The Sixth Wife (8 page)

My preparations for my trip to Kate included explaining the situation to the boys. I didn’t want to alarm them, but they had to understand that it was important for me to go and perhaps for me to stay a while. Charlie was to remain in London, I decided, close to Harry, with his tutor and, of course, enough staff to keep our Barbican house comfortable for him. I was mindful that none of us was at home at Grimsthorpe, and hadn’t been, by then, for some time. Our absence felt, to me, a little like desertion. Which was ridiculous, because Grimsthorpe would – I knew – be running fine, albeit in its half-hearted winter way. The boys and I are, in a sense, superfluous there. Grimsthorpe’s grounds might seem to be in hibernation, but that wouldn’t be true of the house and outhouses. Baking, brewing and slaughtering would continue, our staff to be kept warm and fed. There were tens of horses to be tended to, exercised, shod. Chapel
bells would, daily, be ringing. A busy, noisy world of its own, through summer and winter, work days and days of rest. If I’m honest, what was making me uneasy was that since Charles had died and Harry had been living at court, Grimsthorpe has no longer felt quite like home.

If Grimsthorpe had somehow come to seem an impossibly long way away, the distance was nothing compared to Sudeley’s. Five or six days’ riding, we were advised. I’d never been so far west. In fact, I’d barely ever been west. Suffolk born and bred, I’ve made my home in Lincolnshire and, of course, London. I could have been heading for the end of the earth, but I can’t say I felt cowed. Winter does make travel difficult, dangerous, sometimes impossible, but its uncompromising nature appeals to me: it is so much itself. It’ll never be mistaken for anything else, which can hardly be said of an English spring or summer. It has nothing of the unfolding and merging, the slackness of spring and summer, relish those two seasons though I do. I’m ready for winter every year. Come autumn, my stomach is pinched in anticipation, my nose twitching at the air’s tartness, my fingers itching for the newly furred-over, berry-rich world. Autumn is tantalisingly brief; winter, just around the corner behind the darkening days.

And there are the clothes. Clothes in summer are no fun; they’re a hindrance, perhaps particularly in England. My mother was never used to it, how we English don’t dress for summer. ‘You’re the same colour all year, you English,’ she’d say; ‘England changes colour, but you don’t.’ But we do dress for winter. And that’s another reason I welcome it: the chance to wear fur. My furrier had done a good job, last autumn, and I was ready for the worst that the winter could throw
at me. I was swathed in sable, on that journey to Kate’s, and started out in one of my new lettice caps, the white winter weasel fur pulled down over my ears.

I was prepared in other ways, too. My own doctor, Robert Keyns, was coming with me, in case I had any doubts when faced with Kate’s. And I was taking my chaplain, Hugh, although I’d have no real need of him, knowing Kate’s so well (John had been mine until she’d poached him, but what’s a chaplain between friends?) Hugh was coming not for my sake but for Kate’s: they were close friends. None of my ladies was accompanying me, such a journey at that time of year being too much to ask of them. But Bella, of course: she’d rise to the challenge. She’s tougher than she looks, and young enough still to be excited by visits to other households. Doctor Keyns and Hugh were, of course, accompanied by their own travelling staff – a yeoman and groom each – who, added to the usual retinue, made us a crowd of thirty.

Sometimes it dragged us down, being such a multitude, trudging along, churning up the sodden ground; but at other times, it was the making of us, driving us on. The weather was bad and some days we had trouble covering even twenty miles. No snow, admittedly, but at least snow would have been something different. Instead, there was just wind and rain that didn’t so much fall as whip at us. I chose to ride rather than be shut up in the coach. Inside, I’d have been sitting rigid, trying to keep my balance as the coach was heaved and wrenched through the mud. Riding, I kept busy along with everyone else and had the warmth of my horse.

We had an unscheduled stop one morning for a reshoeing, then, later the same day, a hunt in a village for something
that would function as a pad to cover a sore under Hugh’s saddle. Another day, at twilight, my steward halted us before our scheduled stop, just as we were about to pass a farmstead. He circled back to me and suggested I should dry off there and warm up. I glimpsed the main house through a bristle of bare trees. Wood smoke was billowing from the vent in a tatty thatch; below it, I could detect frankincense burning. A sick horse, then, in their stables; a horse with a cough. Not confidence-inspiring: the last thing we wanted was one of our horses down with an ailment. My steward was saying that he’d go and speak to someone in the farmhouse. I was uneasy. Of course it was an enticing prospect, a half-hour or hour at a fireside. But we’d managed so far; this would be the first time on this particular day that we’d made an extra stop. ‘Shouldn’t we press on?’

‘Oh, we will,’ he said, grimly.
Don’t you worry
. ‘But later.’

True: there was always later; unfortunately, there was always later. A break, though, might make it even harder. My chapped-faced companions were fidgeting, sniffing raucously; from the look and sound of them, they could have been treading water.

I asked, ‘What about the rest of you?’

My steward claimed they’d be fine. ‘We’ll just rest up.’

‘You’ll freeze.’

‘We’ll keep busy. We’ve the horses to see to.’

So, that’s how Bella and I came to be sitting around a fire in the middle of nowhere, being entertained – if that’s the right word, and, upon reflection, it isn’t – by the lady of the house. Anxious and apologetic, she wasn’t easy company. There were disappointingly few distractions. Her husband was away on business for a day or two, she explained, their
youngest son with him. The eldest was upstairs, asleep, ill: nothing much, she reassured us, just a mild fever and earache. I hoped she was telling the truth. Doctor Keyns went up to him, anyway. I felt I should send him up there, even though there was probably little he could do. If nothing else, he’d be a comforting presence for the child. For a doctor, he’s unusually gifted in that respect. Having been up there for a while, he reappeared briefly to confirm that the fever was mild and to request a bowl of warm water.

The woman’s daughter – eleven years old – sat with us, more composed than her mother, but cowed. The woman made moves to have a top table set for us but I was firm in my rebuttal and the table stayed bare, against the wall, across the room. What I didn’t say was that I didn’t want special treatment. Didn’t want to have to act the guest. All I wanted was a fireside. I confided I’d love some potage, if the kitchen had any to spare. It did. The woman called behind a curtain for a servant to bring it and heat it over the fire. Bella and I were happy to sit on stools, our feet amid rushes, with our smoky, salty bowlfuls on our laps. The lady’s array of pewter plate stayed unused across the room on the sideboard. Likewise, in its drawers, no doubt, the table linen with which she’d have liked to impress us. There was a suggestion in the woman’s manner that we had snubbed her hospitality and although I understood – who else around here did she have, to impress? – I was unrepentant. I couldn’t have cared less. I had enough to worry about. I wasn’t there to make her feel better about herself, I was there to get dry.

I was under no illusions that this was a protestant household. Had the woman even heard of the changes? What would a person hear of change, I wondered, tucked under
a thatch this far away from anywhere? The woman wore a heavy crucifix around her neck. I hate how the old religion so often has Jesus strung on crosses, dripping from them, utterly defeated. Catholics seem to forget that Jesus was a man. He had dust in his sandals. He was once alive. That’s the point, isn’t it? Jesus was once alive. And
so
alive. Passionate and inspired; clever and uncompromising. Expecting nothing but the best from people. Think of him rushing, livid, at the tables in the temple. He wasn’t perfect – proud, demanding, sometimes dismissive – but he knew it. He was human, that’s what he was. He was no stricken lamb.

And Mary, as the catholics have her: well, frankly, they can have her. Their doe-eyed Mary does nothing for me. There’s nothing of motherhood that I recognise in that self-satisfied face, none of its fierceness and complexity.

That room in which Bella and I sat was comfortable enough – that sideboard, glazed windows, stools, and food to spare – but there was a serious lack of spirit in such a household, shadowed by superstition. What on earth would I have done if I’d been born into that? If I’d been trapped there or somewhere like that? In some respects, I’ve had a strange life – being a ward, then married so young – but at least I’ve lived it among open-minded, forward-thinking people. My sons, too: they’re luckier than they know.Thinking of them as I sat there in that house, I had to resist the urge to rush upstairs and snatch that poor, ailing boy and take him and his cowed little sister with us. That’s not the answer, I reminded myself. What needs to happen is change, and more and more of it: we need to push the changes into every far, cramped corner of this land. Kate and I, I reminded myself, that’s what we’re
for
, it’s what we
do
, it’s what we
share above all, this belief in a better,
truer
life for everyone. Fortified, I thanked the lady of the household, said goodbye to the girl, and took Bella back outside with me to resume our journey.

I’ve never been so thrilled with the sight of any palace as I was with Sudeley, in the afternoon of our sixth day of riding. There it was, nestled in a bowl of hills, smoke pulsing from its many tall chimneys. Big and smart, that house, in golden stone. Our arrival was slickly managed by a teeming, newly liveried staff, and most of my entourage had taken up the invitation for a drink before I’d even dismounted. As my own horse was being led away, Kate’s new Sudeley porter assured me that I’d be shown immediately to my room, where I’d find refreshments ready for me. I shook my head, asked him where Kate was. In her bedroom, he said, and I detected some uncertainty, as if he feared he were betraying a confidence.

‘In bed?’ By the clock in the courtyard it was a little after two in the afternoon.

Yes, he admitted.

That’s where I’d go first, then, I told him. I swear he looked me up and down. Understandably so, I suppose: the bottom of my gown was sodden, and I appeared to be wearing an apron made of dampness. But I gave as good as I got – met and held his gaze – which was all it took.

‘This way,’ he allowed.

I went without my Doctor Keyns; I’d call for him later if I needed him. The porter led me down numerous hallways and up staircases, the floors and steps blond with rush matting, the matting jewelled with coloured light here and there beneath stained-glass windows. The little that I was seeing of Sudeley was impressive. Eventually, he indicated that we’d reached the door to Kate’s suite of rooms. ‘Thank you,’ I said. He stood his ground. Protective, keen to do the job. Good, I was glad to see it. But in this case his efforts were misplaced. I quelled my weariness and something more, a dauntedness: was this how it was going to be, then, for me, here at Sudeley? New ground. Well, rise to it, I told myself. New ground needs new rules, that’s all. Make it clear. He has to learn that it’s me – me, in all the world – who has Kate’s best interests at heart. I swished around him: one step, and he was barred from the door. He wouldn’t be announcing my arrival; my arrival didn’t need to be announced. I gave him a quick, sure smile: a further but unspoken
thank you
, a second dismissal. This time he conceded. I didn’t care if he was on his way downstairs to whisper to other staff that I was difficult. It would only take one of Kate’s old staff to put him right. And, anyway, I’ve been called worse.

I tapped on the door, heard nothing, and opened it to her favourite scent. Juniper: juniper burning in the grate. Clean, sharp, strong. Such a relief, that familiar fragrance and no
sickroom fug. It was very Kate to have it smoking away, despite the circumstances. To get it organised. Whereas me, I have all manner of scents around my houses and sometimes none.

The room that swung into view as I opened the door was stunning. Emerald, gold, garnet, every inch of it gilded or painted or heaped with fabrics: over walls, window, floor, chairs. I called for Kate and from beyond one of the doors came her voice: ‘You’re here!’ That door opened into her bedroom, which was even more sumptuous with its gigantic, curtained bed. And there, in the middle of it all, was Kate, pale, propped on a mound of pillows.

‘You’re
here,’
she said again.

Scattering the attending ladies – Marcella, Agnes, and one I didn’t recognise – I laid my hand on her forehead. I’d known from the doorway that she wasn’t dying; don’t ask me how, but I’d known. She did, though, have a resigned look to her. She usually took such care with her appearance. Not having much to work with, she worked hard at it, going both for grandeur and detail. She didn’t balk at expense, and she was meticulous, and the effect was exactly as she wanted: she was beautifully dressed, but there was nothing spectacular in her appearance. In a word: neatness. That’s what she was: neat. Now, though, having been so long in bed, her body had the better of her. There was a grain to her skin, and sludge had collected in the corners of her eyes.

‘No fever,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘And it’s never a fever. I’m just…’ But she dropped it and aimed instead for decisiveness.‘You know, this is ridiculous. I’m getting up.’Pungent warmth billowed from the bedclothes when she moved. ‘I
can,’
she insisted. ‘It’s only that I never feel quite…’ But she
sank back into the pillows, slammed shut her eyes, whispered, ‘I feel sick all the time, Cathy.’

I asked her if she needed to be handed a bowl. Somehow – motionless, wordless – she indicated no. It was more than helplessness: there was exasperation, too, which wasn’t, I was sure, anything to do with my having offered her the bowl. I was puzzled. She clearly wasn’t herself, and whatever was wrong wasn’t in passing. Something had
happened:
that’s what I felt. She was Kate, my old Kate, but also she wasn’t. Something was preventing her being Kate: that was how I felt.

She was saying, ‘If I move slowly…’ but again didn’t finish.

An idea occurred to me, but I dismissed it. Back it came, though, and there seemed no harm in checking, if only to lay it to rest. Lips to her ear, I asked, ‘When did you last bleed?’

She closed her eyes as if I’d reminded her of something deeply disappointing. ‘Months ago,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s as if it’s all stopped. I feel all…stopped up.’

Resolutely, I didn’t look at the other women in the room. I didn’t want to know if they’d heard; I just hoped they hadn’t. This should stay private, for now. I stroked Kate’s hair. ‘Does anything hurt?’

‘No, but everything’s sore,’ she confided. ‘I feel sore and swollen all over. I need to get up, I need to get moving. I’d love to go riding.’

I shushed her. ‘But you can’t,’ I said it for her, ‘because you feel so sick.’

‘I have good days and bad days.’

My idea was holding water. ‘You might be pregnant.’ I
listened to it, considered it: it made sense. But I didn’t actually believe it. Kate? Mid-thirties, never-pregnant Kate? Composed Kate, laid low by a baby? It was unimaginable. She was childless, wasn’t she? That’s what Kate was; that’s what she’d become.

She lamented, ‘I’ve never been pregnant.’ In her opinion, too, then, pregnancy was something that wouldn’t be happening to her.

‘But now,’ I said, ‘perhaps you are.’ Back and forth it was going as we tried it out on each other. The sound of it. This strange but catchy tune.

‘No. No, too late. I’m too old.’ She couldn’t hope for it; that’s what I heard. Couldn’t even hope. But the more she was dismissing it, the more it was making sense to me. I drew back and raised an eyebrow.

‘I
am.Too
old. Aren’t I?’There was a challenge in the look she gave me. ‘I’m too old. For a woman who’s never been pregnant. Because, I mean, why now?’

Well, there was an answer to that, wasn’t there.
Thomas
. I had to raise that eyebrow again.

‘No.’ She wouldn’t have it, or couldn’t have it. Told herself, ‘No.’

Kate, having a baby: she’d rise to it, wouldn’t she, as she’d always risen to everything. She’d do it admirably, perfectly.

‘You really think so? Do you really think I am?’ Her hair rasped on the pillow as she turned towards me.

Well?
Did
I think so? Or had I, before she’d asked like that, wide-eyed, imploring? Yes, I did; I did think so. I was busy thinking something else, though, too: how I’d been a girl – fourteen, fifteen – when I’d had my babies. Kate would be a woman having a baby. She’d experience it differently.
She’d experience it, whereas it had simply happened to me and happened to me before I knew it. And now, for me, it was all over; long over. ‘I think so,’ I allowed. ‘I think so, yes.’

A pause. Then, ‘But, well, what do we do?’

Do? Do. She was bewildered, on the brink, teetering, a new life opening up for her. She sat up, managed it easily, freed from the fear that she was inexplicably sick and perhaps dying. For me, well, I was surprised to feel it as a weight: I was thinking,
So, we’re back to babies
. Rather than something gone right, it seemed for a moment like something gone wrong.

I said,‘You stay here until you feel better,’because I couldn’t think of what else to say. Start with the matter in hand: Kate, here, feeling sick.

‘Do we tell anyone?’ and, before I could answer,‘Thomas?’

Thomas: I’d forgotten about Thomas. He seemed an irrelevancy. ‘Can you remember when you last bled?’

She went for, ‘Early November, probably.’

I explained: ‘Kate, we need the baby to move before we can be sure.’ I was getting organised; I was getting my thoughts in order. There was nothing with which Doctor Keyns could help us – not yet, not unless there were problems.

‘When would that be?’ She was all eyes again.

I did my sums, took a guess: ‘April?’

‘But that’s such a long time!’

‘It is,’ I agreed, remembering how it was.

‘What will it feel like’ – she pulled herself up sharp – ‘If there
is
a baby?’

I had to think. ‘A bubbling,’ I tried. ‘As if you’ve eaten something bad.’

She half laughed, half grimaced.

‘But not,’ I revised; and settled for, ‘You’ll know what I mean when it happens.’

‘When it happens,’ she echoed in a whisper, awed.

And we looked at each other. There we were, the two of us; the two of us and our little secret.

And then we were grinning, and then laughing, because – suddenly – how exhilarating: that there were still surprises to be had, great big, life-changing surprises.