CHAPTER FIVE - LEICESTER, MARCH 1469

"She's so tiny," Marion whispered in wonder.

"So were you at that age," smiled Kate, leaning back on her pillows.

"Was I, really?"

"You were indeed, Marion. Why, I remember when Father brought you home. You were a tiny little thing swaddled in blankets screaming like nothing I had ever heard. Mother, of course, was furious upon your arrival, and Father simply placed you into the arms of a maid, and took Mother into his private study so that they could talk."

"Where were you, Katie?"

"I was hiding behind a door, listening in. I saw Father bring you in, heard what he said to Mother... he apologised. I sneaked behind the maid to the bedchamber at the very back of the house – still a storeroom full of food at that stage - and watched as she tried to put you down. 'Twas I who suggested you might have been hungry, but at ten years of age, I did not quite understand who you were, or why you were so hated by Mother."

"Were you right? Was I just hungry?"

"Yes, that was the case. The next day, I remember asking Father about you, and he told me to stay away – 'For your own good, daughter,' he said."

"But you didn't listen to him," it was a statement, not a question, and Marion grinned as she said it.

"No, I did not. I stayed by your side for as much time as I could, even more so after Father died. You had calmed down somewhat after that. We had no goats so we could only feed you the milk from the pigs we owned. You seemed to thrive on that, though. When you began to crawl and talk a bit, you were a delight and a terror – oh, the messes you used to make in my bedchamber!"

Marion laughed, but hushed quickly when Kate glanced pointedly at the cradle. When her breathing had returned to normal, Marion was struck with a sudden recollection of her own.

"Dickon said in his last letter that he will be here to see her on the morrow,"

Kate smiled, a smile that was as infectious as the plague. It had been nine months since Richard, Duke of Gloucester had aided Kate and Marion in fleeing Kate's mother's house, and in that time much had changed. As Kate's belly swelled, Richard had taught Marion how to read and write. He started this after Marion had been caught running her fingers over the cover of his book of hours, or prayer book, gawking at the delicate script spelling out Latin words. When Richard was not there to teach Marion, she took her lessons with Thomas (called Tommy), the son of the man who owned the house they lived in. Kate had become an avid gardener, and Richard had eventually found them a nice country manor, called Donington le Heath Manor to loan from a minor Lord; a chubby, kindly man named John Digby, who was Tommy's father. Kate became the Lord's bondwoman, but had no need to pay the man, as Richard saw to that. He also promised to pay Kate a yearly annuity to cover her own needs as well as those of the babe, payment commencing on the day the child was bfd[p`-orn. And that day had come two days past, on March twenty-fifth.

Marion had, at first, been jealous that the babe had a birthday. She herself had recently learned from Kate all the older Morton knew of her mother. As Kate told it, Marion was brought home on the cusp of the New Year in 1463, in heavy snowfall over the Yorkshire Moors. She had been two weeks old. Their father, having not been there for Marion's birth, and with no knowledge of when Marion had been born, had chosen to ignore whatever day that may have been. There had been no need to celebrate the birth of a bastard child. But that was not the case with this new baby, with Kate and Richard's baby, and this made Marion glad – but still a little jealous. Richard had said that he would acknowledge the child, and with that, Marion's respect for him had shot up, and her title for him had changed - upon his own request. In a letter replying to the one Marion had sent informing him of the birth of his daughter, the Duke had asked that Marion call him "Dickon", a name his closest friends and family used for him. Marion had felt honoured.

But the honour was short-lived, and quickly turned to awe as Marion looked to Dickon's daughter. Katheryn Plantagenet – named after her mother, upon Dickon's request (if the babe had been a boy, he had said that he wanted it to be named John, after a brother of his who had died young, also to honour John Morton, Kate and Marion's father) lay in a crib beside Kate's bed, swaddled in gray blankets. Tiny fists poked up into the air, and a round, bright pink, scrunched up face was framed by the barest hints of dark blonde hair. The babe had only opened her eyes a couple of times, but from those it was easy to see that while her eyes were as pale in colour as Kate's, their blue would soon darken to that of her father's. She was so small, so delicate; Marion knew that Dickon would fall as madly in love with her as everyone else in the house had. He would spoil her, shelter her, and adore her. And Marion felt that he would even be proud of her, despite the circumstances of her birth.

"She looks just like you, Katie," Marion said presently, releasing her grip from the edges of the crib, to sit at the foot of her sister's bed.

"You think? I rather think she looks like her father."

"Only in colour – for her hair will surely turn dark as she grows. The rest of her is you. Did I look like myself when I was a babe?"

"No, not really."

"What? Why? What did I look like, Katie?"

"Your hair was as light as mine own, and your eyes were Morton blue. Only when you reached two months did your eyes began to show signs of a greenish hue. By the time our Father died, your hair had begun to darken. You were but three years when it became the colour it is now. So, I do agree when you say that Katheryn's hair could very well change colour... I saw such a thing with you, so why should it not happen with my daughter?"

Kate smiled, then, and lay back in her bed, closing her eyes. Marion understood the meaning of these actions immediately - Kate was tired. And of course she would be tired. Katheryn had not come easily into the world, rather, she had made her mother labour for what seemed like a whole day and half a night. Marion had not been in Kate's chamber to see the birth (as Kate had screamed at their only maid to keep Marion out), but she had loitered around the door long enough to hear it all. Hours upon hours of sitting outside the chamber door, only to stand and start pacing. Sometimes Tommy joined her, sitting cross-legged across from her, reading out loud from a book. The screaming from within the room gave him quite a fright, Marion thought, as he would scamper away whenever he heard it, and only poke his head into that hallway to ask Marion how things were going, before fleeing again. When things within grew quiet, Marion had heard the sounds that could have only been Kate pushing herself to the limit. Grunting, groaning, an anguished growl, and finally... the high yowl of a newborn.

As soon as the birth was over, and the maid had shown Marion the bloody bundle that was her niece, she had written a letter to Dickon, informing him that he had a new daughter in her shaky handwriting.

'Katheryn Plantagenet March 25. She is hale and hearty. Please come soon. - Marion.'

A kindly monk from a nearby friary had sent her letter off to the Duke, and Marion had been most pleased when the same monk had returned two days later, bearing Dickon's reply. She had been uncertain at first about giving the babe Dickon's surname, "Plantagenet", but his reply came back positive and praising of such a move by the young girl, so Marion thought that she did the right thing in giving the child the name of her father, as John Morton had done for her, six years ago.

"So Dickon is to come on the morrow?" Kate asked, her light blue eyes opening to focus on her little sister.

"Yes," smiled Marion, kicking her legs over the side of the bed.

"Marion, would you please do me a favour?"

"Of course! Anything Kate!"

Kate smiled, and ruffled the girl's hair. "Firstly, keep your voice down, you do not want to wake the baby, do you?"

Marion winced. She knew all too well how utterly disastrous it was to wake the baby. No one could ever wake the baby, or else they would become hard of hearing forever more. She and Kate had learned that the hard way.

"Secondly, when Dickon comes on the morrow, will you take Katheryn out to him?"

Marion blinked. "T-take her to meet Dickon?"

"Yes. Please Marion, for me?"

Another blink. "Why can you not do it? Surely she would be far more comfortable and better behaved in the arms of her mother? I-I'm not good with babies."

Kate shook her head. "No sister, I fear I cannot. I fear that Dickon will not want to see me."

"What? Why?"

Kate paused, her face colouring rapidly. "Well... I... uh... I fear I may have become fat."

"What? Fat?" Marion screeched.

Kate made a mad shushing motion with her arms, her eyes darting to the crib, where, thankfully, Katheryn slept on.

"Shh! Yes, fat. And because I am fat, I fear he will not find me so pretty anymore."

Marion blinked rapidly at her sister, uncomprehending. Fat? How could Kate think herself fat? She had just given birth, was it not normal to look a little different after such an ordeal? And why would that be a problem? Wouldn't Dickon think Kate prettier than before because the difference in her came from birthing his child? Marion shook her head mournfully. Oh, grown-ups could be so confusing sometimes!

But despite her confusion and reservations, Marion did as she was told, as she had done every day after leaving Isolde's house. She helped the maid with the chores while Kate lay abed, nursing Katheryn, and changed the strips of cloth wrapped between her legs to catch her waste. Rain poured down over the house and gardens in silvery sheets, making it almost impossible for Marion to see Dickon's horse on the dirt road.

The young girl was stoking the fire when she heard the knock. Knowing it was Dickon, she rushed upstairs to collect Katheryn from Kate's care. The babe in question began to scream as soon as she in Marion's arms, obviously sensing that the person who held her was young and had no experience with babies - not that Kate was any different, Marion figured Katheryn just liked Kate better because she was a walking source of food. And that was how Dickon first set eyes on his daughter, his firstborn child. Screaming, her face turning red, little fists flailing about in the air, as she writhed in a terrified Marion's arms.

"This is Katheryn, my Lord! Katheryn, this is your father!" Marin had to yell to be heard over the din the child made. Were babies always this loud? Would Marion ever hear properly again after this?

Dickon, who had been sitting on a chair, jumped up, his eyes locked on the wailing bundle. The look on his face was not one Marion could place, though she assumed it must have been shock. But she was proven wrong a moment later, when a smile split Dickon's face, and his arms jerked outwards. He took one step forward, then another, and another, and finally he stood before them, gazing down at his screaming daughter.

"Is that...?" he whispered loudly.

"Yes, 'tis your daughter, Katheryn!" smiled Marion, though she wanted to cringe in protest to the continued crying.

"Her hair is blonde," he noted, eying the wisps of hair on the babe's bead.

"Yes, but Kate says that her hair may turn dark, like your own."

He frowned. "Mayhap not. I had hair as blonde as that when I was a boy. Her's might yet stay light."

Marion gaped at him, trying to imagine her friend with blonde hair, and as a little person. Somehow, this image did not reconcile with the man who stood before her, a sword at his hip, his eyes locked on his still screaming daughter.

"Why does she wail so?"

"I don't know. I think she does not like the way I am holding her."

Dickon nodded, as he reached out tentatively to touch his daughter's head. Her cries eased somewhat at his touch.

"Mayhap I should hold her? She seems to like me." he offered.

"Of course she likes you! Why would she not? You are her father."

"Aye," he said, taking the babe in his arms. "That I am. But she is only a few days old, Marion. She does not know who anyone is yet, apart from her mother."

Dickon, it seemed, had as little experience with babies as Marion. He held Katheryn awkwardly, glancing down at her now and then, whenever she would begin to cry anew. Sometimes, his eyes were friendly, and affectionate, but other times, Marion could see conflict in them; regret, shame. Marion could understand this perfectly; Katheryn was his bastard child, a child he should not love, for she was an embodiment of his sins. Yet, he did seem to be growing more and more affectionate towards the girl with every passing second. Mayhap it had something to do with the fact that Katheryn had managed to wrap her little fingers around everyone in the Manor, from the priest who had Christened her on the day of her birth, to Lord Digby himself, who had sat her on his knee and called her a little angel, and even Tommy who had poked and prodded her a bit before declaring she was "Alright" in his blunt, boyish manner. By now Dickon was rocking on the spot, never taking his eyes of Katheryn, who's cries had eased to near silence. Ah, how peaceful it was. He smiled at her, a smile that showed how much he loved her already, even though he had only known her less than an hour. Marion watched the display with teary eyes, her thoughts drifting to her own father.

From what Kate had told her, John Morton was a politician, soldier, and noblemen from the city of York. He had been a just and honourable man, Kate had said. Not so, in Marion's opinion. If he was the kind of man to dishonour his wife with a prostitute, then he was not as good a man as Kate made him out to be. Besides, he had not even bothered to acknowledge her birthday, let alone celebrate it. On the other hand, he had given her his name, and brought her home. That had to count for something - right? But John Morton had died before Marion really got to know him, so she did not know if he would have acknowledged her, or tried to get rid of her, as Isolde had.

For Katheryn, it would be different, that Marion knew for sure. She had been born to parents who had known each other more than one night, and who loved each other, despite the fact that they could never marry. It was obvious from what Marion saw that Dickon would be a good father, maybe even a doting one, and that Katheryn would want for nothing. This little girl, swaddled in hemp blankets, had come into a completely different world to that of her aunt, and for that, Marion was glad. Katheryn did not deserve to share Marion's trials and tribulations.

And Marion was determined to make sure things stayed that way.

No amount of determination, however, would stop the horrible sequence of events that befell 1469. Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick, the man Marion had been awed and intimidated by not two years before, rebelled against the crown. His loyalties shifted from King Edward IV, to the exiled Lancastrian King Henry VI. He fled the country, taking his wife, two daughters, and Dickon's older brother, George Duke of Clarence. After the rebellion, Dickon left Middleham Castle, traveling far and wide serving his brother the King. Marion knew not where he was, or what he was doing. The only link Marion and Kate had to what was going on, was the letters Dickon would sometimes send, along with his continued payments.

"Warwick," Marion read one day as she sat beside Katheryn at the hearth. "Has man-mani-manipaleted -"

"Do you mean 'manipulated'?" Kate suggested from her perch at the window seat, where she worked on embroidery.

"Uh... I think so. I am not sure. It's a very big word, Katie, very hard to say."

"Well, you must learn, so that when Dickon comes back from war you can show him how clever you are."

Marion beamed at the compliment - such a rare gift! - and turned back to her letter. Beside her, Katheryn rolled over in her swaddling blankets, sleeping. She was blissfully unaware that there was a war on again.

"Manipulated my brother into joining him. King Edward was im-impree-imprisoned? Oh, yes, imprisoned - at Middleham Castle and accused of treason. Now Warwick says that my brother is a bastard -"

Marion paused, scowling at the parchment in her hand. After what had happened with Isolde, she did not like that word. Talking a deep breath to calm herself, Marion continued to read.

"-And that his father was really a French archer from Rouen, not my father, the Duke of York." Marion sighed, putting the letter down. "Katie, is this a new war?"

Kate, too sighed, putting down her needlework and walking over to the hearth, where she scooped up her still sleeping daughter.

"No Marion, this is not a new war. Our father died fighting in this war, fighting for King Edward."

"But what is this war? Why do these people fight so?"

Kate sighed again, shifting Katheryn in her arms. "They fight for the throne of England. Like many Kings before them, they fight over a chair, and a crown."

"Do wars have good sides and bad sides?"

"Yes, they have to. Father once told me that wars are made up of good men fighting bad men, and that there is a point to them. But, if a war was to be bad men fighting bad men, or good men fighting other good men, then it would be pointless sin and bloodshed."

"D-Dickon is on the good side, right?"

"Yes, that he is. His father started this war – or so he told me – when he realised that the Lancastrian King, King Henry, was mad. He would spend all his time singing and praying, and would shout about what he called visions from God. Although Dickon's father – also named Richard – knew it was madness."

"What happened then?"

"Well, he, along with the Earl of Warwick, rebelled. They wanted to remove him from the throne, so that Richard might become King, because he had a distant claim to the throne – at least, I think that's what Dickon told me... I cannot quite remember."

"Did Dickon's father die?"

"Yes,"

"When?"

"Before you were born, that I do know. Though I know not where, or the exact year. I just know it was before you were born. I think I was a small girl at the time. Barely more than a babe, mayhap."

"Oh. So then, after he died, Edward began to fight for the throne?"

"Yes,"

"So we are up to what is happening now?"

Kate nodded. "Yes, I believe we are. Though a bit more did happen... and in that, our own father died."

There was something off about her voice, something grim, and wavering. Marion frowned, studying her sister intently. Kate's head was bowed, and she clutched Katheryn to her breast as if the squirming, mewling infant was a lifeline.

Marion might have been young, but that did not mean that she was a fool. She had grown up quicker than most children her age, and for that she was grateful. This strange maturity enabled Marion to pick up that something was wrong with her sister. The way Kate hunched her shoulders, the slight quiver at the back of her voice, and the fact that she would not look at Marion were all signs.

It did not take the child long before she figured out what was wrong either. Walking over to her big sister, Marion wrapped her skinny arms around Kate's hips.

"Dickon won't die like Father did," Marion whispered, pausing briefly to marvel at how foreign the word "Father" was on her lips. "Because Father was probably worried about us, and who would look after us if he did not. But Dickon need not worry; Katheryn has us, and Dickon knows that, Katie. So he'll focus on the battles and come home safe and sound - and a winner, because he's on the good side and the good men have to win."

Kate let out a muffled sob, and shifted the still-sleeping Katheryn so she held her with only one arm. Her free arm wrapped around Marion.

"I hope you are right," she sniffled. "I pray to God you are right."