fearful death—such pain, such suffering—and how we all miss her.”
She began to cry again, her sobs bouncing off the vaulted arches andechoing through the house. Even Elinor’s heart was softened. She shuddered at the thought of Martha’s pain and crossed herself.
“Martha dead?” Richard could not believe it. She had been about his age. It seemed impossible that only a score of months had passed since he had joyfully renewed his connection with her. Elinor, shaking her head and wringing her hands, turned to Anne, who was crying as she watched her friend in such distress.
“I knew it, I knew it! Martha was not well when she came here, I could feel it in my bones. I thought to myself, ‘She will not survive this little one but by a miracle.’ ”
She moved up and put her hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Kate, I am heartily sorry for you and your father. What a terrible sadness at this blessed season.” Her voice was surprisingly gentle. Kate was taken aback and smiled gratefully at her.
Richard nodded, acknowledging his wife’s gesture with raised eyebrows. He eyed her warily, unsure if Elinor was truly sympathetic, for she had never had one kind thing to say to the girl. He knew her ill humor had begun when more children were denied her. Perhaps her heart had been touched by the pregnant Martha.
“I thank you, madam. My father does grieve bitterly, in truth, and I fear for my brothers and Matty. But my father’s niece is seeing to Mam’s duties, and Johnny is a man now, helping Father with the farm. All will be well, certes, but I sorely wanted to stay.”
“Nay, Kate.” Richard was firm. “I have no doubt you will be missed, but you have a new life here with us. Anne needs you, too. Besides, I promised your mother I would take care of you no matter what came to pass at home. And take care of you I shall.
“However, we cannot delay the Feast of the Kings tomorrow. ’Tis too late to forestall the guests—indeed, many of them are already here.” He indicated several bystanders at the other end of the hall, who had tactfully withdrawn there. “Will you forgive us our revelries for one day, poppet? Then, I promise you we will say masses for Martha’s soul in all sorrow and humility in the days that follow.” Richard tipped the reddened, tear-stained face towards him. “And, sweetheart, ’twill do you good to have something to lift your spirits.”
Kate nodded. She slipped off Richard’s knee, curtsied prettily to Elinor and put out her hand to Anne, who ran to her friend and embraced her. The two girls walked out of the room and up to their chamber.
Richard clapped his hands and ordered more wood for the fire, torches to be lit and mulled wine for the company, for it was getting dark and an icy wind was finding its way into the draughty hall. Then he gently drew Elinor onto his vacated lap and gave the embarrassed lady a smacking kiss.
R ICHARD WAS RIGHT . The festivities of Epiphany helped lift Kate’s spirits. She hummed as she helped rearrange the chamber, pushing the pallets she and Anne were sleeping on under their tester bed, which they had surrendered to guests. Breakfast consisted, as usual, of bread, cheese and ale, but even at that hour the aromas filtering through from the kitchens beyond the hall promised a feast worthy of a king, if not three.
By midmorning, the families from surrounding manors had braved the driving snow to share the Hautes’ hospitality. Some came in carriages—lumbering wooden carts with four posts and a roof, the sides filled in by heavy curtains—the occupants wrapped in blankets and furs. Most came on horseback, their cloaks white with snow and their noses blue with cold. There was a flurry of activity in the courtyard, as stable boys ran in and out to take horses to the stables across the moat and richly clad gentlefolk hurried through the portal into the warm hall.
At the kitchen end of the room, several lackeys waited to take wet cloaks and hang them up to dry
She began to cry again, her sobs bouncing off the vaulted arches andechoing through the house. Even Elinor’s heart was softened. She shuddered at the thought of Martha’s pain and crossed herself.
“Martha dead?” Richard could not believe it. She had been about his age. It seemed impossible that only a score of months had passed since he had joyfully renewed his connection with her. Elinor, shaking her head and wringing her hands, turned to Anne, who was crying as she watched her friend in such distress.
“I knew it, I knew it! Martha was not well when she came here, I could feel it in my bones. I thought to myself, ‘She will not survive this little one but by a miracle.’ ”
She moved up and put her hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Kate, I am heartily sorry for you and your father. What a terrible sadness at this blessed season.” Her voice was surprisingly gentle. Kate was taken aback and smiled gratefully at her.
Richard nodded, acknowledging his wife’s gesture with raised eyebrows. He eyed her warily, unsure if Elinor was truly sympathetic, for she had never had one kind thing to say to the girl. He knew her ill humor had begun when more children were denied her. Perhaps her heart had been touched by the pregnant Martha.
“I thank you, madam. My father does grieve bitterly, in truth, and I fear for my brothers and Matty. But my father’s niece is seeing to Mam’s duties, and Johnny is a man now, helping Father with the farm. All will be well, certes, but I sorely wanted to stay.”
“Nay, Kate.” Richard was firm. “I have no doubt you will be missed, but you have a new life here with us. Anne needs you, too. Besides, I promised your mother I would take care of you no matter what came to pass at home. And take care of you I shall.
“However, we cannot delay the Feast of the Kings tomorrow. ’Tis too late to forestall the guests—indeed, many of them are already here.” He indicated several bystanders at the other end of the hall, who had tactfully withdrawn there. “Will you forgive us our revelries for one day, poppet? Then, I promise you we will say masses for Martha’s soul in all sorrow and humility in the days that follow.” Richard tipped the reddened, tear-stained face towards him. “And, sweetheart, ’twill do you good to have something to lift your spirits.”
Kate nodded. She slipped off Richard’s knee, curtsied prettily to Elinor and put out her hand to Anne, who ran to her friend and embraced her. The two girls walked out of the room and up to their chamber.
Richard clapped his hands and ordered more wood for the fire, torches to be lit and mulled wine for the company, for it was getting dark and an icy wind was finding its way into the draughty hall. Then he gently drew Elinor onto his vacated lap and gave the embarrassed lady a smacking kiss.
R ICHARD WAS RIGHT . The festivities of Epiphany helped lift Kate’s spirits. She hummed as she helped rearrange the chamber, pushing the pallets she and Anne were sleeping on under their tester bed, which they had surrendered to guests. Breakfast consisted, as usual, of bread, cheese and ale, but even at that hour the aromas filtering through from the kitchens beyond the hall promised a feast worthy of a king, if not three.
By midmorning, the families from surrounding manors had braved the driving snow to share the Hautes’ hospitality. Some came in carriages—lumbering wooden carts with four posts and a roof, the sides filled in by heavy curtains—the occupants wrapped in blankets and furs. Most came on horseback, their cloaks white with snow and their noses blue with cold. There was a flurry of activity in the courtyard, as stable boys ran in and out to take horses to the stables across the moat and richly clad gentlefolk hurried through the portal into the warm hall.
At the kitchen end of the room, several lackeys waited to take wet cloaks and hang them up to dry
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