Kate of Clyve Shore

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Be careful what you wish for . . . Living in poverty in the Kentish marshes, young Kate dreams of a life of abundance and riches in the castle that towers over her village. So when the beautiful Lady Evelyn descends, requesting Kate to be her personal maidservant at the castle, it looks like the first stage of a dream come true. But there are blackhearted men to contend with, evil in thought and deed, and they have a sophistication well beyond that of anyone Kate has encountered before. And when her one true love, Tom the fisherman, returns from sailing the seven seas, it is to a very different Kate from the one he left behind . . . ************* What readers are sating about KATE OF CLYVE SHORE 'Really enjoyed this book' - 5 STARS 'Excellent' - 5 STARS 'Super, couldn't put it down' - 5 STARS 'Spot on' - 5 STARS 'Kept me gripped right through to the last page' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 287

Sample

1

Pirates

If you ever find yourself in the town of Rochester, you will not fail to be aware of its ancient past. It was the site of a Roman walled city, and the Normans built one of their finest castles there, as well as a magnificent cathedral. The castle was destroyed in 1215 by King John’s siege but the tall keep remains standing and will give you superb views across the windswept marshlands of Kent.

Inside the cathedral, on a windowsill and away from the brasses and oak pews, you may notice the carved wooden bust of a young woman. Her eyes stare out directly at her admirers and her bearing tells us that she was proud and spirited when she was alive and walking those Kentish marshes hundreds of years ago.

This is her story, the story which reminds us that however quiet and simple our lives, the march of history affects us all. This is the sad tale of Kate of Clyve Shore.

 

Young Kate was a most unusual-looking girl. Her face was wide at the brow and narrow at the chin. Her shiny black hair lay flat over her forehead and fell to her waist in two thick braids. Her tremulous bottom lip drooped until it resembled one of the luscious ripe strawberries that grow in the fields of Kent. She had white skin and full red lips but the most outstanding feature of her face was the gaze from her eyes. Her eyes were beautiful; widely spaced, deep-set and dark blue, they were the colour of a calm sea. And her gaze was hypnotic.

At the time of our story Kate had just turned fifteen years old. This sweet country girl had lived all her life with her family in a tiny thatched cottage out on the Kentish marsh just past the village of Clyve Shore. Beyond loomed the massive shape of Clyve Castle, where most of the villagers earned their livelihoods.

For as long as she could remember, Kate had travelled back and forth along the dry, sandy road leading to the castle while balancing on her head a heavy basket full of linen. Unlike older and more weary souls, Kate always stepped out briskly on her long shapely legs, her back as straight as a soldier’s. The basket on her head contained the frills and furbelows of the gentlefolk who were staying as guests at the castle – white lawn ruffs to wear about the neck, and lace borders to be attached to the cuffs. Kate’s mother, Meg, endlessly washed, boiled, starched and ironed batches of this finery day after day, until the rough walls of the little thatched cottage ran with steam.

Meg had once been a servant at the castle, as had generations of her family before her, but now she did all her work at home with Kate collecting and delivering for her.

The road to the castle cut through the pretty Kent countryside – low rolling marshland which led down to the Thames on one side, and a dense forest of oaks on the other. But as she walked along in the golden sunshine, Kate was quite oblivious to all this beauty. She did not see the moorhens darting among the swampy reeds or the storks wading through the brackish water. Her ears were deaf to the rustle of the foxes and the sweet song of the thrush in the woods. For she was too busy day-dreaming.

And what dreams they were! Yes, one day she would find a rich husband, a young nobleman who would buy her fine clothes and jewellery, and take her mother and young brother away from that damp, steamy cottage which made her mother’s cough so much worse. Pa, well, Pa could stay where he was, serving that old priest he was so fond of . . . then he’d be sorry. That would teach him not to call her daft, not to tease her for dreaming, for wanting something better than what she saw her mother had had.

Kate could see the young gentleman in her mind’s eye – handsome, kind and brave. Yes, when he asked for her hand in marriage, she would accept immediately.

Ah, the sweet dreams of youth! Of course, Kate knew nothing of her real destiny.

The gates of the castle were closed now. Kate looked up at the thick, grey stone walls and tall turrets, to ignore the leering faces of the guards on the bridge that crossed the moat.

As she approached, the huge iron gates into the castle were opened by an old guard whose face was as red as the uniform he wore.

‘Come on, get inside, Kate,’ he said, giving the girl an impatient push. ‘Don’t hang about. Her Ladyship is waiting for that clean linen.’

George was a very old retainer, fat and blustering. Every day when Kate arrived, he greeted her in the same way. Now, cursing and swearing, he quickly barred the gates once Kate was inside.

Kate walked slowly across the dusty courtyard to the kitchens at the rear of the castle. On her way, she passed several soldiers sitting around playing dice.

‘Hallo, pretty Kitty,’ they called, catching her gaze and nudging each other suggestively. But Kate passed them all looking quite unconcerned. Her wicker basket remained firmly on her head and her long hips swayed provocatively.

Handing in the basket to the maid at the kitchen door, Kate then sat down in the courtyard, leaning her back against the wall. She looked at the scene around her.

The lawn stretched out in front, a brilliant green of well-watered grass kept short by the sheep that were let loose on it each night. Delicate lace patterns waved across it as the sun shone through the big cedars. Beyond, at the bottom of the hill, was a small lake of cool dark water, home of two pairs of majestic swans whose white feathers contrasted with the vivid plumage of the peacocks that strutted across the lawns in front of the house.

Kate watched quietly as the tall figure of Lady Evelyn Mortimer appeared in the garden with her companions to play quoits. They laughed and joked with one another, completely oblivious to the slight figure of the servant girl watching them so keenly.

How Kate admired Lady Evelyn! She was so exquisitely beautiful, so serene, so knowing.

As Lady Evelyn stood poised to throw the wooden rings, the young men of the party clapped and cheered. They were clearly all admirers, too.

Kate’s brow wrinkled in a tiny envious frown. Lady Evelyn with her red-gold hair and velvet gowns, she had everything. How lucky she was to live in this grand castle and have such a fine wardrobe. She had everything she wanted and servants to do anything she ordered.

The only thing Kate did not envy Lady Evelyn for was her husband, Lord Mortimer. He was ancient, a disgusting, gouty old man with rheumy eyes and a bald head. He repelled her. Surely Lady Evelyn could have done better than him.

Kate’s reverie was broken by a delicious smell of cooking coming from the kitchen. She sniffed hungrily. ‘I wonder if I can get a taste,’ she thought. She had not eaten since getting up at dawn.

She got to her feet and went down into the great kitchens where she found a hive of activity as a great supper was being prepared. On long trestle tables were platters loaded with good things. There were whole hogs’ heads in the process of being decorated, large turkey pies, jugged hare and cold sweetmeats and marzipan shapes to please the palate.

The sight of all this delicious food made Kate stand and stare.

Her lower lip dropped.

‘Get out of the way, Kate!’ shouted the serving men, bumping into her in their hurry to carry the platters through to the great hall.

By the massive fireplace sat a very old man. His skin was brown and wrinkled from age and, possibly, from the smoke from the fire. He sat patiently, turning a spit upon which was roasting a whole lamb. As the spit turned, some of the fat fell crackling and hissing into the roaring fire but most of it was collected in a dish beneath.

By now the smell of the cooking was more than Kate could bear. She crept over to the fireplace. ‘Give us a taster, Old Jem,’ she whispered.

The grizzled old head turned slightly sideways and a brown claw reached out to snatch a piece of coarse white bread from the table. Dipping this into the dish of fat, Jem held it out to her. ‘Here ye are, take it quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t let her see you – she’s around here somewhere.’

Kate murmured gratefully and retired to a dark corner to enjoy her tasty morsel while the hustle and bustle carried on all around her. Jem stayed in his place while a plump young boy heaped more wood on the fire and stood by with large bellows to blast the flames with air whenever it was necessary to restore them.

Kate ate her bread and dripping with relish, savouring the rich meaty juices running down her throat. When she had finished, she moved back to sit next to Old Jem by the fireplace and warm her hands against the great heat of the fire. ‘Aren’t you sick of turning that spit?’ she asked.

Jem’s old face cracked into a smile. His skin was crinkled like parchment. ‘Nay, lass,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been doing it too long now. I worked here with your grandfather and your mother.’ He smiled nostalgically. ‘Your mother was a bright little wench, just like you, she was.’

Kate was not interested. ‘You won’t catch me staying here all my life,’ she said defiantly.

Jem’s gnarled claw patted her knee. ‘Let’s hope not, pet,’ he said. He looked around quickly and leaned towards her. ‘Listen, Katy,’ he whispered, ‘take heed of what I say. You must get back home as quick as you can.’

‘What for?’ Kate looked at him quizzically.

‘The French pirates are out in the bay, that’s why,’ said Jem.

Kate snorted and tossed her black braids. ‘Who’s scared of a lot of old Frenchies?’ she sniffed.

‘Never mind the sass,’ replied Jem. ‘Get your backside off that stool and get home as quick as you can. Tom, the fisherman, saw them at dawn this morning, and I know those devils, they’ll be ashore tonight.’

He glanced around again. Now the expression on his face had changed. ‘Look out, Kate, here she comes!’

He dropped his head with its mane of iron-grey hair, and began turning the handle of the spit as though his life depended upon it.

A sharp brittle voice called out: ‘Katy, where are you?’

There before her was the formidable shape of Mistress Wilkins, Lady Evelyn’s housekeeper. Behind her stood a servant with Kate’s wicker basked now filled with dirty linen. ‘Tell your mother I want these by early tomorrow morning,’ Mistress Wilkins said. ‘And they must be laundered well,’ she added. The woman’s thick black eyebrows met in a scowl, and her hard blue eyes stared at Kate so intensely that the girl felt very uncomfortable. She began to shift from foot to foot, and her lip dropped.

‘Shut your mouth, for goodness sake, child!’ shouted the housekeeper. ‘Really, Kate, are you as slow-witted as you look?’

With an impatient snort, Mistress Wilkins swept out of the kitchen.

Kate picked up her basket. ‘Miserable old hag,’ she muttered. ‘Goodbye, Jem,’ she called. Then off she went with another day’s laundry.

The soldiers were still lounging about by the main gate. Old George held the small side entrance gate open only a little way, peering nervously out into the road as Kate slipped by. ‘Come on, Kate,’ he called. ‘Hurry and get home before dark.’

‘What’s it to do with you?’ retorted Kate pertly. She put down her basket slowly and hitched up her skirt so that she would not trip up on the rough country road.

‘A little higher, pretty Kitty,’ chanted the soldiers, laughing and nudging as they always did.

Kate stuck out her tongue at them, swept the heavy basket on to her head, and marched out.

It was a long and lonely road that led back to her home but Kate had made the journey so often that it held no fears for her any more. The sun had begun to set over the sea in a blaze of orange and yellow glory. Looking over towards the seashore, she could see the River Thames, a straight silver strip in the distance where it joined its mother, the sea. A white mist had started to creep over the marsh, hovering just a few feet above the water. She suddenly remembered Old Jem’s warning about the French pirates, and quickened her pace. But within moments her day-dreams had caught up with her again as she imagined herself wearing Lady Evelyn’s green riding habit and riding out on a prancing white stallion. On her head she had a green bonnet with a long green feather floating in the breeze.

Daylight was fast disappearing and the tall oak trees cast long shadows across the road. About fifty yards off the road was the Bull Inn, an establishment used chiefly by fishermen. As Kate went past, the place seemed much noisier than usual and certainly noisy for that early time of the evening. Suddenly she noticed a shape sitting by the side of the road.

‘Who is that?’ she wondered out aloud. It looked like the landlord of the inn.

That was odd. He was just sitting there with his eyes wide open.

Kate walked over to get a closer look and gasped as she saw the large knife sticking out of the landlord’s back.

For a moment she froze in panic but then she turned and ran, clutching and holding on to her skirts. But poor Kate, she ran fast enough but she kept looking backwards over her shoulder so she was hardly aware of the four large men in her path until she crashed straight into them. Rough hands grabbed and pushed her. Kate almost fainted with fright. She caught glimpses of long beards and striped shirts but not much more as she was dragged struggling towards the inn. The linen from her basket was strewn across the road.

The men were foreign. They jabbered in a strange language as their rough hands pawed at her. She fought, kicked and screamed, but they showed no mercy, dragging her back towards the inn.

As they approached the building, two other men joined them. One of these was a giant of a man, and he spoke a rough kind of English in an accent that sounded vaguely familiar to Kate. ‘I’ll take the lass,’ he said. ‘She’s bonny enough. She’ll do well for the captain.’ He said something to the other men that Kate could not understand and, with obvious reluctance, they let go. Now the giant caught her up in his great arms and carried her into the inn.

Inside, the place was a shambles. The giant stood Kate on her feet and she looked around with a bewildered stare. Windows were smashed, chairs and tables had been thrown around. The sawdust on the floor was sodden with spilled beer.

A man lolled in the windowseat drinking from a brown bottle. He was very slim and had the elegant air of a gentleman, but he wore the same rough clothes as the fishermen. His hair was red-gold, and around it he had tied a bright red kerchief. He had a pointed beard that was, Kate noticed for some peculiar reason, the same colour as Lady Evelyn’s hair.

‘What have you there, Jamie?’ the man asked. His voice had the same familiar high-pitched into-nation.

‘A braw lassie, Captain,’ replied the giant. ‘I just got her away from the men.’

‘I’ll take care of her,’ the Captain declared with a charming grin. He leaned over and pulled Kate towards him. Holding her tight he began to force some of the potent brandy down her throat.

From then on, Kate knew very little of what happened to her. She was vaguely aware of being kissed and she remembered how good that felt and how nice he smelled. She remembered him carrying her to bed and the two laughing as he removed his boots. But after that she remembered nothing.

When Kate awoke the next morning she was alone in a big bed. She dressed quickly and slipped downstairs and out of the inn. Then she ran as fast as her slim legs would carry her home to the cottage on the marsh.

2

Lady of the Castle

The sun was high in the sky as Kate’s mother Meg set off down the road towards the castle. She was a thin little woman but as she walked the wooden clogs on her feet made persistent echoing thuds down that dry sandy road. She pulled the old woollen shawl tightly around her frail shoulders. In spite of the sunshine she was feeling chilled. If only that damn cough would not keep her awake at night!

As she neared the castle she rehearsed in her head what she was going to say to Lady Evelyn, and what excuse she could give for the linen – much of it spoiled and some of it lost. She plodded along, her face pale and grim, her lips drawn tight with worry.

The villagers had by now all returned to their homes after sheltering in the church during the disturbances of the previous night. It was no new adventure for them to be raided by pirates, for it often happened. Pirates of all nationalities regularly raided that Kent coast. The flat lonely marshland made an easy target for the privateers. They all came, the Dutch, the Norwegians, and, most often of all, the dreaded French, nowadays led ashore, it was rumoured, by a young Scottish nobleman who had fled to exile in France during the last bout of hostility between Scotland and England. The pirates never stayed long, just long enough to cause death and havoc in the small, unprotected Kent village. In fact, the villagers’ only protection came from the church, which was guarded by an ancient priest who in turn was protected by Jacob – young Kate’s father.

Over the years, many men had lost their lives during these raids, while defending their property and families. Many young girls were raped, and some even disappeared forever, to be sold as slaves, some said.

At least Katy had been spared that fate, thought Meg, in an effort to console herself. Even so, it would not be easy for Kate to find a husband now if the truth ever leaked out. Kent farmers were very fussy and would certainly not want a Frenchman’s leavings. What chance did dull-witted Kate have of matrimony now?

‘I had better not tell Jacob,’ Meg decided. ‘He’ll like as not tell the priest, and I certainly don’t want Kate shut up in a convent. What a religious old fool he is, with his bowing and scraping,’ Meg thought scathingly of her husband.

As she walked along, she reviewed the situation and by the time she was nearing the drawbridge to the castle, Meg had sorted out many of her thoughts. She had decided that the only thing she could do was to speak to Lady Evelyn in private. Lady Evelyn was the only person with any sense about here.

Old George at the gate was very pleased to see Meg and he greeted her with a friendly smile. During her days as maid to the old Lady Mortimer, George had been rather sweet on her. When she had first come to the castle with her Ladyship she had been an attractive dark-eyed slip of a girl. George had been very taken with her and it had been a great disappointment to him when Meg chose the humpbacked Jacob for her husband instead of George himself.

‘How are you, my dear?’ he enquired.

‘Quite well, George,’ Meg replied. ‘I wish to speak to her Ladyship.’

Meg had faded quite a lot this year and did not look at all well, thought George, as he shut the gate behind her.

‘I want you to take a message for me,’ continued Meg. ‘I will not be bothered with that bitch of a housekeeper.’

George grinned, his thick grey whiskers sticking out like a brush. She was still the same little Meg, so full of spirit. ‘Come with me, my dear,’ he said. ‘Her Ladyship is always pleased to see you.’

He led her all the way to Lady Mortimer’s parlour. There was no one there and Meg stood by a straight-backed chair while she waited for her Ladyship to arrive. She would never sit down. It wouldn’t be right, for a woman in her position.

She looked around herself. It was a pleasant room now, since Lady Evelyn had made her mark. Now the walls were covered with exquisite tapestries from France and fresh flowers had been placed in every available space. The old Lady Mortimer had made the place dark and gloomy with no happiness or spirit. This was all. . .