‘Is my mother downstairs?’ Sir John asked the woman who had been brought in to help care for him. She glanced at Katherine.
'She'll be here later, my dear,' Katherine said, softly. ‘You should rest until then. And try and eat some of your broth. I dare not tell the cook you do not care for it.'
'I do care for it, it just does not care for me' the old man said, petulantly.
Katherine dipped the spoon into the broth and lifted it to Sir John's mouth. 'Come, come, let me help you to it', she said and watched him sip it slowly. Two spoonfuls later and he had had sufficient.
'Just a little more,' Katherine coaxed.
'No,' he said, crossly. 'Stop trying to make me eat it. You can go now, and get them to send Katherine to me; she has not been to see me for days.'
Katherine nodded her head and looked at the older woman who gave her a sympathetic smile. Gathering up the bowl and spoon Katherine left the room. She went down into the kitchens and returned the bowl to the cook.
'I did what I could, but his appetite is poor. We will try again later.'
Wandering back out of the kitchen she wrapped a cloak around herself and made her way outside towards the apple orchard. She wanted to see how much blossom was on the trees. The answer was precious little. A late frost had blasted many of the buds and it would be a poor apple harvest this year.
She smiled – a grim, faint thing. For weeks now she had been gripped by a feeling of helplessness and she could not stop her mind from wondering where Sir John, William and she would be when the time came to harvest the apples.
She decided to walk herself back into a better mood and passed through the herb garden and then into the pasture. She had spent too long sitting with Sir John and she took great gulps of the clean, sweet, cold air trying to rid herself of the stale smell of sickness that lingered about her. She leaned against the fence and saw how still and damp everything appeared to be. She watched a robin turning over the soil with its beak. She looked at the spider's webs glistening with beads of moisture. She sighed, unable to find comfort in any of the sights and sounds that would usually have cheered her.
Eventually she headed back to the Manor house but stopped short at the sight of two horses tethered in the yard. Her first thought was that it was Guy and she made to turn around and return to the garden, and then she realised that one of the horses belonged to Gifford. His visits had become more frequent and now he was often alone as Grace found travelling uncomfortable.
He continued to paw and leer at Katherine and she could not even insist that Foster stayed in the room. To do so with a member of the family would have been too insulting. Katherine was forced to use all her skills to sweet talk him while still keeping him at a distance.
He must know he makes my flesh creep, but he does not care, she thought. Why must these men think that because they want me, I must want them?
Inside the house, she sought out a maid. 'Where is Gifford?' she asked.
'With Sir John, my lady.'
'And who is that with him? '
'I think it's his lawyer, my lady.'
Katherine gave the maid an uneasy glance and turned as she heard the door of Sir John's bedroom open and the sound of voices. She stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited for Gifford and his companion to reach her.
Gifford and she exchanged greetings and pleasantries. Then Gifford introduced the man, ‘This is Latimer, my lawyer.’
‘I am pleased to meet you Master Latimer. Are you here on business?’
The man shifted his gaze from Katherine to Gifford, and then back again. ‘No my Lady,’ he said, ‘I am an old friend of Sir John's and he wished to see me before...before...’ He left the phrase hanging.
He's lying, thought Katherine. She looked at Gifford and could see it in his eyes too. She looked pointedly at the leather case that Latimer was holding. He followed her gaze and said simply, ‘Letters, just letters from our old times together. Reliving memories of past victories.’
Katherine nodded and Gifford blundered on trying to make conversation, something he never did. And then they bade their goodbyes and departed. Gifford did not attempt to touch her; another clear indication that he had been up to something and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
When they had gone, Katherine made her way swiftly into Sir John's room. He was dozing and as she took a seat by the bed, the woman who was nursing him entered the room.
‘I'm sorry I left him my lady, but they would not let me stay.’ She looked distressed.
‘It does not matter. Sir John is well. He is simply sleeping.’ Katherine kept her tone even, the tempo of her speech slow, but all the time she was wondering what had warranted separating Sir John from everyone else? What had been talked of?
When Sir John woke later he was fretful and plucked at the bedcover with his wizened hands. Again he took only a little food and drink and as Katherine was lifting a cup to his mouth he seized her wrist, spilling the liquid on himself.
‘I'm so sorry Katherine, so sorry,’ he said. ‘And you have been so good, so understanding. Such a good wife to my son.’ He stopped talking and began to cry. She tried to comfort him; she tried to discover what was distressing him, but he was unable or unwilling to tell her. So she just held him to her, a sad and frightened old man whose bones you could feel through his night shift.
Oh my lord, she thought, rocking him gently to sleep, what have they made you do?
