Finding Kate

Part I

Whitelock Town

Chapter 1

Sunday

If you asked my father, he’d tell you I got my husband thanks to his clever plans. If you asked my husband, he’d say he won me over with his wit and his charm. But really, it all started with a horse, a horse that stopped me in my tracks and changed my life.

A flash of bright color in the corner of my vision made me turn my head. Two men were leading an enormous blood-red horse out through the door of the inn’s stable and onto the pounded dirt of the adjacent yard. I halted, my breath rushing out in astonishment. The beast was the approximate size and color of St. George’s dragon, or so it seemed to me, and it moved with the same sinuous, menacing grace. When it snorted, I jumped, half expecting gouts of flame to burst forth. The tread of each massive hoof raised a cloud of dust in the yard and seemed enough to shake the world, or at least the whole of England. I had some experience of the world, of course. I had seen large horses before, plowing the serfs’ fields outside of town or drawing Father’s heavy wagons full of merchandise, but this creature with flames in its eyes and cinders in its lungs was a thing apart. 

The horse came to a stop, gleaming in the sun, and the men stepped away. One of them I recognized: Tom Smith, the town’s farrier and blacksmith. He moved toward the horse’s flank as the other, a stranger, grasped the stallion’s headstall, reaching under his chin. He looked the beast in the eye, seeming to engage him in a silent conversation, and then nodded to Tom. The smith crouched beside the giant animal, running his hand down a foreleg like a tree trunk and lifting one of the massive hooves. He rested it in his lap, cradling it firmly between his thighs while he inspected the shoe and the underside of the hoof. The stranger stood over him, throwing one arm across the horse’s neck and leaning into its bulk. The horse barely flinched at the man’s weight, even on three legs, as though he were no more burden than a fly. Though I quivered at the fire I sensed barely restrained within the animal, neither man seemed concerned.

Even from this distance, I was arrested by the newcomer. His face was carved in pure angles: a straight nose, strong cheekbones, a level brow, a lean mouth that curved, even at rest, toward a smile. His hair, of a color somewhere between gold and brown, was short—a warrior’s cut—and standing up a little over his forehead. My fingers twitched, longing to smooth it down.

I wondered what color his eyes were.

He looked up at just that moment and spied me staring. He smiled, a wise smile, a knowing smile.

My skin flushed hot from my scalp to my toes. I drew in a breath that was thick with horse stench and, choking, hurried to catch up with my father and sister, neither of whom, of course, had noticed a thing. Falling in step behind them, I kept my eyes cast down at the cobbles, another lifelong habit, to avoid the glances of the other townsfolk also on their way to church on a Sunday morning. Instead of nodding to neighbors, I watched my shadow where it stretched out thin before me, tripping on the heels of my father and younger sister. The two of them walked arm in arm, their golden heads close together, whispering—about what, I could not tell, which suited me well enough. In a few strides, we were past the inn and in the village square, and from there the church was only a few steps across the lush green.

"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…."

Ordinarily, I would entertain myself during Mass by picking apart the priest’s errors in Latin. He fumbled his words at least a dozen times every Sunday, and I endured the tedium of Mass by placing bets with myself as to which of the sacred words he would destroy this week. Would he say "terror instead of terram as he did last week? Or would he have corrected for that, only to make a disaster out of the Confiteor"? Meager entertainment, but better than nothing.

Yet this Sunday, my thoughts wandered out of the church like errant children, back to the sunny morning and the stable yard of the Brewer’s inn. Questions arose and floated through my mind, elusive as soap bubbles. Who was he? Where was he from? Was he just passing through, asking the smith to check his horse before he rode away again? Or would he stay? And if he did stay, would I see him again?

With a start, I came back to the present and realized I was alone in the church. Everyone had left. They should not have…. They should have…. Gripping the edges of the bench I sat upon, I drove my nails into the wood. No. In Whitelock it did not matter what should or should not have happened. Father behaved as he liked and everyone followed his lead. It had always been so, sure as the sun shined or the rain fell.

Drawing a deep breath, I released my fingers one by one and stood. I took my time getting to the rear of the church and paused in the doorway, looking out at the folk of the town in the square. About a hundred souls, more or less, gathered in little groups around the thick grass of the green, formed where the roads out of town knotted together. The packed turf of Church Street ran north and south and cobbled High Street ran east to west. Directly across from the church, a clutch of sturdy little wattle-and-daub buildings squatted like chickens at roost, their little shops quiet on a Sunday. The sooty planks of the shed around the forge leaned against the Smiths’ house and buckets of sand assembled like soldiers just outside the wide door. I looked for, but did not see, the giant red horse being fitted for new shoes there.

I stepped down from the church’s stone lintel and crossed the rutted dirt onto the green. None of the groups opened to invite me, which disturbed me not at all as I did not seek to join any of them. Instead, I stopped and shaded my eyes, looking along the two roads. When the man with the blood-red horse left town, which way would he go? Up Church Street, past the fancier shops—the dressmaker and the chandler, the glover and the mercer—to take the great King’s Road to Leicester or Nottingham? Or would he head south, toward Coventry? Would he travel west past the church, toward Shrewsbury and Wales? Or continue east, past Father’s house, going all the way to London?

Or, I thought with a chill despite the warmth of the summer morning, had he already gone?

I frowned, lowering my hand. If only I had a horse of my own… nay, more: had I a man’s rights, his freedoms….

Were I a man, I would mount up and never look back.

Two farmers ambled past, relishing their morning off, their stained and wrinkled shirts exuding an odor of earth and sweat that simply would not wash out. One of them removed his cap and scratched at his tanned brow. Squinting up at the sky, he said, Rain tomorrow, you think?

The man beside him peered upward. Nah. Not for a day or more.

A sigh escaped me. This same conversation, about the chances of rain or snow or the return of fair weather, was repeated outside the church every single Sunday. Did they never grow weary of it?

A clutch of matrons had gathered in the shade of a crabapple tree to one side of the church, cackling and gabbing in their Sunday finery. Did you hear? said one. Elizabeth Darrow is with child again.

Are those new sleeves, Eleanor? another said, ignoring the first.

Again? said the next. My goodness, what is that, their eighth? Bless them, they are as abundant as rabbits.

Did you like it? It’s the rosemary that makes all the difference.

To my ears, their voices were like wind over empty jars: all cacophony, no music. I tried to shut out the sound, wishing again that I could leave like the knight on his horse or at the least sneak away home, like the children I spied slinking around corners to play at games forbidden on the Sabbath. But Father was on the far side of the green, holding conference with the other elders of the town, and my sister Blanche stood like a queen surrounded by her courtiers under an ancient oak, and neither of them would even begin to entertain the thought of leaving yet. Even now, Blanche’s laughter rang out, a beacon no less imperative than the church bell had been, pulling all eyes to her, even mine, though for me to look at her was tantamount to staring into the sun. The other young folk of Whitelock surrounded her, hanging on her every word, pale shadows around her dazzling crimson silks and expensive lace. No, Blanche was happy to stay and would complain at being made to go home.

It was I, forgotten at best and scorned at worst, who suffered from Father’s dictates. Aye, if I had a man’s freedom, I’d be long gone from here. There had to be a place where wit was valued over beauty. Where I, and not Blanche, would be favored. And maybe even loved.

I glanced at Father and his circle of somber men. Would he notice if I walked away? What would he do if I did?

By now, the matrons had noticed me. They swept me up and down with sharp eyes like needles on my skin. I shuddered and clenched my hands into fists, enjoying the feeling of my nails driving into the skin of my palms. I began to walk with determination toward no particular destination. All I knew was that I had to get away from the women and their scathing eyes, their piercing judgments, their unspoken condemnation: There she goes, the shrew, the old maid.

I made it as far as the lustrous clutch of holly bushes just west of the Brewer’s inn before I was brought up short by a man saying, quite loudly, But have you ever seen a woman so perfect?

I froze, looking around for the speaker. He sounded so close, as if he were right at my elbow. But there was no man in sight, only the thick leaves of the holly all around me.

I’ll grant you, she is beautiful, another man replied, but must we tarry a week entire?

For the flutter of a heartbeat, I thought perhaps they were talking about me. My face flushed and my hands trembled as I pressed them to my mouth to keep from gasping aloud. But then the truth collapsed upon me like a pile of rotten timber: no, not Kathryn the shrew, Kathryn the unmarriageable, Kathryn the unlovely. I knew I should walk away and not listen to their conversation any further; gossip was a sin, and so was eavesdropping. But in that moment, I could not have made my feet move if my dress had been on fire.

Your father will be mightily displeased, went on the second voice.

What of it? the first man said, all impatience and command. It’s just a few days. I’ll still get to Warwick and deal with his affairs before he gets there, and he’ll be none the wiser. And in the meantime, I’ll spend my time with her. A girl like that is a treasure rarely to be found. So lovely, she would tempt Jove himself down from Olympus.

A treasure? Jove? Heavens above, did anyone outside of poetry speak thus?

If you’re determined to do this, you need to know the obstacles you face, said the other man, clearly the more practical of the two. I am given to understand that there is an older sister yet unmarried, and the father will not permit anyone to court the younger sister until the elder is respectably attached.

What of it? You’ll step in and court the elder so I may have the younger.

I stiffened, grinding my teeth. There was now no mistaking who they were talking about. The beauty for whom Jove would descend from Olympus was Blanche, the younger sister, and the unmarried elder sister was me. With nails again drilling into palms, I leaned in closer to hear their words.

No, no. You misunderstand, the second fellow replied. As I have heard tell, the elder is a shrew of notorious harshness. No man of good sense would risk kissing her hand for fear she’d smite his head off as he bent before her. That’s why she remains unmarried.

If the truth had been a hard fall before, it was more painful now. I closed my eyes and remembered why my heart was always bitter. Even these men—even strangers who had never met me—called me shrew.

The first man fell silent, resentment pouring off him even through the thick foliage. There must be some way to get to her, he said at last, urgency in his every word. We can go to her father, sell him something, meet her that way.

Your father has all the wares and all the authority, the other man replied. You have nothing to sell.

There was a thud and a yelp as a blow was thrown and landed. You needn’t remind me, said the first fellow. "If you’re so smart, you think of something. What does a rich man need?"

I could tell him what my father needed. He needed to unload his unwanted older daughter. I opened my eyes and for a wild moment I contemplated pushing my way through the holly and taking out all my frustrations on these unfeeling young men.

Kathryn!

The voice of Ellen Brewer cut through my nascent thoughts of violence and pulled me away from the holly thicket. Reluctantly, I dragged my feet the short distance to where Ellen stood by the ancient rowan tree in front of her parents’ inn. The stout, solid place had been maintained with pride by her family since brave King Henry, fifth of that name, took his armies blazing through France and brought home a queen some seventy years ago. It had bedchambers for six guests but was mostly frequented by visitors to the common room below where her father served two kinds of ale and his famous hard cider. The inn—my steps grew decidedly less reluctant as I remembered the giant war horse and its handsome owner. Perhaps Ellen knew something of him if he was a guest.

Good morrow, Ellen, I said, trying to make my voice as friendly as possible and shake off the lingering bitterness from overhearing the two men.

Ellen quirked a half smile that showed more of relief than real pleasure. I thought surely you’d be caught spying on those two men, she said. What were you thinking?

I drew breath to snap back at Ellen in my own defense, then thought the better of it. In this town of some one hundred souls, Ellen was the only one whom I could count as a friend.

I was strolling by myself. I can’t help it if they choose to have a conversation out in the open where anyone can hear, I replied.

She swallowed a sound and I knew she wanted to scold me. But meek, timorous Ellen also had few friends in town and so we were always careful of what we said to each other. Any moment, the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued matrons would spy us together and launch their word-arrows at our backs.

And they called me shrew.

What news, Ellen? I asked, trying to deflect the stream of my thoughts.

Have you heard about the visitors at our inn?

Visitors? More than one?

Ellen gave a sly smile. Indeed. Two wealthy gentlemen arrived last night and paid for a week’s stay.

Wealthy gentlemen? If she was implying something about their eligibility, that was the kind of gossip that delighted Blanche, not me. Still, the man with the massive red horse…. Merchants come through our town all the time on their way to bigger and better places. Why do these men matter more than any of them?

The gentlemen are unmarried.

Ah. Unmarried, and staying for a week in our town. Suddenly the conspiracy behind the holly bushes began to make sense. One of these wealthy fellows wanted to court Blanche without his father’s interference and didn’t want to heed his friend’s sensible advice.

I gave a little toss of my head. Let everyone get in a dither about it, but the news can make no matter to me.

I would not be so sure, she said, her tone dark.

What can you mean? I demanded.

She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut and shook her head. Instead, she grabbed hold of my arm and pushed me forward. Kathryn! she hissed urgently in my ear. I turned toward her, my eyes demanding an explanation. Your father, she whispered.

From across the green, my father’s gaze upon me rang like a blacksmith’s hammer, sharp and fierce. He made a small movement with one hand, summoning me to his side. I stamped my foot in frustration. I had not had a chance yet to ask Ellen about the man with the red horse. Later, Ellen, we must continue this conversation.

She nodded but was already slipping away. No one wanted to be between me and my father’s anger.

I hurried to Father’s side and dipped him a curtsy.

Kathryn, he said, his teeth tight. Please, join us.

The men exchanged a glance as dismal as their garb. Master Hover, a white-haired wisp, picked up the dropped thread of their conversation. As I was saying, I thought the quality of strawberries Old Ballard brought to market last week was not up to his usual standard.

The others nodded gravely.

There is talk, another man put in, that a certain merchant on Church Street is putting his finger on the balances. He raised his eyebrows significantly, and they all harrumphed. For this, Father had summoned me from my friend?

The men and their strawberries. The women and their sleeves. Babies and balances.

Oh, it was exhausting, and there was no respite in sight. But rather than let loose the howl of frustration that welled inside of me, I chose the only outlet I ever had in this company: words.

"Taedēre," I said brightly. Latin. Taedēre: Infinitive. To be weary.

Of course none of them understood me. "Taedeō, taedui. I am weary, I was weary. I smiled around the circle of befuddled men, having a little more fun with the Latin conjugation. This bores me: Taedet mē."

Father turned his face toward me, his eyes flashing with anger. He took a firm hold of my elbow, squeezing so hard my fingers tingled. What did you say?

I was just thinking, Father, I lied, of a book I have been reading at home. Would you be terribly unhappy if I went home to fetch it? It is one of Madame Christine de Pisan’s books, very edifying for a young woman to read….

Before he could answer, portly Master Horton, a merchant whose balding pate made him look older than his nine-and-twenty years, waddled over to join our group. I shifted as far as my father’s restraining hand would allow, to avoid the odor of unwashed skin that preceded him.

Good morrow, Master Mulleyn, Master Horton said, bowing low before my father. Father nodded to him, a king acknowledging a subject. Thankfully, his grip eased with the movement. I come to offer you news of some import, which I hope and trust will please you.

I rolled my eyes.

What is it, Master Horton?

Before he could speak, another wealthy merchant shouldered his way into the group. Tall and slender as a birch tree and with wits just as hard, Master Greenwood was a wool merchant whose graying temples showed that his age was closer to my father’s than to mine. He had been sniffing at Blanche’s skirts since she came of age, but Father did not shoo him away because of his great wealth.

Master Mulleyn, good morrow, he said in his slow, sonorous way.

Excuse me, Master Greenwood, Master Horton said, his mouth pursed like he was eating lemons. I was speaking with Master Mulleyn.

The other aldermen murmured to each other and bowed themselves away.

Father preened and waved a hand at them. I pray you, do speak, Master Horton. Share your news. I am sure it will be of interest to Master Greenwood as well.

Master Greenwood raised his thick, silvery eyebrows, like caterpillars crawling up into his hair. News? Perhaps it is the same news I wish to impart.

I was here first, Master Greenwood, so you will do me the courtesy—

Oh for heaven’s sake, just speak!

Three pairs of eyes turned upon me. Master Horton gaped like a fish, opening his mouth once, twice. Father renewed his grip on my elbow but said nothing. I shook my head and looked down at the ground.

Master Horton spoke at last. News. Yes, the news is that there are two gentlemen lodging at the inn since last night.

There was silence, and I looked up.

Father was glaring down at Master Horton. While this is, of course, interesting, why would you think this would be of particular interest to me, Master Horton?

Master Greenwood smirked, well satisfied that he had not, after all, been the one to deliver the news.

"B-B-Because they are young gentlemen, Master Mulleyn, and unmarried." He looked significantly at me.

What are you suggesting, sir? I leaned forward, heedless of my father’s fingers digging into me, skin and bone.

Why, nothing out of turn, I assure you, he said, giving a nervous smile and half bow to my father. As if he did not owe the courtesy, and the apology, to me.

What Master Horton may have intended to convey, Master Greenwood said, dragging his words out by the scruffs of their necks, is that these fine, upstanding gentlemen, newly arrived, do not know what prizes Whitelock, and Master Mulleyn’s home in particular, have to offer to a man who is seeking a wife. Thus may your family expect to receive happy offers in the near future. This, at least, was the message I was bringing to you, Master Mulleyn.

Father frowned slightly, trying to parse his meaning. You gentlemen both understand that I will entertain no offers of marriage for Blanche until Kathryn is married. I will not do her that dishonor.

My cheeks blazed. I was standing beside him, and he would speak of me this way!

Of course, of course. Master Horton was quick to agree, then glanced across the green at the inn. "But they do not."

A slow, vulpine smile spread on my father’s face, chilling my blood. Oh, what was he thinking? Indeed, indeed, Master Horton. And are you not looking for a bride?

His eyes darted from my father’s face to mine. He licked his lips. Oh, aye, but one of a mild and gentle temper. Not…. He scanned me up and down, just as the matrons had earlier, from the modest lace veil over my hair to the wooden pattens covering my silk slippers. Not one such as this.

Chilled I may have been a moment before, but Horton roused me to instant fury. I wrenched my arm from my father’s grasp. "A man like you will be lucky to get any woman, much less a woman such as me, but any woman so cursed as to have you for a husband would be wise to treat you like the fool you are and dress you in motley and make you dance for her!"

Horton gasped and staggered backward as though I had struck him in the face, which, nails digging into palms, I sorely wished to do. Harpy! he sputtered. She-devil!

Father took hold of my arm and jerked me away from the men. Master Greenwood once again looked pleased with the turn events had taken.

Kathryn, Father said, perhaps you had best go home.

I was panting, drawing in quick, sharp breaths that felt like sobs. There was no escape, no matter how I longed for it. Like God’s own kingdom, this was how it always had been, always was, and ever would be, world without end, amen.

Nay, it would not be forever.

Father would lose patience, Blanche would marry, and I would be humiliated.

I would live and die an old maid.

I would always be alone.

On my way home from church, I strode with arms swinging, blazing with fury at Master Horton. Of all the unfeeling, ill-mannered, rude, insufferable…. And I was the one they called a shrew! I was the one they looked down upon for speaking out of turn? For speaking the truth, more like! I nearly walked out of my pattens, so quickly was I flying down the street.

A rowdy group of scrawny boys dashed past me through potholes and cart tracks in pursuit of an equally scrawny dog, their feet throwing up mud and manure onto my skirt. Oh fie, I cried. Watch where you go! They laughed and jeered, and one lad, saucier than the rest, called over his shoulder, She-devil! which set them off into renewed jollity at my expense. I muttered a few choice words at their retreating backs and knelt to consider the damage to my dress.

Excuse me, said a voice as I tried in vain to rub out the wettest of the muck.

What? I snapped, in no mood to treat with anyone.

You are in the street.

I paused in my rubbing, surprised by the audacity. I looked up, but the sun was behind him like a halo. All I could tell was that he was tall, for I was looking up a long way, and fair, for the sun painted his hair gold like a field of barley. It stuck up in front like barley straw too.

I flung my arm out to the side. This is a broad thoroughfare, sir. There is plenty of room for you to pass me by.

And I bent back to scrubbing at my skirt.

The well-made but well-worn boots I could see just at the edge of my vision did not move. My lady, he said, forgive me, but you appear to be in some distress.

Now why would you say that?

My lady. Hands on mine, stilling them. I jumped, almost jerking back; it was so strange, so unaccustomed. I raised my eyes, my insides all a-jumble. He had knelt before me and was peering at my face. Like a blow to the gut, his face, this close, knocked the breath out of me. He was handsome, the finest man I’d ever seen. My heart began to pound and I couldn’t stop my smile. He returned it.

With gentle pressure on my hands, he lifted me from my crouch and helped me to rearrange my skirts. My fingers, released from his, felt empty. Flustered, I tried to stop him, our hands bumping together until at last we faced each other—me red-faced and staring, him grinning—in the street.

I fought for something to say, but all words seemed to have fled from my tongue.

He bowed low, one leg extended and arms wide, as if I were a fine lady at the royal court and not a merchant’s daughter in a bedraggled dress.

I returned my best curtsy: back straight, head bowed, and knees bent deep.

In the midst of the rutted, filthy street, with mud puddles and piles of horse manure all around.

Chapter 2

At home, I headed upstairs toward my bedchamber. On the second landing, I paused outside the big bedroom, listening with one ear to the door and trying to decide whether the heavy breathing meant that Blanche’s enormous mother