CHAPTER THIRTEEN – YORK, JUNE 1477
Marion never thought she would see this day, the day her sister was wed; yet here she was, standing in Kate's bedchamber with Katheryn too, getting ready for the wedding that afternoon. They all looked beautiful. Katheryn was a vision in dark blue, with a gold flower pattern sewn around the neckline of her dress. A belt of metal flower petals and dainty gold beads hung low at her slim hips. Her curls had been tamed somewhat, and were held in place by a simple net of dark blue cloth. Kate was a magnificent bride, dressed in a gown of pale gold, the low square neckline showing her womanly figure. Her hair was pulled into a plait wound around her head; the golden halo draped in a thin tulle veil. She looked happy, and eager to finally marry, something Marion was glad for, yet the girl could not shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.
The match had been secured by Dickon, who, by now was probably sick of Kate's lamenting over being unmarried at the age of twenty-four, with only a bastard daughter. Kate's new husband-to-be was named James Haute, son of the late William Haute; and he was kinsman to the Queen. This information alone made Marion uneasy; the Queen had been so cruel and cold; she had bossed her husband about as if their roles as husband and wife were reversed; could it be that all of her family were like that? Would James Huate be as cold and cruel as she, as calculating and mistrusting, and domineering? Marion could only pray this was not so, as she tugged at the flared skirt of her forest green and gold gown. It was made to show her new woman's figure, and although Kate said she looked beautiful in it, Marion hated the gown. It did not feel right, sitting over her skin, hence the reason she kept tugging at it, to no avail. Probably the only piece of attire that felt right on Marion, was the simple white wimple that covered her head, a garment she had worn since she married three years past, even though it was normally worn by widows and older women. She preferred its simplicity, its look of chastity. Marion had not been raised to want for fine headdresses and jewels, so she shrank away from them, preferring to hide behind the masses of older women who were never noticed.
"You both look beautiful," Kate smiled at the girls.
"Thank you, Mama. You also look beautiful."
"Aye, Kate. I have never seen a more stunning bride."
The woman beamed, hugging first her daughter, then her sister. "Thank you, both of you, for making this day even more special to me."
Kate married James Haute at York Minster, on a day where the sky was a clear, periwinkle blue, the sun shone, and birds sang. It was a good omen for a wedding day to have weather such as this, yet Marion could not shake the feeling that something terrible was about to transpire. Oh, James Haute had been kind enough to Katheryn and her; smiling and waving at them as they walked with Kate, he had even talked to them at the wedding feast held afterward at his and Kate's new manor house in the city of York. But despite this, Marion still felt there was something off with this man, something cold that she did not like in his dark gray eyes. Something was wrong, very, very wrong.
Aunt and niece stayed at a local inn that night, while James and Kate stayed at the manor for their wedding night. The girls rather enjoyed themselves, using the money Dickon had given them wisely. They slept in a room with a wide bed that they would share, ate a hearty dinner, drank watered wine, and supped on black pudding. Once their bellies were full, both girls sat for a while on the bed, talking over the day's events.
"Do you think he'll like me, Aunt Marion?" the now eight-year-old girl asked.
"I think he will. Every person I have met likes you because you are beautiful, smart, and lovely."
"Even if I cannot read?"
Marion sighed, wrapping an arm around her niece. "Aye, even if you cannot read. And do not say that, you can read, it just... gets mixed up in your mind, that is all."
Katheryn bowed her head. Ever since she had started to attend a small school room at Middleham, or be tutored in her letters by Lord Digby from Donington le Heath Manor, she had found great trouble in reading. Even if the letters were printed for her in her father's own neat hand, they still got "muddled in the head," as the schoolmaster had said. Poor Katheryn could only read a few words: her name, Marion's name, and words such as "aye", "nay," and "more," and woe to her performance with numerals; she could barely tell the number 1 from the number 5. But although the girl did suffer this strange affliction of the mind, her speech was impeccable, her needlework magnificent, and her skills with a harp and lute brought tears to the eyes of any man, woman or child who listened to the sweet melodies she could play.
"He will like you more if you play your harp for him," Marion smiled at her niece, causing Katheryn to beam.
"Well then, when we next go to visit Mama from Middleham, mayhap I should ask Papa if I can take it with me!" she said cheerily.
"Aye. You must remember to ask."
Kathryn nodded eagerly, her curls bouncing around her round face. Marion grinned, dusting crumbs off the front of her kirtle. Standing, she stretched her arms over her head. A day filled with finery and feasting always made Marion tense.
"Good. Now, the hour grows late. We must go to bed so we can be refreshed and ready for what the morn will bring us. We are to formally meet your step-father, you do not want to be yawning through that, do you?"
"Not at all, Aunt Marion!"
"Then let us go to sleep,"
With that brisk command from the mouth of the girl six months shy of her fourteenth birthday, both girls crawled into their bed. Katheryn fell asleep instantly, the rich food and wine making her tire quicker than her aunt who lay awake, her mind filled with restless thoughts. Marion had not liked anything about James Huate's look earlier that day, and she felt that that coldness in his eyes when he looked at her and Katheryn was only the beginning of misfortune. Crawling from her bed, Marion knelt, and began to pray – even though she had been taught that it was a sin to pray in any language other than Latin. She could not speak Latin conversationally, although it was better than her written Latin. However, a prayer said at Mass was not what Marion was after here, it did not come close to what she wished to ask God this night.
We are but your humble servants, O Lord,
Sinners and bastards though we may be,
Please protect us in our hour of need,
Please, I pray, protect my niece and me.
Misfortune came all too fast for Marion.
The morning had gone well, she and Katheryn had been formally introduced to James Haute. He was polite, albeit a bit cold with both of them – Katheryn especially – though he showed no outward signs of hostility. What bothered Marion most about him was that he was but a boy on the cusp of manhood, only a few years older than Marion herself. If the word "awkward" had existed in its modern form back in those days, Marion would have found this a very appropriate time to use it.
Later, after the formal meeting, Marion had been asked to go and collect some meet from the many butchers shops up a winding narrow street and marketplace in York called the Shambles. Every city, as far as Marion was aware, had a Shambles. They mostly consisted of butcher's shops, with the families working there living in small apartments above their places of trade. The Shambles this day was crowded with many people, bustling about to try and get what they needed to then get home as quickly as possible. Marion, who had never been to this Shambles before, even when she lived in the city as a little girl, was fascinated by it; so much so that she did not hurry along like the rest of the people, but took her time to admire the sights around her. Signs depicting bones covered in tender meat swung over the entrances to shops, and sellers yelled out their wares. Women bustled past, dragging young children by the hands, while men pushed and shoved. Some people carried cloth bags with them, or wicker baskets, to carry their purchases, others carried them in their arms. One man walked by with his daughter clinging into the hem of his tunic, while his arms were full of bloody bits of meat. Marion could smell cooking meat too, a delightful aroma wafting through air that would have been thick with the foul stench of human waste otherwise. Just as she was walking past a lone backers in the middle of the Shambles, a voice called out with a thick accent, making it hard to understand: "Garde loo!", and Marion, too slow to even start running, found herself drenched in the contents of a chamber pot flung out of a open window.
Horrified, she yelped, causing many people to look in her direction. Women wrinkled their noses and shook their heads – whether it was in pity or exasperation, Marion knew not – while men pulled handkerchiefs from pouches at their belts and covered their mouths and noses. Thus, Marion was forced to walk to the butchers, and buy her meat, while covered in feces and piss. The butcher did not look amused.
Upon returning to Kate's new home, Marion found her sister waiting for her in a state of sheer panic. When the older Morton – nay, Haute now, Marion had to remind herself – saw her, she rushed forwards, grabbed the meat from Marion's arms, and dragged her to her new bedchamber. Luckily, James Haute was not there, so Kate could easily chivy her sister into the privy. Marion had been in privies before, at Middleham and Hornby and Westminster. They were all relatively lavish rooms where clothes could be hung and jewels stored, as well as a place for one to relieve their bowels or bladder. In this privy, which was not as grand as the others Marion had seen, a wooden tub sat, which on Kate's commands, was quickly filled with water. Kate then ordered Marion to strip, and get into the scalding water, while handing her a cake of soap. Marion protested, saying that she was happy to use the plain lye soap of servants and peasants, but Kate shook her head.
"I am a married noblewoman now, and you are my sister. Do not forget, also, that you are a Lady and Princess. You deserve to use the best cakes of soap that money can buy."
Marion had felt her cheeks flush from embarrassment and maybe the heat of the bathwater too, but had said nothing more. Instead, she scrubbed herself until her skin tingled, then Kate dressed her in one of her old gowns, which though a bit big, was still pretty enough. It was a plain blue thing, with no adornments or embellishments. Marion loved it. Once she had been properly readied for public sight again, Kate informed her that she was to join herself, Katheryn and James Haute for dinner, which would consist of the meat that Marion had brought back from the Shambles.
Dinner was a quiet affair, in which Marion observed her new brother-in-law. He was an odd-looking man, Marion thought. Hair the color of tree bark, as straight as a freshly folded wimple, hanging to his jaw, a slight fringe falling into dark gray eyes. Well, if not odd, then he was certainly dull in looks. Not too broad, nor too lanky and lean, he was a strange mix of both. Marion dared not ask if he could wield a sword, or shoot a bow and arrows. She still felt uneasy about this man, and incurring his wrath was the last thing she wanted to do.
Unfortunately, his wrath did come, but it was not because of Marion. Kate had been instructing her new handmaidens on where to put her belongings in her new chambers, Marion, had been forced to watch this tedious process, as guidance for when she eventually joined her husband. That had left Katheryn downstairs with her stepfather. It was a mistake to leave her there, especially when her mind was filled with the promises of playing her harp for him, the harp that was back at Middleham. Marion had been the first one down the stairs when she had heard the girl's startled cry. The scene greeting her was one that she was accustomed to over the years, though it got no easier seeing, no matter how many times she witnessed such a fight.
Katheryn was on the ground, her hands cradling a rapidly bruising right cheek, eyes filled with tears. Marion leaped in front of the girl, shielding her with her own body. Despite herself, and all the manners Lady Anne had tried to teach her over the years, Marion's lips curled back into a vicious snarl at the man who dared strike her beloved niece. Two years of training in swordplay kicked in, and Marion soon found herself in a defensive stance in front of Kathryn, although she had no idea what she would do to defend herself. Her sword was back at Middleham. Kate rushed in at that moment, and seemed to freeze on the spot, mouth agape in horror as she stared at her husband, fist raised, daughter, cowering on the floor, and sister, ready to rip the man's head off with her bare hands had she the strength to do so.
"James, what is the meaning of this?" Kate cried.
"The girl," he growled. "Did offend me most grievously."
"How?"
"She did not announce herself to be in the room, and came upon me to ask when she could go 'home'. I assume 'home', was the place where her shit of a father resides? Well, I, of course, would have none of this. She be a bastard child, and therefore, must know how she can offend others simply by breathing unannounced, let alone asking a question to an unsuspecting person! So, I took matters into my own hands, and taught her, her place."
There was a pause as the vile man's eyes flickered to Marion, before resting again on his wife. "And now the other bastard does defy me."
"Oh, please my Lord don't hurt Marion. Marion was just protecting her niece, practicing for when she becomes a mother and has to protect her own children. Is that not right, Marion?"
Marion pursed her lips, glaring at her sister.
"Aye, 'tis the gist of it, Katherine."
Kate blanched, gaping at Marion. It had been years since the younger girl used her sister's full name, and never before had she spoken to her with such anger lacing her voice.
"No mater, you too need to learn your place. And I shall be the one to teach you."
Without warming, Haute's fist slammed into Marion's jaw. Her head snapped back, and she felt her bottom teeth pierce her lip. Dimly, she could hear Katheryn screaming, Kate gasping, begging James to stop, but soon the voices faded away. Blow after blow rained down on Marion, and with each hit, her world grew darker, fainter. Would that her sword was with her, she could fight back! But alas, she did not have it, so Marion could only try to dodge the blows, but to no avail. It may have been hours or mayhap days, but soon, Marion found herself slipping into blissful unconsciousness.
Everything hurt, of that, Marion was sure. Her head hurt, her cheeks hurt, her jaw hurt, her chest hurt. The fact that the floor was moving did not help either. Wait, floor? No, it was not a floor, it was... it was... the wooden slats of a cart. She was in a cart, being pulled by a horse. A low groan escaped her swollen lips, as she struggled to open her eyes. And suddenly, a new sensation. A cool hand pressing on to her forehead.
"Hush, Aunt Marion. Please do not exert yourself. You took many a blow, but Mother patched them up as best she could."
Katheryn's voice washed over Marion's hazy mind, a few things registering. She was a girl of eight, yet she spoke like a woman grown – and a woman trained in the arts of healing, at that. The second oddity in the speech was the use of the word "Mother" instead of "Mama" for Kate. Where had the formality come from? What exactly happened back at that manor house?
"Ka-Kafwyn... wha... 'abbend?" she gargled.
"Please don't talk, Aunt Marion... you'll only hurt yourself more. As I said, you took many blows. We are nearly at Middleham, the physician will see to you there. Please try to sleep again."
Marion squinted up at her niece. The right hand side of Katheryn's face was bruised and swollen, making it appear as if she had some kind of deformity. The hood of a light traveling cloak had been pulled up over her shiny curls to hide most of the damage, and her cross again hung heavy from her neck. Marion's head bobbed awkwardly in a nod of understanding, before she closed her eyes once more.
Marion stands in the middle of a cobblestone street. Filthy water runs down makeshift gutters - really just ruts in the stone due to the wheels of carts - and the air is thick with the stench of unwashed bodies. A man, dressed in a woolen cloak and sturdy boots walks by. His hair is blonde and curly, a slight widow's peak obstructs an otherwise straight hairline, and bright blue eyes peer around the street. He sniffs, grimaces, and continues walking. He looks as if he has business to attend to. But then he is distracted by the woman. She wears a blood red gown, tatty, ripped at the hems, almost bearing a slit up one side, showing off the smooth, white skin of her thigh. Her neckline is low, so low one breast almost hangs out of the dress, she has obviously not wrapped herself, as other women of this time do. Her hair is black as ebony, and straight, for though it is braided, some loose strands fall around her face. She has a pretty, oval shaped face, pale, clear of blemishes. Full pink lips, and eyes like twin green fires. But she wears no apron, or bears no sign of status. She is a prostitute.
"What's a fine lord like you doing down here at this time of night?" she asks, sauntering up to him.
He grunts. "Do not speak to me, wench."
"Ooh a feisty one, eh? Well, Sir, can I not entice you into a warm bed for the night? You look a trifle lost, and should rest so you can continue your wanderings on the morrow."
"Nay, harlot. You shall not lure me into your bed."
She walks up to him, runs a hand down his chest.
"Are you sure...?" she purrs.
His breath catches, and he grabs her hand, pushing her away from him. She smiles gleefully. He is obviously caught.
"What is your name, Sir?"
"Morton," he croaks. "John Morton. And yours?"
"Jane, just Jane. I can't remember no last name, all I know is I was found in Kent under a man's cart, and he brought me here."
John Morton, despite his better judgment leaned forward, caressing her cheek. "Well, Jane, mayhap I can relieve you of those sorrowful tales for a night..."
The dream shifted. Jane stands, still dressed in a ragged gown, in what appears to be a room of a grand house. John Morton paces frantically before her, brows furrowed, hands clenching and un-clenching into fists. Jane's belly is slightly rounder than before.
"My wife must not know if this," he growls angrily. "You are to stay here, until you have birthed the child. If it is a boy, care for it, until he reaches seven years. Then send him to me. He can be a stableboy at my home. My wife need not know he is my bastard."
"And if it be a girl?" Jane whispers, tears sliding down her face.
"Send it to a nunnery," he hisses.
Again, the dream shifted. Jane sits beside an elderly man dressed in a priest's robes. He holds her hand as she cries into the sleeve of a nicer gown than the rags she had worn before.
"Calm down, girl, calm down. If the babe is a girl, I will convince him to let the child stay with you until, again, she reaches the age of seven. If a boy can be a stableboy, then a girl can be a maid, surely. And as my Lord Morton said, his wife need not know about the child..."
"But Father, please! I have been ill, bleeding and weak. What if I am to die in childbed? I cannot - it's too -"
"Hush, Jane. If you die, I will convince John Morton to take the child with him and care for it, regardless of its gender. Acknowledgment of his sins will surely award him a far greater place in God's Kingdom, as our Heavenly Father will see him doing acts of penance."
Jane lies on a bed, her eyes glazed over, dull. Blood stains the sheets and mattress, and a maid, dressed all in black, passes a blood soaked bundle to her.
"A daughter, Jane."
"Beautiful..." the woman whispers, one, trembling hand managing to stroke the babe's cheek before it drops, cold and limp to the bed. The next thing Marion sees is John Morton, riding through the snow, a bundle clutched in his left arm, while his right hand held his horse's reigns. The baby in the blankets cries out, and he glares down his broad nose at her.
"Born on a joyous feast day – ha! That priest could not have been more wrong about you, Marion." he mutters. "Your name is Marion. It does mean 'bitterness'. How fitting, for you have made me a bitter man..."
When she woke, Marion found herself in her bedchamber at Middleham. For but a moment only, she had fleeting memories of the strange dream, and they left her feeling lightheaded; but that was only for a moment. As soon as she began to take stock of her surroundings, her recollection of the dream faded to almost nothing. Dull beams of sunlight filtered through the high, arched window of her room, casting an eerie light over the rough stone walls. Due to the summer heat, her furs were bundled haphazardly around her waist, a white cotton sheet being the only thing there to cover her bare chest. Wait, bare chest? Marion did her best to look down, and saw with horror that she was as naked as the day of her birth, save for heavy strips of white cloth that were wrapped around her chest, underneath her breasts. The cloth was wrapped so tightly it felt as if her chest was being held in place, which, she knew it was, once the physician came into her chamber, and told her of her injuries. Doctor Hobbs - or Hobbs, as he was simply called by the inhabitants of Middleham - was a short, portly man, with a bald head and kind brown eyes. He was nothing short of a genius in Marion's opinion, and had his work cut out for him in caring for the almost constantly ailing Neddy, as well as the other children of the house.
"James Haute did give you a bad beating, m'lady." Doctor Hobbs said.
"I'b nod ah yady," Marion struggled to retort through swollen lips.
"Ah, but you have been since your wedding day. Though I am still the physician, and older than you, so I can still tell you to be quiet. Now, please desist from speaking."
Marion remained silent, though her eyes narrowed into a glare. Hobbs chuckled good-naturedly, shaking his head at his charge.
"Better. Now, it appears that you have fractured your jaw, split your bottom lip, suffered much bruising to your face and skull – may have suffered some kind of damage to the brain, though there is no way to prove that, 'tis just a theory – and you have a broken rib on the left hand side. Miss Katheryn also has numerous injuries, though not as severe as yours. It seems that in his rage over you defending the girl, Haute forgot about her initial transgression, and focused solely on you."
"Ish Kafwyn wehw?"
"She too has much bruising on her face and neck, and has had her ankle twisted, mayhap fractured. I have prescribed bedrest for both of you, as well as Master Neddy, who still suffers form fever. I have advised my Lord of Gloucester to send John back to his mother, as he would be extremely bored here, with all his playmates bedridden."
"Aye, 'e woowd."
"Please, Marion, do not speak. You must remain silent until your lips have healed, and your jaw too. You may not have noticed, but your face has been wrapped in bandages, to hold it all in place. We do not want the bone breaking, and deforming your face, do we?"
Marion moved her head from side to side on the pillow, staying quiet as instructed.
"Good girl. Now, m'lady, I must go and attend to the Master, but get Margaret to call for me if anything is amiss. A servant will bring you a meal shortly, you must hunger after your long time unconscious."
As Hobbs gathered up his supplies and made to leave the room, he paused once more, turning to the mostly prone figure in the bed.
"Oh, and just to let you know, my Lord of Gloucester is mighty angry about the treatment you did receive at James Haute's house. Though he feels indebted to you for protecting his daughter. Lady Anne too, is amazed at your valor. When you are well enough, m'lady, they will show you the proper honour a hero - or heroine in this case - deserves."
As he left, his words struck a chord with Marion. A fleeting memory of a black-haired woman stroking the cheek of a newborn before dying made her shiver, despite the warm weather. Would her mother think her a hero, if she lived to see her now? Would her father think so, too? Could those faces really have been those of her parents? If so, how could that be? Only God Almighty had the ability and power to see the past, present, and future, right? Then how did that dream come to Marion? Marion let a discontented sigh escape her lips, before she settled back against the pillow, and let her mind wander over to the world of her dream, before settling on the explanation that it was just a product of her own delirium and probable impending madness.
Oh joy... I am turning into King Henry VI... God help me, please. Please.