Hawkes and Cate

Note: This story was written for the contest “From the Heart”
By Purple Princess. 750-1,500 words. June 2024.
This story: 1,480 words.

Prompt: “People just don’t want to fall in love with a person they know they’ll outlive.”



**************


Hawkes’ pen scratches at the date. May 3, 1605. Five years he has been writing letters to the King of Spain, begging for asylum.

No answer. Even the English King, James I, has stopped monitoring these letters. Obviously he is a political prisoner without an ally.

And someday, it will be announced that sadly the Earl’s son has died of an unexpected fever.

Hawkes is roused from his thoughts by the clanking of keys in the lock. It must be Cate, a little girl from his own kitchen, delivering lunch. As she enters, he corrects himself. She is not a little girl.

Not like he remembers her from fifteen years ago, before he left for Spain. A cocky young son of the peerage, dressed in his new uniform, seeking adventures of war. She was barely old enough to help her mother serve the trays of food at his going-away dinner.

He guesses her to be about twenty and seven. Since she is the only person he speaks to each day, they have become friends of a sort.

Her mother spoiled him as a boy; when he danced around in her kitchen, looking piteous for another sweet. Cate had been no more than a toddler, then a pre-teen when he left. He hadn’t paid her any attention.

Now, here she is, attending to him daily, acting as both a Valet and a Lady’s Maid. Bringing him the day’s food and fresh clothes and toiletries. Removing yesterdays left-overs and soiled clothes.
Delivering messages from his father and more writing materials.

Conversation is light and proper. He is still a gentleman addressing a servant despite his surroundings.

Of late, he has noticed she is more serious, her countenance stressed. He watches for signs of pregnancy. Is she married? He doesn’t know.

“Good Morning Cate, you look well.” He takes the basket and bundles from her arms.

“Morn’n Sir.” Immediately she starts to tidy up and collect things. He watches her.

“Cate. Are you a Catholic?”

“Of course not, Sir. I’m a good Protestant. Attend services every Sunday.”

“You wouldn’t tell me, now would you? Fear of joining me here in the Tower?” he teases. “I hear there is now a fine levied on anyone who doesn’t attend Sunday Protestant Services.”

“You should know what can get you into the Tower, Sir. You’re a Soldier. Catholics cannot be in the military anymore. Guess they don’t need your services.”

He grins at her cheekiness and nods. “I’ve heard Catholics can’t vote either. Also learned one of my Catholic lawyer friends can’t practice law. He’s working as a bookkeeper now.”

“He’s lucky to be work’n at all. If you don’t mind me saying so, Sir.”

Hawkes likes to hear the lilt in her voice. That Irish sound.

“You know my household is a Catholic house. You don’t mind serving Catholics?”

“Work is work, Sir. And I have lived in your kitchen all me life.”

“True. That is true, Cate.”

****************

The days come and go. He writes letters to the English King begging for clemency: His brain was addled when he returned from Spain. He didn’t mean to stir up trouble.

He writes to the members of Parliament: Begging their forgiveness for his forthright manner. He meant no harm. He was a soldier, not used to the words of diplomacy.

Cate comes every day. The only voice he hears. With its lilt. How has he not noticed her intelligence and how lovely she is? Or is he just depleted in his ability to be a gentleman.

Does he want to be a gentleman? Would she be willing? His cell door is solid wood. Not even a peep hole since he can’t be treated like a common criminal. He is given privacy, so far anyway, but the Catholic purge is coming. And he will soon be a dead Catholic.

Is there any need for him to remain a Gentleman? He falls asleep between clean sheets, embraced by a nite shirt touched by Cate.

“Morn’n Sir.”

“Cate.” All he can manage this morning is her name and his voice is rough. She doesn’t notice, until she does.

“You’ll be catch’n your death in here Sir,” she lilts; until she realizes what she has said. Her face flushes in a way he has never seen. Her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright, large and round in shock, her lips parted. She looks like she is glowing from an inner light. He steps closer. She doesn’t move.

He brushes his lips against her open mouth, finds her tongue, uncaring she’s a Protestant or a servant. She is Cate.

She presses herself against him, her fingers searching, also uncaring.

**************

The men at the back table in the Duck and Drake Inn are making drunken sounds of celebration. Jostling each other good naturally, teasing the bar maids.

“Another round,” shouts Tommy Wright. The others at the table cheer him on, including the boy whose features are slightly feminine.

Unnoticed, a paper diagram is passed around the same table. Thirty-nine barrels placed strategically within a rectangle. Cate recognizes it as the cellar under the Parliament Chamber. Her father leased the cellar in order to stockpile the gunpowder.

And on November 5th, during the opening of a new session of Parliament, the King, his eldest son, the House of Lords and the House of Commons will all be blown sky-high by Cate’s hand.

If the plan works, Elizabeth, James’ daughter will be installed as Queen until she can be married to a true Catholic, restoring the monarchy to Catholicism.

“You sure you got the guts for this Cate?” asks Jack.

Tommy gives Jack a hard-eyed look. “My girl says she can do it, she can. Anybody else want to volunteer?”

No one does. “A female won’t be suspect showing up downstairs. Food for the after-party is stored in the next room. There will be maids all over that cellar.”

All the men nod and roar out insults, feigning drunkenness.


************

The meeting at the Duck and Drake has unsettled Cate. It is real now. The date set and she the one to light the fuse. Three more days with Hawkes.

November 2nd, The door shuts behind her, the lock turns and she is in his arms. Safe.

November 5th, the lock turns. She walks in for the last time.

They spend the day caressing and kissing, enjoying each other’s bodies. The low autumn light slants in through the high solitary widow. Occasionally a bird sits on the sill and sings.

*************

She stands facing the door waiting for the guard to open the lock, her arms and heart filled with burdens.

Hawkes encircles her with his strong arms, nuzzles her hair, and asks,“What’s the matter, love?”

She closes her eyes. She is his love. And he is her’s. She thought she could leave him to a lingering grief, here alone, but she cannot. Best a quick heartbreak. Anger will carry him through.

Without turning she shrugs her body from his embrace.

“Today is my last day, Hawkes.”

“Last day?” He repeats stupidly.

She stares at the lock, unable to look into his eyes. He will see she doesn’t mean what she is about to say. It will give him false hope.

“People just don’t want to fall in love with a person they know they’ll outlive.”

“But we’re already in love?” he murmurs to her back.

Gathering her courage she says, “No, Hawkes. I have a whole lifetime ahead of me. I have a proposal of marriage.”

“You what?” He steps away from her.

“And I’m going to take it,” she ruthlessly declares.

The key turns and she walks out, not looking back.


*********

When the door opens the next day, Hawkes is shocked to see his father, a pardon in hand.

The morning air outside the Tower is cold and bracing. He is anxious to get home and talk to Cate. Now, he too has a lifetime. They can marry.

He rushes to the kitchen, calling for Cate. The ovens are cold, the kitchen empty. Where is Cate?

Bursting into his father’s study, he demands answers.

“Who?”

“Cate. The Cook’s Daughter!” he shouts.

“Oh Son, I’m sorry. I suppose you did form an attachment. You see, she is the reason the King is dead and you are free.”

King? Free? What are you saying?”

Stunned by his father’s explanation, he sinks to his knees.

“But she had a chance to survive, right?”

“Yes, but she did not. She and her father died.”


************

Weeks pass and Hawkes only pretends to live.

Spends his days imagining their life together, as if it were true, before tumbling helplessly into deep reality.

If the plan had failed and she had been caught? Could he have listened to her screams of torture; see her beheaded?

Did she make certain the person she loved outlived her? He likes to remember her that way.