Seed of the Broom Read online

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  The Abbot called for the brother who kept the records, the one who spent all his days writing everything that occurred within and without the gray stone walls of the Abbey. Great rolls of parchment listed events as momentous as the coming of the new lord, to the death of a humble shepherd. The brother scribe was wonderful with words and not a little proud of his prowess with the pen. The Abbot frequently forgave him the sin of pride.

  “You will write something for me, in fine English.” The Abbot held a long curling parchment. The scribe noticed the seal, saw its crest, shuddered with shameful pride, because he sensed it would be a task that was very important. “It will go to Efan Caradoc, Lord of Mellorsdale, I will tell you the essence but you will compose it. Can you do this for me?

  “Most certainly, father.”

  The brother scribe listened, his ears ringing with the melodious sounds of high English, transposing the Abbot’s words, even as he listened. Such fine sounding names. The mother of the King of England, Margaret, Lady Stanley. He altered it in his mind to, the Mother of our most Royal Highness, King Henry the Seventh of England…having spoken at length to her son, and sounded his opinion, asks, nay not asks, it was such a common word, commands was a better one. Surely a king would never ask but he would always command. He commanded Efan Caradoc, Lord of Mellorsdale, to take as his wife Katherine, widow of the late Lord of Mellorsdale, and to take the said Lord Mellorsdale’s son Richard, by that Lord’s first wife, the late Maria nee Fitzhumphrey, as his adopted son, to live in peace and tranquillity, to settle any dispute regarding appropriation of lands and goods, to be fair and upright, to please the people. (Whenever the Scribe paused to mutter to himself, did the Nobility seek to please the people?)

  “I would you do it quickly, Brother Scribe.”

  “At once Father.”

  The scribe returned to his cell, took up his pen, began his task eagerly. Each letter was meticulously executed, a little delicate scroll work around the first letter.

  The Abbot was pleased. He folded the parchment and set it with his own seal It was a gamble, not exactly what the King’s mother had said. If he was guilty of a sin, then it was the sin of omission, a sin for a cause he believed justified. A precious bud of York would have something-- protection and a new identity. He would have a good life, instead of the throne that he would never, the Abbot was certain, obtain. The new King was entrenched now. It would take a miracle to remove him and where the house of York was concerned, the Abbot felt that God would not dispense any such miracles. The feud, long and bitter, was man made, a case of man pursuing his own will without recourse to his maker.

  The Friar who took the missive was given wine and food by the lord’s mother. She was a woman who everyone knew, had fallen in sin, but who had been forgiven and was known by all to be a good soul.

  The lord was with the steward going through the accounts. A servant was brought to deliver the note. Even on so sunny a Spring day, the hall was chilly. No sunlight crept inside and it was dark and the Friar went and sat close to the fire, sipping his wine and warming his toes.

  He heard the cry. Everyone must have done, for it seemed to burst off the very stone walls, flutter the tapestries on the walls and cause the dogs to run and hide underneath the table. The Friar took a long drink of wine, hearing words he did not recognize but by their sound, recognizing them to be oaths of some kind.

  The lord burst into the hall, cloak swirling behind him. His mother who had been sitting beside the friar, stood. The friar felt it best to remain seated. Maybe he would not be noticed if he stayed where he was.

  “I do not countenance it. I cannot believe the truth of it. That they should do this to me after all those years, years of absolute and utter loyalty,” he raged.

  “Efan what is it?” His mother moved towards him smoothly and gently.

  “How could they decide such a thing? To do this to me! It is not Jasper’s doing. He would never command me in such a course.”

  His mother asked again what ailed him. For answer he thrust the parchment at her. She did not say that she could not read, but passed it on to the friar without comment. The friar looked at the words, recognized the fancy execution of Brother Scribe, the meticulous letters and, in spite of harboring a dislike for the scribe, the friar had to admit that the man was a genius with a pen.

  As the friar whispered the words to Caradoc’s mother, the lord paced the hall, backwards and forwards, cursing softly, calling on devils, wishing even the King to purgatory.

  “Well,” his mother said, “what is so wrong? It is only what you deserve. I did not bring you into the world and suffer abuse because of it, so that you would come and cast aside children from their inheritance and widows from their firesides.”

  “Damn you Mother, do not preach to me!” he roared.

  “My lord,” the friar intoned gently. The lord ignored him, turning to glare at his mother. “I shall not take a King’s cast off for my wife,” he declared.

  “Nonsense,” his mother said. “If she were a King’s cast off as you say, you would still be getting a bargain. She would still be too good for you!”

  “Too good for me?” he raged.

  “Aye. For you have dallied much in your time. Oh, I know all about it,” his mother said impatiently. “I used to think like father like son!”

  Truly the friar thought the lord would have struck his mother but something, some core of decency made him thrust his hands behind his back. His mother glared up at him, as if daring him. Then the lord swept away, marching the length of the hall.

  Another came into the room. The friar stood at the lady’s entrance. She looked so different in a gown of emerald green, no longer the dull brown gown, no longer the plain cap that made you question whether she was true lady or not. Now there was no doubt about it. Elegant and calm she glided into the room, nervous to be sure, but who would not be after such a noise. However, she was dignified too.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Whirling around, the lord, seeing her, strode up to her, thrusting his face close to hers.

  “You,” he spat our the word. “You!” Then he was gone.

  Then they heard the clatter of horse’s hooves striking the cobbles. The friar momentarily feared that the lord was off to pour his bad temper onto the good Abbot. However, there was no need to worry about that, for the Abbot was well used to dealing with such as Efan Caradoc.

  No one and not least the lady herself, would have anticipated Kate’s reaction, for, after retrieving the scroll from the floor where Caradoc had tossed it, she merely said. “Oh is that all?”

  Later she was to confess to Edgar that she imagined, knowing that Caradoc was looking at the ledger, that his angry roar was because he had discovered her embezzlement. It was such a relief to discover she had not been discovered that the commands of Margaret Beaufort had not really sunk in. When it had she had time to mull it over, she was as opposed to the plan as the lord himself. “Bah, as if I should even consider marrying that odious man!”

  Richard was sitting on the trunk, swinging his skinny legs. “He isn’t odious, Kate, really not. You are just prejudiced.”

  “Prejudiced! Kate exclaimed but refrained from stating her true opinion in front of Richard.

  Edgar whispered. “He has no interesting in counting. He looks but he does not really see, it is merely to let me think that he has a care. I never saw a man so careless about such matters as book-keeping. Besides, I think you hid the deficit really well. It would be hard for anyone to spot it, even me!”

  As soon as she could, Kate escaped to her chamber. It was peaceful there, safe and warm, her little fortress against the insane world beyond its walls. Here she worked on her tapestry. The damsel was almost finished, just a few stitches on the hem of her skirt were all that was required. Below the damsel’s feet, the grassy green lake was finished, the trees full with leaves. There was now a man to go into the scene to spoil it, Kate thought. When she had
started the task it seemed appropriate to have a knight there, a man both protective and romantic, inclining towards the girl. The trouble is, I don’t know what I want, Kate reflected. I do not even know who I am anymore.

  She was not the Lady of Mellorsdale, not really. Caradoc had not taken anything from her. Nothing was really hers. All it was was a disguise in order to protect the spring of broom from falling into enemy’s hands, a convenient place to hide and stay, remote, but within a few days ride of a port, a port that would take them to Burgundy.

  They were fairly safe away from London, beyond the reach at least for the moment of the powerful. Mellorsdale was a small kingdom within the kingdom. So far from the seat of power that the late Lord of Mellorsdale had neglected it. Doubtless it was because of its remoteness that it had been given to a loyal and trusted Welshman.

  Looking once more at the tapestry, she decided that the man should be a knight of olden times; a knight had become for her, a sign of not a rescuer of a damsel in distress but of a damsel about to be the victim to distress! Courtliness had flowered in Arthur’s time, for an instant, then had exploded in the faces of all who had pursed such an insane dream.

  Something stirred at the base of her neck, like cool fingers tickling the small tight curls of hair that never curled inside her cap. Turning she wondered how long he had been standing there. He was holding back the furs, just staring at her.

  His eyes green and as sharp as a cat’s, seemed to see everything. They were the kind of eyes that if you did not hold onto yourself very tightly, would make you confess, they could hypnotize you into a state of sheer terror.

  He stepped into the chamber, letting the fur fall, filling the room with the scent of horses and leather. He came to stand and look at the tapestry. It was only the second time that he had been into her chamber. Always he had allowed her this place of sanctuary. Now he had violated even that and the chamber would never again feel the same for her.

  His head nodded a kind of approval at the tapestry. She was good. She did not need him to tell her that. She thought of asking if he required a goblet of ale or wine. She thought of the phial that she had from the Apothecary monk. It would give her protection. However, before she could speak, he turned and walked away, saying nothing until he reached the opening.

  “Eight of the morning,” he said.

  She repeated his words, puzzled, adding a large question mark…

  “At that time we will exchange our marriage vows.”

  * * * *

  Something was not right. It was terribly wrong, inside her, at that moment, no feeling, no dangerous ecstasy that had sent her spinning with him towards who knew where. Now she felt cold and could not respond…

  The day had been like that. It felt so wrong. Had she expected that anything would change? Of course it had started the night before with Richard. “You will wed him, for I command it.”

  He commanded it. Not yet a man, but he commanded her to marry. How fierce he was. His Uncle had asked her, yet he commanded. Twice the House of York had been intent upon pushing her into a marriage not of her, or her partner’s, making. “How can you command me?”

  “I can, for you know who I am.”

  “And you will make me marry him to protect you, yet you are closer to him than I.”

  “For extra safety, aye, but more than this. When I leave I might not take you with me. I might be unable and suppose I do take you, what if nothing comes of it? What if I die? What becomes of you? Who will give you succor?”

  “Your aunt perhaps?”

  “She might and then again she might not. I do not even know the kind of woman she is and most of all I know little of her husband. What is his court like? Are they friendly to the English? There are endless possibilities and barely half of them are good.”

  Still she argued, attempting to persuade him to be her ally and work against this mismatch. All in vain. He was stubborn and intractable, unsympathetic even, to her fate. No good approaching the good Dame Caradoc either for there was a sparkle in her eye and a lightness to her step. She was clearly delighted with the proposed marriage.

  The Abbot did not hear her complaints when he came for confession, or rather turned a deaf ear. Only saying as he left to prepare. “It is this, my dear, or it is the Convent.”

  And even as she was helped into her gown, she felt that a convent’s walls would be preferable to this.

  Her head ached. She felt a fever in her body, then icy coldness. Why? Why had he decided to accept the royal command. He could gain nothing from it but a wife that he loathed, and who in turn also loathed him.

  Grim faced, Caradoc told her to remove the ring that King Richard had given to her. That, he said, with massive sarcasm would do for a wedding token. He took it from her and may as well have ripped it from her finger, for the pain of parting with the precious ring was physical as well as mental. When at the ceremony he slipped it back onto her finger, she felt it had been soiled by being kept by him. It had been in the hands of the enemy, held in that enemy’s hand.

  There was a banquet. A group of strolling players had been found to entertain. They imitated, with coarse humor, a marriage night that had everyone, apart from the bride and groom, roaring their delight.

  Then it was time for them to go to their chamber, followed by guests and the players, all the way up the winding staircase. Too early for roses, they instead scattered the couple with daffodils and other wild Spring flowers, soft pussy-willow buds, even new green shoots, ensuring their fertility, carrying on rites as old as time.

  Kate went to turn the passage but the lord, touching her for the first time, pulled her back and they went to his apartments, those that she and Richard had enjoyed before Caradoc came, and where there was the luxury of a door, that he pushed shut on the revelers.

  A huge fire burned in the grate. Kate ran to its protection, holding out her chilled hands to the warmth of the flames.

  “You need a girl,” he said. “Find one that you might train.” He turned her roughly around and undid the laces on the back of her gown, deaf to her protests that she had learned to manage. “I shall disrobe next door,” he said. He went though into the apartment that had once belonged to Richard.

  On the enormous bed, put there doubtless by her mother-in-law, lay a bleached white lawn nightgown. Quickly, Kate undressed, leaving her skirts here they fell and pulled the nightgown over her head, before gathering up the discarded clothing and running to place it on the chest.

  The heavy hangings around the bed smothered all sound, so the first time she was aware of the lord’s return was when she felt a draft coming in through the hanging. He stood looking down at her for a long moment, then pulled the hanging to a close.

  The dark robe, lined with minerva, gave him a sinister air. His eyes were cold, his silence somehow filled with contempt. He took the jug of wine from the side of the bed and poured some into a wine goblet, putting it slowly to his mouth. All the while watching her with a predatory look. It made Kate wish that she had gone to her own chamber and somehow retrieved the potion that she had from the abbey.

  “Might I have some?” she asked. He poured more into a goblet and handed it to her and, taking it Kate supped long and deep. The wine warmed her throat but did not still her trembling flesh.

  When she had drained the last dregs she held out the cup for more, but he said. “Nay,” and, taking the goblet from her, placed it back on the table.

  His foot brushed hers as he joined her in the bed, was cold. She moved away but he caught her at her waist, leant over her and took her lips.

  It was so different. His kisses were hard and demanding, his touch urgent, no slow tender caresses that had sent her blood racing. Somewhere deep inside her she felt a faint fluttering sensation. It was far away, hardy stirring but there as his hands brushed her thighs, pushing up her nightgown.

  His hands were, it seemed, all over her, probing and rubbing, seeking her most intimate parts. She tried to pull down the nightgow
n, to push her legs together but his hands were strong and insistent and somehow the fire in her belly was struggling with her modesty. His mouth moved from her lips, his tongue caressing her neck. Her nightgown became a rag as he mangled it and then tore at it.

  “No!” she cried as his lips caressed her stomach, moving in a crazy line to her moist center. His mouth closing over her. She gasped in a combination of pleasure and horror. In spite of herself she felt a warm wetness oozing from her, but she tried to push her thighs tightly closed. Then he rose up. He was on top of her, flattening her against the bed with his strength and might, suffocating her mouth with his own.

  “Now I shall take the king’s whore,” he said.

  She froze at the words, and then the pain began at once, so sharp it caused her eyes to burn. Her arms came to push him away, her nails tearing into the firm flesh of his shoulder. He took her arms and forced them from him. She heard a terrible scream, writhing and burning up her throat as his maleness seemed to tear into her virgin flesh. Then he pain ended suddenly as he moved from her, throwing himself stomach down beside her, his face twisted in a kind of agony.

  She still hurt, felt something wet and warm on her thighs, knew herself to be sobbing and shaking but helpless to do anything to stop it.

  Suddenly he moved to touch her and she cried out. “No! No!”

  But he knelt up, pulling the furs from around her. Even in pain she tried to turn away, to pull down the remnants of her nightgown. He turned her over onto her side, away from him.

  “Jesu woman!” he exclaimed. She felt him tuck the sheets and furs around her. Then he left.

  It was a long time before she slept. She felt the pain receding slowly to become a dull ache. The mystery of what had happened to her caused her to shrink in shame. She had not known, never realized that the act of love and creation could cause such pain. Would that pain have been the culmination of those wild soaring feelings that she had felt with him those months back? Was this what she had begged for? I made no sense. It was too cruel.