A Rose for the Crown (11 page)

The boys grinned at each other and both took a rope end and began to slide the log towards the house.

John called out to the women, “The Yule log be here. Come and see!”

That evening, in the glow of the rushlights and the roaring fire made by the great log, the Bywoods gave thanks for the birth of Jesus and prayed for the future safe delivery of the new baby. A goose had been killed, stuffed and roasted for the occasion, and it had filled the kitchen
with mouthwatering smells before being devoured by a hungry and grateful family. Kate had brought small gifts for her brothers and sister—a whittling knife for Johnny, a whistle for Geoffrey and a wooden doll for Matty. The children were overwhelmed; no one had ever given them gifts before. Martha and John thanked Kate quietly for providing what they could not. When the excitement had died down and all were gathered round the fire, watching the flames of the huge log in their fascinating dance, Kate began to sing a Christmas song she had recently learned from Will.

“Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell,
This is the salutation of the angel Gabriel,
Tidings true there be come new, sent from the Trinity,
By Gabriel to Nazareth, city of Galilee.”

She missed the harp, but her voice was true, and her family, who had not known she could sing so, sat spellbound as the Christmas story unfolded and mingled in the air with the seasonal smells. Tears spilled over and ran down Martha’s cheeks. Her heart was full to bursting. Indeed, it was giving her such pain that she was almost swooning. Joan was the first to notice that Martha was clutching at her breast and sweat was pouring down her neck.

“Mother of God,” she whispered, “Aunt Martha be unwell.”

Suddenly, the cozy scene turned to pandemonium as Martha began to pant and claw at her belly, moaning that the baby was coming.

“’Tis too soon, my love,” soothed John, holding her hand and trying to calm her. The boys whimpered in a corner, and Matty ran to Kate. It was only when Kate noticed the child was staring fearfully at her that she realized the strange noise she could hear was coming from her own throat.

Joan was the only one who recognized the need for action, and she quickly hoisted a pot of water over the fire. Then she instructed John to carry Martha upstairs to their bed and called to Kate to stop her wailing and put Matty and the boys to bed. Kate finally found her composure and nodded. For once the boys went up without a murmur. Matty clung to Kate as they mounted the steps.

As soon as the children were tucked in, Kate rummaged in her bundle to find the vial Elinor had given her in a rare moment of generosity. The mixture contained myrtle, chamomile, horehound and dried mare’s blood.

“’Tis for your mother in her childbirthing. ’Twill ease the pain and make the babe come easier,” she had said, kindly for once. The agony she had endured in birthing Anne was a memory she had not soon forgotten. Indeed, so great had it been that the midwife had predicted Elinor would bear no more children. She had been right.

She went into her mother’s chamber, where Martha was writhing on the bed, her bulging eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling and her hands gripping the sheet beneath her. Kate knelt down by her mother’s side, gently holding the precious vial to her parched lips. Martha sipped the liquid as her daughter stroked her hand, trying to ease her pain. But Martha’s back arched again in a paroxysm of agony, and she screamed. John wiped her forehead with a wet cloth, his hand trembling with fear.

“What can I do, Martha? Tell me, my dear wife. I cannot bear to see you suffer so,” he sobbed.

Kate got up from her knees and went round to his side of the bed and led him gently from the room. “There is naught you can do, Father. Birthing is for women, and Joan and I shall manage. I beg you, go and open all that is closed in the house to ease Mother’s pain. And then see to the children—and pray.”

John was vaguely aware that his little girl was sounding more adult than child as she coaxed him from the room. There was something comforting in her steady voice and hand, and he went willingly enough, escaping those terrible screams and leaving the door ajar as the birthing superstitions required.

Joan came back upstairs carrying the hot water and some torn linen she intended to use to stem any flow the baby might cause. She asked Kate if she had observed any water from her mother, and eleven-year-old Kate, like any farmer’s daughter, was not dismayed by the question. She had witnessed plenty of animal births and had been looking forward to helping her mother with this babe. But this was a different situation. The baby was four weeks early, and her mother far from strong. Something was horribly wrong. She tasted the acid of fear in her mouth.

“Nay, Joan. Her water has not broken.” She watched the plain face of her cousin anxiously and derived comfort from its calmness.

Joan was matter-of-fact. “Then I fear we must help it.”

She bent over Martha and touched the distended belly, as if to pass her calm to the child inside. As soon as Joan touched the rock-hard skin, Martha writhed as if she had been pierced with a red-hot poker. Another pain seared through her, and Joan frowned. The contractions were too frequent and erratic in length, she observed grimly.

“Hush, aunt, Kate and I be here to help. Do you feel the need to push?” Joan tried to sound unemotional. Martha shook her head.

“She be too weak for the birthing chair, Kate,” Joan whispered.

Kate nodded numbly. “Shall we send Father for the midwife?” she asked.

Joan shook her head. “In this snow? ’Twould be foolhardy.”

During a brief lull in the pains, Martha turned her frightened eyes on Kate and whispered her name. Kate leaned in and reassured her mother that she was still there.

“My sweet Kate. I fear I am to die, and I will not see you a woman. And that breaks my heart.” Martha’s lip trembled and tears rolled down the sides of her face. Kate tried to stop her talking, but Martha went on, “My other babies, they will forget me as time goes on. But you, Kate, my firstborn, my dearest child, do not ever forget my love and that I loved you for your spirit, your dreaming and your strength. Men are going to love you deeply, but I see you loyal to one man once you have found him. I pray you are fortunate and can marry where your heart lies. And if you ever have children, Kate, love them as I have you, and your rewards will be ten thousand. . . .”

Another pain brought her speech to an end, but this time her strength seemed to have left her. Martha closed her eyes as Kate smothered her face with kisses and begged her to be strong for just a few more minutes. But Joan was looking grave. She raised the sheet and Martha’s gown and stared in horror at the dark pool of blood that had soaked through to the mattress. “Sweet Jesu! I fear the babe be dead.”

An ugly, angry scream tore from Martha’s throat. “Nay, you lie! My babe, Mother of God, save my babe!”

Kate shuddered at the sound.

Martha struggled to raise herself from the bed to see what was happening to her. Her eyes were glassy, and she gazed unblinking at the mess between her legs. But the pressure of her new position caused the sudden expulsion of the baby in another gush of blood. Kate and Joan could only stare in despair. The child—a boy—was certainly dead. Moments later the afterbirth flooded the bed anew.

Martha fell back, a strange, sweet smile curving her mouth. “Poor wee babe, ’twas not his fault,” she murmured. “My womb carried one too many. Bury me with him, I beg of you. God’s will be done.” Without taking her eyes from Kate’s face, she fell back onto the pillows with an exhausted sigh. Not an hour later, her body began trembling, and with John and Kate holding her hands, Martha passed into the peaceful sleep of death. Kate stared, horrified, at her mother’s limp form, now freed from earthly pain. John quickly closed the staring eyes and folded Martha’s hands on her breast.

“God rest her soul,” he muttered, crossing himself.

Kate was on her knees, sobbing as quietly as she could without alerting the other children. Joan put her hand on her shoulder. “She be better off in heaven, Kate. Her pain is done. May God have mercy on her soul—and the poor wee babe’s.”

Kate’s lips could only form a silent “Amen.”

Two days later, Martha and her child were wrapped in a simple shroud and buried in the parish churchyard, with her husband and children gathered around the grave. Joan stood a little distance away, holding Matty. The priest intoned the prayers for the dead. The sexton spaded the earth. Snowflakes fell like silent teardrops, coating the ground with a soft mantle of white. Kate and Geoffrey sobbed. John and Johnny stood stoically staring at the ground. Matty wriggled in Joan’s arms but seemed to understand the solemnity of the occasion and remained quiet.

The bereaved family turned and slowly made its way back to the wagon and home. Kate now sat up front with her father.

4
Ightham, Winter to Spring 1461

T
he days following Martha’s burial went by in a blur. John was inconsolable. His usual stoic demeanor was replaced by outbursts of anger and uncontrollable tears. He railed at himself for not opening everything in the house, as Kate had instructed, on the night of Martha’s death. He knew opening doors and windows allowed evil spirits to depart during childbirth, but he had left the front door shut to prevent the snow and cold wind from penetrating the house and chilling Martha. During his fits of despair, Kate took him in her arms and cried along with him. She told him again and again that nothing could have prevented Martha’s dreadful death short of a miracle from God.

Young Johnny took charge of trapping and gathering food and was rewarded with praise from Kate and Joan. He knew where to find rabbits and hares, and although he was not yet much good with a bow and arrow, he could use a slingshot to bring down pigeons. Geoffrey’s mouth was permanently turned down at the corners, and his tear-stained, freckled face appeared every now and then from a hiding place somewhere upstairs. Only Matty behaved as usual, toddling from person to person, trying to understand why no one played with her and no one laughed
anymore. To get attention, she would fall down and set up such a fuss that someone would have to go to her. It wrung Kate’s heart to hear her sister call for her mother. While Kate ministered to her father, Matty turned to the welcoming arms of Joan.

In their grief, the family lost track of time. When Fenris lifted his angular head and began to growl one busy noontime, Ightham was the furthest thing from Kate’s mind. She was not expecting Ralph when Geoffrey answered the rapping on the door, but she ran forward to greet him, peeling sticky dough from her fingers. The puzzled groom stared at the glum faces and mumbled a “Good morrow to ye” to no one in particular.

The sad tale gave the gruff man a lump in his throat. He noticed that the high-spirited girl he had brought home not a fortnight earlier had been transformed.

“You be all grown up, Mistress Kate. I hardly recognize you.”

“Aye, Ralph. I am needed here more, in truth. But I promised Master Haute I would be gone only two weeks.”

Parting from her family—especially from her father—was unbearable for Kate. He clung to her hand as she and Ralph moved off down the lane, making a pathetic picture slipping and sliding on the ice as he tried to keep up with the horse. He finally let go when his pattens skittered out in front of him and he landed on his tailbone, cursing roundly. Kate smiled through her tears when she saw he was unhurt. He scrambled to his feet.

“Pray have a care, Father! You must be strong for the family. I shall return as soon as I can, I promise.”

She leaned round once more to wave farewell to the small group. Johnny was already stomping off to the orchard with his rabbit traps. Joan shooed Geoff into the barn to collect some eggs. The wheel of fortune was turning, she knew, and life would go on.

A
NNE
WAS
WAITING
for them as the shadows lengthened in the Mote’s courtyard. The day was bitingly cold, with the north wind promising more snow on the morrow. Kate saw her friend standing in the doorway to the great hall, where she had been keeping watch for an hour or more. Elinor told her to keep the door closed, so Anne peered through the grille every five minutes.