If anything should happen to John, what would become of the - Beaufort bastards? She crossed herself and sat staring into the fire, while the baby gurgled drowsily on her lap, Hawise and the nurses came and went at their tasks, and Tamkin, tiring of his game, ran off to find his greyhound puppies.
Even with the Duke's protection, what future did they have? The boys might be knighted in due course by their father, and make their own way as best they could with the appointments he could give them, but they might not aspire to honours. And the baby Joan - -
It would take a stupendous amount of dowry to get her married properly. Few worthy noblemen would overlook the stain of bastardy.
But if it should happen somehow - in terror, her mind veered from facing the actual thought again - that John could not see to their future, who would protect them then? Not the childish, self-centred Richard, nor the Princess. Certainly not the Earl of Buckingham. Edmund might make a feeble gesture, but when did Edmund's vacillating impulses ever persist for long? It was a treacherous marshy ground over which she had so blithely walked, thinking it firm as granite.
She looked at the baby in her lap, at Tamkin, who was trying to teach one of his puppies to beg. She thought of her two handsome gently bred older boys, who were being reared like young princes. But they were not. They had no legal name, no certain inheritance of any kind, and no sure future but herself. Blessed Mary, she thought, and what could I do for them, alone?
She stilled her panic and forced her mind to a practicality that was repugnant to it. Deliberately she scrutinised the total of her few possessions. The Duke from time to time had given her property, which she had accepted with reluctance, disliking the idea of payment for her love. The private income that these brought her she had scarcely heeded, it was but an insignificant trickle of pocket-money compared to the lavishness in which she lived.
She had the meagre Swynford inheritance, of course, though it was distasteful to her. Besides, it would belong eventually to Tom. She had a yearly hundred marks as governess's recompense, but that would shortly stop, since Elizabeth was married and Philippa beyond the age. She owned houses in Boston, which brought in a small rent. She had two wardships, including the Deyncourt one for Blanchette, some perquisites from the Duke's Nottingham manors, and that was all, except her jewels.
We could never live on that, thought Katherine, frightened. We'd have less than yeoman status. And she determined at least to accept the new wardship and "marriage of the heir" John had semi-humorously offered her.
" 'Twill be appropriate, Katrine. A neat turnabout for the insolence he showed you."
Ellis de Thoresby, Hugh's erstwhile squire, had been killed in a drunken brawl three months ago, leaving a two-year-old son. It was the fat annual fee for guardianship of this son that John offered her, and she refused sharply. She had neither seen nor heard of Ellis since he spat at her in the streets at Lincoln. She wanted no reminder of him.
Ah, but I must be practical, thought Katherine. I've been a soft fool. It was not mercenary to try and protect her children's future, and when the right moment came she would talk to John about it. The moment must be chosen, for though he was generous, he preferred to think of such things himself, and she knew that he might be angered that she should seem to question the provision he intended some day to make for all his children. And he would be right, she thought with sudden revulsion. She could not appear to grasp and scheme as though she had forebodings for him. There was no danger that could threaten them when she had the certainty of his love. She would go on as she had been, nor worry about the future.
Katherine picked up the baby and put her in the cradle, then looking around to find the source of an exceptionally wintry draught, saw that Tamkin had opened the leaded window and was hanging half-way out.
"Tam," she called, "what are you doing! Shut the window!"
The boy did not hear her, for there was much noise outside. The nursery windows looked down on Castle Street, where a cluster of rustics and townfolk had gathered, while a man in a long russet gown stood on a keg and harangued them.
" 'Tis only some Christmas mumming," said Katherine impatiently, shutting the window.
"Nay," said Hawise peering over the little boy's shoulder, " 'tis that Lollard preacher, John Ball, just come to Leicester, I hear. He's been jabbering and havering since Prime. I don't much like the look o' it."
"Why ever not?" said Katherine in surprise. "No harm in preaching."
"They keep singing something, Mama," said Tamkin, "over 'n' over, 'n' shaking their fists."
"They do," said Hawise grimly. "D'ye know what they sing?"
Katherine looked out again more curiously. She saw that the preacher had a fiery red face between a black beard and a crop of black hair on a round head, that he waved his arms violently and sometimes struck his russet-clad breast, pointing up to the sky, and then at the castle. Now and again he would stop with both arms wide outflung, when all the crowd of folk would stamp their feet and chant something that sounded like the rhythmic pound of a hammer on a smith's anvil.
"What do they sing?" Katherine said and opened the window wide. The hoarse pounding shouts gradually clarified themselves into words:
When Adam delved and Eva span,
Who was then the gentleman!
"What nonsense!" began Katherine - and checked herself. "What do they mean by that?"
"They mean trouble," said Hawise. "This last poll tax has really roiled 'em, and John Ball's doing his best to keep 'em roiled - throughout the land."
"Oh," said Katherine shrugging as she turned from the window. "The poll tax is hard on folk, no doubt, but wars must be paid for, Hawise. Why must they show so much hatred?"
" 'Tis easy to hate, lady dear, when you be poor and starving."
"But they're not!" cried Katherine, her eyes flashing. "Nobody starves in Leicester, or any of the Duke's domains. The kitchens often feed three hundred a day."
" 'Tis not everyone wants to be beggars, sweeting," said Hawise, chuckling. "And there's mighty few who like to be unfree."
"The Duke has freed many of his serfs when they deserve it," retorted Katherine hotly. "The eve of Christmas he freed ten in honour of Lord Henry's marriage."
" 'Tis true," said Hawise. "But there be ten thousand more in bondage. Ye needna look so fierce - 'tis not my thoughts I'm giving - 'tis what that John Ball yammers out there."
"But what can they do?" said Katherine, frowning towards the window, where again the doggerel pounded its inane rhythm.
"Oh, they'll not do anything," Hawise shrugged. " 'Tis naught but talk. England be a great place for windy grumbles. 'Twill all die down like stale ale."
CHAPTER XXIII
The Lancastrian household held their May revels at the Savoy. The early spring had been stormy but by the end of April days of warm sun and nights of gentle showers enamelled the countryside with green lustre. The Savoy servants trundled in barrowfuls of primroses and violets from the meadows near Tyburn, and made garlands to hang in each of the hundred rooms. They cut thick dewy branches of the rose-budded may and fastened them to torch brackets and above doorways. The kitchens and Great Hall were strewn with new rushes and fragrant herbs. Every nook was spring-cleaned. The myriad window-panes sparkled like diamonds set in lead; the cream and beige tile floors were polished smooth as eggs, and the silk carpets and the tapestries of the State Chambers were scrubbed and flailed to their pristine glow. Gilt, vermilion and azure were brushed on the stone chimney carvings, while new-painted fleur-de-lis powdered the vaulted ceilings between polished timbers. The offices of the chancery, the Great Treasure Chamber, the smithies, the barracks, the armourer's shops, the falcon mew, even the cellars and the empty dungeon received new coats of whitewash and were decorated with greenery.