Janet Swynford, Tom's wife, who would soon be here from Coleby with the twins, to do her mother-in-law honour. Born a Crophill of Nottingham, Janet was precisely the right wife for Tom, self-effacing, thrifty and plain as an iron pot, so that there was no danger whatsoever in leaving her at Coleby alone during the lengthy periods that Tom was off serving his Lord Henry of Bolingbroke. But Janet talked interminably in a thin martyred whine, and she bored Katherine. The year-old twins were sweet; Katherine longed to enjoy her only grandchildren, but they were delicate, little Hugh coughed incessantly, Dorothy had a weak stomach.
Katherine, who had borne and raised six healthy children, continually choked off advice that Janet would plaintively resent - and ignore.
Ah well, a familiar enough problem, and not worth fretting over. Joan's unhappiness was far more harrowing. Joan, her baby, was now sixteen, and a widow. Not that Joan had loved the fat shabby old knight to whom last year she had been so briefly married; but she had endured the discomforts gladly in return for the improved standing he gave her and the glimpse of the great outer world that poor Joan so longed for. Sir Robert Ferrers had taken his little bride to Leicester Castle and the gay household of Henry's wife, Mary de Bohun. Joan had had a few weeks of excitement before her own widowhood and Countess Mary's death thrust her back to her mother and Kettlethorpe. Worse than that, during that brief, brighter time the girl had fallen desperately in love - with Ralph Neville of Raby, the handsome young Lord of Westmorland, son to the old warrior who had died soon after his visit to Lincoln with Richard.
An impossible love. The Nevilles of Raby did not marry bastards. Bitter heartache for Joan, to which Katherine applied the standard palliatives as best she could: so young; she'd get over it; some other suitable husband would turn up, and she would certainly forget young Neville when the babies came.
Joan had gazed at her with the round pansy-purple eyes and said quietly, "Did you, Mother? Did you ever forget my father even while you bore the Swynfords?"
The shock of that was still with Katherine, and the fear of the girl's instinctive comparison, which Joan had seen and allayed most painfully. "Nay," she had whispered in a choked voice. "I shall never be Neville's paramour, though he begged it. Do you think I, who know what it is to be baseborn, would inflict that on another human soul? Ah, forgive me, Mother - -"
They had both turned away in tears, nor referred to it again.
This new unhappiness of Joan's had awakened the dormant pain for Blanchette. Fourteen years without word. Requiem Masses were said for her in the church here on June 13, the day she disappeared, and yet Katherine had not quite accepted her death.
It was true that life was harder on women, but why, Katherine wondered, should it be her oldest and youngest children that seemed marked out for special suffering? To this question, as to many others there was no answer.
I am the ground of thy beseeching. How shouldest thou not then have thy beseeching? Ay, she believed that. Many times comfort had been given her, and a glimpse of grace. Yet there were arid spaces like now when the light dwindled into greyness and she fell into the sloth and doubt which Lady Julian considered the only true sins.
The door to the outside staircase flew open with a bang. Hawise came in on a stinging blast of cold air. "Cock's bones, but 'tis fine weather for friars!" She slammed the door shut and blew on her fingers. "No matter, sweeting, 'tis your saint's day, and I've laced your ale wi' cinnamon special as ye like it. Bless ye!" She leaned over the bed and gave Katherine a kiss. "Peter, what a long face! What's a matter?"
"I don't know - I've got the dumps." Katherine tried to smile. "Hawise, do you know how old I am?"
"I ought to." Hawise poured steaming ale into a cup and poked at the fire embers. "I've not lost me memory yet, let alone that all the kitchen folk're busy painting red ribbons 'round forty-five candles for your feast tonight."
"Forty-five," said Katherine flatly. "Jesu, what an age!"
Hawise came bade to the bed holding out a rabbit-lined chamber robe. "Well, ye've not gone off much, if that's any comfort. Cob was boasting only yestere'en that the Lady o' Kettlethorpe is the fairest woman in Lincolnshire."
"Cob is partial, bless him," said Katherine with a rueful laugh. She looked down at her long braids, thick as ever but lightly frosted with silver, while at her temples she knew well that there were two white patches springing up with startling effect against the dark bronze.
"Ye're still firm as an apple," said Hawise casting a critical look as she enfolded Katherine in the chamber robe. " 'Tis all the work ye do, Saint Mary, I'd never've believed it in the old days - brewing, baking, distilling, churning along wi' the maids - running here, running there, tending to the cotters - gardening, even shearing. Lord what busyness!"
"Well, I've had to," said Katherine bleakly. There had been a bad couple of years after Sutton withdrew his advice and support. She had run the manor entirely alone, but they struggled through to modest profit again. Sutton's outraged feelings had eventually been soothed by marriage with the daughter of a wealthy knight. And it all seemed very long ago.
She went mechanically through the process of washing and dressing, allowed Hawise to bedeck her in the gala robe of deep crimson velvet edged with squirrel and fasten the bodice with the Queen's brooch.
"Seems strange too," said Hawise, adjusting the clasp, "what coffers full o' jewels I used to rummage in afore we'd find one to your liking - and now there's naught to wear but this thing."
Katherine sighed and sat down by the fire. "So much has changed," she said sadly. "Hawise - I think of my poor sister this morning, God rest her soul. So many deaths - -"
"Christ-a-mercy - lady-" cried Hawise crossing herself.
"What a way to talk on your saint's day!"
"What better day?" said Katherine. "Since I am thinking of them - -" She fell silent, staring into the fire.
Ay, o' one death especial, thought Hawise as she shook her head and started to straighten the bedsheets. The Duchess. Last year had come a strange smiting on the highest ladies of the land, the Lollard preachers had seen God's vengeance in it, and folk had been afraid. Between Lent and Lammastide, they died, the three noblest ladies in England. Queen Anne, she died of plague at Sheen Castle, and the King had gone out of his mind with grief. Mary de Bohun, Lord Henry of Bolingbroke's countess, had died in childbirth, Christ have mercy on her, thought Hawise, remembering the frightened twelve-year-old bride at Leicester Castle the winter before the revolt.
And the Duchess Costanza had died, here in England, of some sickness in her belly, they said. When the news got to Kettlethorpe, Lady Katherine had been very quiet for many days, her beautiful grey eyes had taken on a strained, waiting look, but nothing had happened at all, except that the Beaufort children had all been sent fresh grants through the chancery. In truth, through the last years, the Duke seemed to have taken a concealed interest in them; at least he had not interfered with the marked favour and help that his heir Henry had occasionally shown them.
But, thought Hawise, tugging viciously at a blanket, wouldn't you think the scurvy ribaud might have sent my Lady some kindly word, at last? Instead he had gone off to Aquitaine again as ruler. And was still there, God blast him, and why hadn't she taken that Sutton when she had the chance, though to be sure he might not have made her happy. Men, men, men, thought Hawise angrily, then seeing that Katherine still sat in dismal abstraction, she went up to her coaxingly. "Read some o' those merry tales in the book Master Geoffrey sent ye, now do. They always cheer ye."
Katherine blinked and sighed. "Oh Hawise - I fear 'twould take more than the tales of junketing to Canterbury to cheer me today - poor Geoffrey - -" He was having a hard time, she knew, though his letters were philosophical as always, yet he was in financial difficulties, his health not good, and he was lonely in the Somerset backwater where he had been consigned as Royal Forester. I wish I could help him, she thought. Perhaps when the accounts are all toted up, there may be a shilling or so to spare here - -