Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"

Автор книги: Alison Weir

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, seeing the downcast faces of his sister and stepmother.

‘Will you tell him?’ Anne asked Kate.

‘Of course, my lady,’ Kate said. ‘You go to my father.’

Anne hugged her and went. She had great affection for her husband’s bastards. One had been conceived and born before her marriage to Richard of Gloucester, and one after, yet she had welcomed them into her household at Middleham Castle, her kindly heart aware that they were not to blame for their birth. The younger, John of Gloucester, was a strapping lad of nine with dark, unruly hair and refined features. Promising to be tall and broad, where his father was short and slight, he had inherited Richard’s dogged determination and tenacity, not to mention his ambition.

His half-sister, Kate, was four years older, and very beautiful. Her sweet round face and big, wide-set blue eyes were framed by a wealth of dark wavy hair that fell like a cape around her shoulders. She was small in build and slender, with tiny, child-like hands and feet. She had a winning smile, a spirited nature and a ready wit. To all who knew her, and to her father especially, she was enchanting. There must be nothing but the best for his Kate, the Duke had vowed. Bastard she might be, but he would marry her well when the time came, and make sure that the disadvantage of her birth was turned to advantage, for both of them.

There was no one like her father. He was her hero, the person she loved best.

Kate watched the Duke ride away southwards, sombre in deepest black and attended by three hundred gentlemen of the north, all similarly attired. She felt cold with fear. He was riding into danger, into the teeth of his enemies, and she could only pray with all her might that he would stay safe and come back to them unscathed, his rights vindicated.

The long, anxious days stretched ahead, with no hope of news for some time. It took a fast messenger four days to reach Middleham from London, and it would surely be a week or more before they heard anything of real moment. In the meantime, they could only fret about what the Queen and her kinsmen might do before the Duke reached the capital. He had been planning to rendezvous on the way with his friend the Duke of Buckingham – himself no lover of the Wydevilles – so that might cause some delay. As it happened, they heard from him within a couple of days. He had not forgotten his duty to his brother: he had gone first to York, where he had summoned all the nobility in those parts to attend a solemn funeral Mass in the Minster. He had wept all through it, he confessed, but had recovered himself sufficiently to bind the local lords by oaths of fealty to his nephew, the new King, Edward V.

Kate had never met the younger Edward, for he had spent most of his twelve years either at court or at Ludlow. But she grieved for this cousin who had lost his father so early in life, and prayed earnestly for him. It could not be easy to be a king, even when you were grown up.

‘Another minority,’ the Duchess said, as they sat at dinner in the hall. ‘I fear very much for the future.’

‘But if my father is there to guide the King, all will be well, surely?’ Kate asked, laying down her knife and wiping her fingers on her napkin.

The castle chaplain leaned forward. ‘There is an old prophecy, Dame Katherine: Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child. This kingdom has not had a happy experience of royal minorities. They breed dissension and rivalry among the nobles of the realm. The late King Henry VI succeeded when he was a babe in arms, and factions ruled, and for want of firm government all law and order was undermined. Now the threat is from the Queen and her blood.’

‘My father will deal with it!’ Kate insisted. ‘He is in the right.’

‘Alas, my child, we have seen too many instances of might prevailing over right in this unhappy land in recent years. But we must take heart: your father is powerful and respected. He is of the old royal stock; these Wydevilles are mere upstarts.’

‘Aye, but they have the King in their clutches, and you may make no doubt they have poisoned his young mind against my lord,’ the Duchess countered. She had eaten very little.

‘With my lords Hastings and Buckingham on his side, my father must prevail!’ Kate persisted. She would not – could not – entertain the possibility of any alternative outcome. In her mind, the Duke was invincible. Had he not taken Berwick from the Scots?

‘Your admiration and zeal for your father is touching,’ smiled the chaplain. ‘We must pray for good news soon.’

Kate prayed. She spent many an hour in the chapel, kneeling beside the Duchess and beseeching God to preserve and keep the Duke. Without his reassuring presence she felt bereft, and it was clear that the Duchess Anne did too. Both loved him truly: Kate with the innocent devotion of a daughter for a loving father, and Anne with a grateful passion for the knight who had rescued her. Anne was fond of telling the children the story, and on the third night of Richard’s absence, when young Edward of Middleham demanded that she recount it again, she smiled at her fair, delicate son, felt the usual pang of fear for his health, and agreed. She could never gainsay him.

‘He wanted to marry me,’ she said, as they clustered around her by the fire. ‘We had known each other as children, for my lord was brought up in my father’s household. We played together: I called him Dickon, and he was pleased, in time, to call me his sweetheart. He was the youngest of a large family, and not very big or strong, but he worked exceptionally hard to prove himself in his military exercises and his swordsmanship. I admired that in him. Then he went away to court, and we did not see each other for some years.’

‘Tell us about being rescued!’ piped up Edward. Kate smiled and ruffled his wispy curls, as his mother went on with her story.

‘When my father was killed in battle at Barnet, he left my sister Isabel and me a rich inheritance that was to be divided between us. Isabel was married to your father’s older brother, the Duke of Clarence. He wasn’t a nice man; he was over-ambitious and very greedy. Isabel’s share of our fortune went to him, because she was his wife, but he was determined to have mine too. I was then living in his household, under his protection, but when he heard that Dickon wanted to marry me, he carried me off and hid me in this big house in London, and there I was forced to work as a kitchen maid. My lord of Clarence warned me that things would go very ill for me if I complained or revealed who I was, and as he had already threatened to send me to a nunnery for the rest of my days, I kept my mouth shut and endured.’

‘It must have been awful for you,’ Kate said.

‘It was. I had no idea how to scrub pans or chop vegetables. I had had a gentle upbringing in a castle. The cook was constantly scolding me. He didn’t know who I was, of course. But then’ – and now her fair complexion glowed – ‘Dickon found me. Someone in Clarence’s household talked; I think he bribed them. And he stormed into that house with a vengeance, and demanded that I be delivered into his care. Well, he was the King’s brother, and he was dreadfully angry: they dared not oppose him. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to see him.’

‘Did he whisk you away and marry you?’ asked John.

‘Not immediately. He had to obtain the King’s permission for the marriage. So, like a perfect, gentle knight, he escorted me to the sanctuary at St Martin’s and placed me in the care of the Archbishop of York while everything was sorted out. And then we did get married. It was a quiet ceremony at Westminster.’ A wistful look crept into Anne’s eyes.

‘And then did the King chop Clarence’s head off?’ asked Edward. At seven, he enjoyed gory details.

‘No, my son, that was later, when he was discovered plotting against King Edward.’

‘Or is it true that he was drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine?’

Watching Anne blanch, Kate suspected that it was true. ‘Where did you hear that?’ the Duchess asked sharply.

Edward looked at her in surprise. ‘John told me.’ John had the grace to look guilty. Anne frowned at him.

‘You shouldn’t go telling him things like that,’ she reproved.

‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ he asked, his black eyes holding hers.

‘True or not, he’s too young to hear such stories.’

‘I am not!’ protested Edward. But his mother merely sent them both to bed, silencing their protests with a raised hand.

‘Bad boys!’ Kate murmured.

‘Exhausting,’ the Duchess sighed, gazing fondly at her beautiful dark-haired stepdaughter, for there was much affection between them. ‘But you are a good girl. I am blessed in having you for company. It often seems to me that you could be my own daughter.’

‘You have been more than kind to me, Madam,’ Kate replied, touched. ‘I am deeply grateful for all that you do for me. I owe you so much.’ And it was true: as a bastard, she could not have wanted for more. She had been brought up as befitted a legitimate daughter of a Duke and Duchess, learning manners, embroidery and everything else needful for a nobly born girl who was expected to make a good marriage. And she had had the great good fortune not to be sent to another lordly household or a convent, as many girls were, but to live with her father, the most tender and admirable of fathers, way beyond the common sort, some of whom hardly even noticed their daughters until the time came for them to make a profit by marrying them off advantageously. And in place of a mother, she had the Duchess Anne, who loved her well.

Yes, she was lucky, Kate often told herself.

*

Her mother, after whom she had been named, was alive and well. She was the wife of the Queen’s cousin, James Haute. But Kate had no memories of the woman who had borne her because she had been fostered by a wet-nurse immediately after her birth, and brought to Middleham when she was two. Her earliest memories were of Middleham, with its strong walls, its mighty towers and its sumptuous private apartments where her father and his family lived in great splendour. She had grown up to love the very air of Wensleydale, its high fells sprinkled with purple heather, its riverside meadows, green valleys, rushing streams and ancient woodlands.

Kate was aware that her father sometimes dealt in business with James Haute’s brother Richard; and she assumed he had met Katherine Haute and her husband socially through Richard Haute. Kate had never liked to ask her father about her mother because it was too delicate a matter, and it was obvious that he was uncomfortable talking about it.

She had not known until she was six that the Duchess Anne was not her mother. When the Duchess bore her son that year, she suffered a terrible confinement, and as her screams echoed throughout the castle, Kate had been terrified that Anne would die.

After the screaming stopped, one of the exhausted damsels found her huddled, weeping uncontrollably, at the top of the spiral stairs.

‘I don’t want my mother to die!’ she was wailing, over and over again.

‘She’s not going to die,’ said the damsel briskly. She had reasons of her own for resenting the bastards that had been forced upon her mistress; she felt that the Duchess had been slighted, and that it showed scant respect on the Duke’s part. She knew of the grief that Anne had suffered over John of Gloucester, and that strumpet Alice Burgh. Even now … Well, it stood to reason it was still going on, didn’t it, with that woman’s sister being appointed wet-nurse to the Duchess’s baby? And yet the Duchess still loved her lord, in spite of it all. But what would happen now, when the physicians had said that another child could kill her? Men were men, and they had needs, and solace was near at hand. It was her awareness of this bitter truth that loosened Cecily Clopton’s normally guarded tongue.

‘Listen, she’s not going to die!’ the damsel repeated. ‘And she’s notyour mother!’

The world had rocked. Kate stared up at her tormentor in horror, then fled past her to the safety of the nursery, where Agnes, her nurse, sprang up, surprised, and dropped the small bodice she was stitching. On the floor beside her, John of Gloucester, a sturdy two-year-old, had ceased playing with his puppy and turned up a troubled face.

‘It’s not true! It’s not true!’ Kate had cried, burying her face in the capacious apron covering Agnes’s soft bosom. ‘It can’t be true!’

‘What’s not true?’ the nurse asked, kneeling down and holding the quivering child firmly by the shoulders. She was shocked at this display of uncontrolled emotion, which was so out of character, for Kate was normally a happy, plucky, biddable child. Agnes was also alarmed, but for a different reason. ‘Look at me. Tell me! Is the child born? Is her Grace happily delivered?’

‘I think so, but Cecily said the Duchess isn’t my mother,’ Kate wept. ‘I hate her! It’s not true!’

There was a pause – a fatal pause – and then Agnes cleared her throat, and hugged Kate tighter.

‘Calm yourself, child. It’s time you knew the truth. No, the Duchess isn’t your real mother, but she has been a mother to you in every other way, which is as good as being your mother in very truth.’

Kate, still sniffing, took a moment to think about this. ‘Then who is my mother?’ she asked tremulously.

‘Sweeting, I do not know,’ the nurse replied, pulling her charge onto her ample lap. ‘But there is something else I should probably tell you, now that you know this. When a man and a woman marry, their children are trueborn and their lawful heirs. But your father was never married to your mother, and thus you are baseborn and can never inherit anything from him.’

Baseborn. Kate didn’t like the sound of that. It made her feel second best.

‘But,’ Agnes was saying soothingly, ‘the Duchess loves you as much as the Duke does, everyone can see that, and I have no doubt that they will see you well provided for.’

A thought occurred to Kate.

‘What about John?’ She nodded at the toddler, who had lost interest in their talk and was now rolling on the rushes with the puppy. ‘Is he baseborn too?’

‘Aye,’ Agnes answered, although her mouth had that buttoned-up look that Kate knew so well, which usually meant that she disapproved of something and would not discuss it. ‘But the Duchess loves him too. She is a great lady in more ways than one. You are both fortunate children.’

‘This new baby …’ Kate began slowly.

‘Heavens, child, what are we doing chattering here when we don’t even know how the Duchess is – or if the babe is healthy? We must hasten and find out.’ Putting Kate from her, Agnes pulled herself to her feet, scooped up John in her arms, and ushered her charges through the deserted rooms that led to the ducal bedchamber. Here, all was subdued bustle, with damsels and maids moving quietly hither and thither with stained towels, smelly basins covered with cloths, soiled bedlinen and empty goblets. The midwife was packing her bag in the antechamber.

At the sight of Agnes, come to claim her new charge, the ranks of serving women and noble ladies parted, and the midwife straightened.

‘A boy,’ she announced. ‘Poor lady, she has had a terrible time of it, but she’s sleeping now.’ The Duchess could be glimpsed, a pale-faced figure lying in her great curtained bed, through the open door. Kate was relieved to see her there, and mightily intrigued as to the contents of the fine oak cradle beside her. Two rockers were gently tilting it, crooning to what lay within.

‘Is all well with her Grace?’ the nurse asked.

The midwife hesitated. ‘The child is small, but he will grow. I’ve sent for the wet-nurse.’ There was a pause, while her eyes met those of Agnes. ‘The doctors say the Duchess will recover, but there will be no more children, so thank God it’s a son and heir for the Duke.’

‘Has the Duke been sent for?’ Agnes asked.

‘Been and gone. He could see the Duchess was exhausted, so he said he wouldn’t tire her.’

‘How did he take it – about there being no more children?’

‘I don’t know. The doctors went into the great chamber with him. They spoke in private.’

‘Well, we must give thanks that my lord and lady have a son,’ Agnes said resolutely. ‘Shall we go and take a peep at him, Kate? John can come too.’

The Duchess slept on as they gazed on the tiny mite in the cradle. He was so little, and looked so fragile.

‘He favours his mother,’ said Agnes uneasily; she could think of nothing else to say. If this little scrap lived, she would be surprised.

‘He’s so sweet,’ Kate observed. ‘Can I rock him?’ One of the young rockers moved aside to make room for her. Kate found it hard to imagine that this weakly mewling infant would grow up to be a great lord like her father. She did not voice her new fear that this trueborn child would displace her in her father’s affections; and that the Duchess Anne, for all her kindness, would cleave to her own blood far more closely than she had to the baseborn children she had adopted.

But soon Kate would find that her fears proved groundless. Anne loved her son with all her heart, and he was her favourite, of course, but neither Kate nor John would ever have guessed it, so fairly and lovingly did she treat all three of them. And it was the same with Duke Richard: proud as he was of his legitimate heir, he was equally affectionate to his natural children, and had grand ambitions for them all.

Edward of Middleham did live. He survived all the perils of early childhood, grew stronger and thrived – although he would never be the most robust of children. He had even been created an earl by his uncle, King Edward: he was now my lord the Earl of Salisbury, and proudly bore the title that had belonged to his mighty Neville forebears. One day, with God’s good grace, he would be Duke of Gloucester, like his father before him. But not yet, not for a long, long time, Kate prayed.

For all his exalted rank, young Edward was a boy like any other, and grew up to worship his older half-sister and brother. He tried to emulate them in all they did, and learned quickly so as to keep up with them. The three children could often be seen building castles out of toy bricks, or playing make-believe games of knights and dragons, in which Kate was always the princess in distress, John was always St George, and Edward insisted on being the dragon, ranting around and pretending to breathe fire. Fine weather found them running wild in the gentle dales around Middleham, with their attendants lazing on the grass in the distance. Kate and John always kept a protective watch on Edward, for while he was lively and full of mischief, he tired more easily than they did, and was younger and much smaller in build.

Life was good. From his great castle of Middleham, their father ruled the whole of the north, almost like another king. He kept great state in his household, a lavish table, and a vast train of retainers who wore his badge of the white boar. His family resided in luxurious apartments, furnished with the best that money could buy, and everything was carved and gilded by master craftsmen, or draped and hung with the most costly fabrics.

The best tutors were appointed to teach the children; the Duke even insisted that Kate be taught lessons with the boys, saying a well-born girl should know how to read and write. Those skills would bring her pleasure, he promised, and gave her the run of his library, where she spent happy hours poring over exquisite illuminated manuscripts and some of the new printed books made by Master Caxton on his recently established press at Westminster.

She would also, Richard added, find that a good education would help her in other ways.

‘One day,’ he said to her, when she was ten, ‘you will be the mistress of a great household, for I intend to find a wealthy husband for you.’ He had said this before, and meant well, but Kate hated to hear him talking about her marriage, because marrying would mean leaving her home, her close kin, and all she held dear, and perhaps living very far away. Her fear was all the greater because the years were passing by and she was well aware that girls of her rank were often married off at fourteen or fifteen, or even younger. But she never said anything for she knew that her father only wanted the best for her. He had often told her that too.

This time, though, he said more. It was growing late; the Duchess and the two boys had retired to bed, and Kate was just about to follow them, wishing that the Duke had not brought up the subject of her marriage. But he stayed her, and bade her sit opposite him by the hearth, in the Duchess’s chair.

‘There is something I must tell you, my Kate,’ he said, his strong, lean face with its prominent nose and chin looking slightly tense. ‘You are old enough now. You must never doubt my love for you, child; you know I would do anything for you. But the truth is … that you were born out of wedlock. You are aware of this, I know: I charged Agnes to tell you as soon as you were of an age to understand.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ She was amazed that he should speak to her of this. In the four years she had known she was baseborn, she had never dared mention it, for she knew that such matters were unseemly, and she could never have summoned up the words to voice her questions to her father. In fact, she had never voiced them to anyone. She feared to upset the Duchess, and had no wish to draw attention to the divide between her and John and their half-brother Edward. It was enough to know that she had been lucky, for to be baseborn was not a desirable state; and there was a worse word for it too – she had overheard the waspish Cecily saying it behind her back: bastard, little bastard. That had hurt. Fortunately, Cecily had since married and moved away, and was no longer there to torment her.

‘I did not love your mother,’ her father said, ‘and she did not love me, but she was very beautiful, just like you.’

Kate did not like to meet his furrowed gaze – it did not seem fitting – so she stared at the crackling flames instead. The Duke, taking quick sips of his wine, continued his tale.

‘I was her knight, paying my addresses to my chosen lady. But my chosen lady was married, and matters went too far. She told me she was with child. She had to tell her husband too, and he forbade her ever to see me again. Give him his due, he arranged for her to go away to a nunnery to be delivered, and although he forgave her, he would not bring up another man’s child as his own, and so you came to me, as was only meet. I had done a dishonourable thing, but I did all I could to remedy it. I paid for your mother to stay at the priory, I arranged for you to go to a wet-nurse, and then I brought you here. And I have been rewarded a thousandfold.’ His visage creased into one of his rare smiles. ‘I can only excuse myself by saying that I was young and ardent, and that I forgot myself and my knightly oath.’

‘What was my mother’s name, Sir?’ Kate ventured.

‘Katherine. You are named for her.’ And then he told her all he thought she needed to know about her mother: the few bare facts of her name, her station in life and where she lived. He did not tell Kate what she burned to know. Did Katherine Haute think often of the daughter she had been forced to relinquish? Had it torn her apart to give her child away, or had her shame made her anxious to get rid of it? Had she ever felt love for her baby? Did she wonder what Kate was doing, and if she thought about the woman who had brought her into the world?

‘What did she look like, my mother?’ Kate asked, thinking this a safe question.

‘She was brown-haired like you,’ her father said, ‘with blue eyes and a pretty mouth. She dressed well, as I remember. But in truth, Kate, I knew her for such a short time that my memory of her has faded. Suffice it to say she was a charming lady with a ready laugh and high spirits. And she was quick-witted, I remember. In fact, she was much like you.’

Kate could not help herself. ‘Will I ever meet her?’ she implored. ‘I would love to know her, even just a little.’

The Duke shifted in his chair and frowned. ‘No, Kate. I fear it is out of the question. I gave my word that I would never try to see her again. I did it for the sake of her marriage and her future happiness. I cannot go back on it. I am sorry.’

‘No matter,’ she mumbled. And in a way, when she thought about it in bed that night, it didn’t matter, not too much. She was loved. She had a father, and to all good purposes a mother, and two brothers. Her real mother was a stranger. With sudden grown-up insight, she realised that Mistress Haute might not wish to be confronted with the living evidence of her sin, and that it might have disastrous consequences for her, given that her husband sounded a stern, vengeful man. And Kate was bound to honour her father’s promise, as he did. So she tried very much to lay her inner yearnings aside, and forget about her mother. But that did not stop her wondering about her, and spinning fantasies about meeting her unexpectedly, or Katherine sending for her, or even secretly contriving to see her.

Being bastards both, John and Kate shared a common bond. When she judged him old enough, they would whisper together about their mothers, and speculate about them. John was an easy-going, unimaginative boy, though, and did not display the same lively curiosity as Kate did – and maybe it was just as well. For John was the fruit of adultery: he had been born not two years after their father’s marriage. No one had ever spoken openly of this, and Kate sensed that it would not be wise to enquire about his mother. She thought it showed exceptional kindness on the part of the Duchess to have taken him in and cared for him as tenderly as she did, for the news of his birth must have caused her great pain, and he was a constant living reminder of her lord’s infidelity.

And yet, Anne loved the Duke. That was as plain as day to anyone. They seemed as happy as any noble couple should be, with their shared interests and their great wealth, much of which had come to the Duke by their marriage. He showed his wife every respect and courtesy; he deferred to her wishes; he looked to her comfort. In fact, he did all the things you might expect a good husband to do. But did he love Anne? As Kate grew older, she began to wonder.

She had overheard the damsels whispering one night in the maidens’ dorter, which she shared with them after she became too old to sleep in the same chamber as the boys. They must have thought she had fallen into slumber, and in truth she nearly had, but what she heard made her prick up her ears.

‘My aunt at court says it is no true marriage.’ That was Joan Tankerville, recently returned from visiting her kinsfolk near London.

‘Really?’ Thomasine Vaux sounded shocked.

‘It’s no secret, apparently. The Duke did not seek a dispensation. They are close cousins, you know, and they should have had one before they wed.’

The Duke? Kate was bewildered. Were they talking about the Duke her father?

‘But why did he not get one?’

‘Aunt Lucy said it was in case she bore him no heir, then he could get an annulment and marry someone else.’

‘But she brought him great lands, which he would stand to lose if he divorced her.’

‘Great lords like Gloucester don’t easily let go of what is in their grasp. He would find a way, make no mistake about it! Force her into a nunnery probably, or shut her up, like he did her mother.’

‘What did you say?’ Thomasine nearly squealed.

‘The old Countess of Warwick. My aunt said he seized all her lands and lured her out of sanctuary at Beaulieu. Then he had her brought here, and locked her up in a tower. He had Parliament pass an Act declaring her legally dead, so that he could keep her lands.’

Kate was outraged. How dare they speak of her father so! She reared up in her bed and took pleasure in seeing their faces aghast in the candlelight.

‘If I reported you, you could be whipped for what you have just said, or worse!’ she warned, her voice icy. ‘The Duke my father loves his wife. I should know, and I will hear no more! And my grandmother is not locked up: she wanders in her mind, and is cared for by a servant, andshe goes out sometimes. So get your facts right before you spread evil gossip! Now can we get some sleep?’ And with these words, she turned over and presented her back to them.

Yes, her father loved his wife. Of course he did. She had been wrong to doubt it. And all this talk of dispensations was nonsense, for the Duchess had borne him an heir, and even if she hadn’t, it would surely never have occurred to him to put her away.

But how could she, Kate, really know the truth of it? No one could be privy to all the secrets between husband and wife. And she was no longer as naïve as she had once been. She knew that her father had not always been faithful: John was the living proof. And she remembered that there had been some dark mystery, and muttered innuendoes, about Isabel Burgh, who had lodged in the household for two years as Edward’s wet-nurse and now lived over Knaresborough way. Was Isabel John’s mother? She had never believed it. Isabel had been as correct in her conduct as any servant could be, and Kate had never once seen her lift her eyes to the Duke or show any interest in him. And she was not the kind of woman one could imagine inspiring lust: in fact, as Kate recalled, she was rather plain.

But she’d heard that Isabel Burgh had a sister, Alice, who had once worked as a chamberer to the Duchess Anne until, suddenly, she left. Later, she had been appointed wet-nurse to the son of the Duchess of Clarence. Over the years Kate had become aware that voices became even more hushed and secretive whenever Alice Burgh’s name was mentioned; there had been gossip – quickly but belatedly silenced when Kate appeared – about the Duke awarding the woman a pension, and she had deduced that Alice Burgh had left her employment some months before John was born. Could it be that Alice was his mother? That would explain many things.