hose and a sleeveless leather jerkin must have been feeling chilled.

  Sitting at the service end on Neptune’s throne – now lined with furs instead of mock seaweed – Kate felt very cosseted. At Lord Hastings’ insistence, she now had a hot brick beneath her feet and a brazier of glowing coals behind her chair. His concern was almost enough to exorcise the dismay of two days ago from her thoughts. Almost. And when he drew up a mock throne beside hers, taking his seat like a ki
ng to her queen, it was hard not to feel flattered. It was equally hard to be prepared to say no to this man; should he outmanoeuvre her. However, with some twelve players to play gooseberry and her attendant, Eleanor, sitting on a cushion next to the footstool, the king’s handsome chamberlain was unlikely to get adventurous.

  Still, even with him scarcely beyond touching distance, she could barely draw her gaze from him. She liked the power and authority that he wore, not like some newly acquired rich mantle to be flaunted, but as though born to it. The way he took his ease, an elbow nonchalant on the arm of the throne, his hand supporting his chin, the cabochon amethyst that adorned his third finger, lavender and gold against the mulberry hue of his glove. He could be hers for the taking, but at too great a price.

  ‘Whitfield, the portly knave wearing the crown, is their master player.’

  ‘He looks greatly afeared of you, my lord.’ Kate smiled graciously at Master Whitfield as the fellow looked their way. ‘For players, they seem quite timorous.’

  ‘And no wonder. With all the lords in England thumping the hell out of each other, and the old king not liking pageantry unless it had a religious theme, these poor wretches have had it hard these last years. I beg you to look entertained even if you are not.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure I shall be, my lord,’ she murmured contentedly. ‘I hope they live up to your expectations.’

  ‘They wanted to perform Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, but that was out of the question.’

  ‘Indeed? Surely the playfulness between the Green Knight’s Lady and Sir Gawaine would have provided much humour?’

  He drew a deep breath. ‘I am sure you are right, my lady, but it was the first part when the Green Man asks Sir Gawaine to strike his head off that concerned me.’

  ‘Oh dear, I suppose that would be quite difficult although they might manage something with a sheet and a lant—’ She broke off as the stone of realisation hit the bottom of the well. ‘Oh, Jesu!’ Shameful blood flushed her skin. She had just spoken like some insensitive fishwife back from a disembowelling at Tower Hill.

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed grimly. ‘Like yourself, there would hardly be a noble watching who has not had a kinsman beheaded by the old queen or been afraid for his own life. It is only through God’s good grace that Ned and the rest of us survived such a fate.’