“May I?” I said, surprising Catherine Gordon out of her thoughts, as Harry had surprised me.
She leapt to her feet. “My lady queen—”
“Hush. Do not alert the guards. Sit back down, I pray you.”
She did, and I took a seat beside her on the bench.
“I brought you a gift,” I said, passing her the breviary from beneath my cloak.
“I thank you, my queen, but you already gave me a Book of Hours.”
“Are you not going to read it?” I asked pointedly.
A look of puzzlement came over her beautiful face, and she turned her gaze to the little volume in her hand.
“Go ahead, my dear,” I urged.
She bent her head to the breviary, and it fell open in her hands. She took a quick breath of utter astonishment and gave a sweet, yet achingly painful cry. Tears glistened on her lashes as she lifted her eyes to me. “I know not what to say, beloved queen—”
“There is naught to be said, Catherine.” I patted her hand.
“I was so afraid I would forget his face.” She spoke in a broken whisper.
My heart twisted. I knew that fear. It had been mine, long ago. “Now, you’d better put the likeness away,” I managed. “You don’t want anyone to know what you have there.”
“Not yet, I pray you! I have not the heart—another moment longer?”
I glanced around. The ferrymen were gone, and though the wind had risen, mist still drifted and dusk had fallen, shielding us from view. I nodded.
She caressed the drawing tenderly, as if she laid her fingers on her husband’s own face. She swallowed hard. “How—where—may I know—” Her voice cracked.
“My lord had the miniature of Perkin sketched for him soon after your marriage. It was sent from Scotland by one of his spies. He kept it in his memorandum book.”
“But—will he—”
“He will think his monkey ate it, I doubt not,” I said, my lips quirking.
Catherine gave a sudden, silvery laugh, and I realized I’d never heard a sound of joy from her before. She turned her gaze on the likeness and grew pensive. “ ’Tis almost as if he lives again,” she said in a soft whisper. “All I had left of him till now was this—” She opened her palm.
I tore my gaze from her eyes and looked down at her hand. A coin shimmered in the fading light of day. I took it from her.
It was a silver groat, one of the many minted for the White Rose prince in Flanders that bore the profile of a crowned head, encircled by the words King Richard IV. I turned the coin over. On the back it carried a prayer—
O Mater Dei, memento mei. O Mother of God, remember me. Beneath, someone had etched, Long live Perkin, I was from Tournai.
O, Mother of God, remember me!
O, Mother of God, remember me.
I shut my eyes.
Memories are the only gifts life gives us to keep.
We sat for a long time in silence, and the shrill wind seemed filled with a thousand voices. At last, very softly, I said,“The anger dies away over the years, Catherine; ’tis the loss that never leaves you.”
CHAPTER 27
A Twilight Path, 1500
HENRY THREW THE MOST ELABORATE FEAST OF HIS reign to welcome in the new century of 1500. Hundreds of candles flickered on the white-clothed banquet tables, and torches flared around the Great Hall of Rufus as we entered and took our seats at the stone table on the dais. For once, I sat next to Arthur.
Glittering lords and ladies in gold, jewels, and colored velvets and satins rose to greet us with lusty cheers and the loud rattling of horns, shouting compliments. High in the gallery, minstrels took up their instruments while servants began the steady procession of courses between drum rolls. The company dined on hare soup, partridge in spicy sauce, and fat capons in pies garnished with salted olives, but I restricted myself to small bites of a salad of flowers and herbs, a taste of cream fritters, and a piece of sugared bread, for I had not much appetite.
To the fanfare of trumpets, a whole boar was brought in on a silver serving tray, borne on the shoulders of four grooms clad in green and white. A procession of peacocks followed, cooked and reassembled in their feathers of emerald, jade, lily, and cream. The guests stamped their feet in approval. At the first table just below the dais, Doctor de Puebla shifted in his seat to make room for the servers to pile another goodly portion of meat on his plate. Not having heard back from his sovereigns, he had finally declined my offer of a bishopric. Unwilling to give up, I had made him another: to procure him a rich wife. His answer was the same. He had written them, and this time, I hoped they would not forget to reply.
Along the table, Harry chewed noisily as he tore into his capon, smacking his lips and licking his fingers in hearty delight. A servant refilled his golden goblet with more of the sweet malmsey from Portugal that he loved, and which had been thinned with water for him. He drained his cup in one gulp. I smiled as I watched my happy, fun-loving, and absolutely unsinkable son. He had a lusty appetite for all God’s gifts, and that pleased me well. Life should be enjoyed. He set down his goblet and grinned at me, his face smeared with sauce.
“What’s so amusing?” Arthur inquired.
“Harry,” I replied.
Arthur turned to look at his brother, and we both laughed. Relaxing into his chair, Arthur draped an arm around my shoulders. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at us, but before I could ponder this, the minstrels gave a drum roll and Patch entered.
“Here’s our troubadour!” someone mocked, for Patch had a high-pitched, feminine voice.
Everyone roared.
“My voice is too fine for your hairy ears!” Patch called out, with a courtly bow in his direction.
The company hooted approval. Patch waited until the noise had died down.
“I am here to announce a most special display! Prince Harry, our illustrious and brilliant Duke of York, friend to the great Erasmus”—Patch bowed in the philosopher’s direction—“shall hail the new century with the performance of a dance he has designed with his royal sisters, the princesses Margaret and Mary. Then His Grace shall sing a song he has written himself.”
Patch withdrew with a bow. Harry took the center of the room, accompanied by his sisters, one on either side. The minstrels broke into a lilting melody, and the children hopped, and turned, and switched partners most delightfully. Then the girls left, and Harry stood alone at the center of the hall, all eyes on him. I was surprised that he displayed such confidence, but then I remembered how he relished the adoration of crowds. A chair was brought. He sat down and was handed a lute. He bent his ear, strummed the notes of the complicated melody he had devised, and broke into song. He had a charming voice, and as I gazed on him, I thought how much he resembled the glorious golden cherubs of the illustrated manuscripts. When he was done, the hall erupted with cheers. I wiped a tear from my eye, so moved had I been by his sweet music, and so filled with pride at my son.
The joyous evening continued with the performances of mummers, jugglers, tumblers, fire-eaters, and men who walked on great sticks so that they seemed as giants. With the wind howling outside, the fire blazing inside, our children gathered around us, and Arthur at my side, I drank wine and toasted to the new century of 1500, my heart filled with gratitude.
“May joy be ours!” Arthur called out, holding aloft his goblet.
The hall echoed his wish, but there was one who set down her cup with barely a sip. Stunningly beautiful in her simple black gown, Catherine Gordon sat at the far end of the dais. Though once in a while, she nodded her head and smiled graciously at something someone said to her, an aura of profound sorrow wrapped her as entirely as the ebony velvet she wore. I had seen little of her since that day on the riverbank, but she had been in my thoughts, and in every prayer I uttered. It did not escape my notice that Henry did not cast any lustful glances in her direction.
At least he is not without shame, I thought; that much can be said for him.
THE NEW C
ENTURY DID NOT PROVE KIND. DEATH HAD grown overfond of me and refused to release its embrace. The plague that had devoured many thousands of lives was over and England was in the full bloom of glorious summer when my babe Edmund fell ill of a strange sickness and died on the nineteenth of June at the age of sixteen months. We took his little body from Greenwich to Westminster, and once again the mayor and aldermen and the men of the crafts and guilds lined the streets to share our sorrow. Edmund’s tiny coffin was borne to the Shrine of St. Edward at Westminster Abbey and buried near his sister, Elizabeth.
So much grief, I thought; how can I bear it?
It must be borne, came the answer unbidden to my mind. Excessive mourning always provoked the wrath of God. Richard’s queen did not put aside her anguish, and her unabated grieving tumbled Richard from his throne. I lifted my head and gazed at the tiny coffin as it moved forward beneath drizzling skies, almost lost in the procession. I shall be strong, if not for Henry, whom I have never loved, then for Arthur, who has all my heart.
Sitting on my bench in the walled garden after the funeral, I bent my head back to the book of meditation that Bridget had sent me. It was by St. Mathilde of Hackeborn, who wrote of reunion with loved ones after death. The little volume had once belonged to Richard and Anne, and it bore their signatures. It had been bequeathed to Bridget by my grandmother Cecily Neville, and she had sent it to me, thinking it would bring me comfort. The timing of the book’s arrival almost made it seem that Heaven herself was reaching out to me, and sore at heart, I lingered on the words St. Mathilde had written: Come and do penance; come and be reconciled; come and be consoled.
We held court at Westminster, visited Coventry, attended splendid mystery plays, and rested at Windsor with its fine hunting. But each time I passed the knoll where I had sat with Queen Anne after the loss of her child, I averted my gaze, for the sight unleashed a stream of painful memories. I rode again to the barking of the hounds and felt the wind in my face; I raced through the dappled forest, ducking the limbs and branches of graceful trees. It was good to rest in the evenings to the music of flutes, and gittern, and harp, and to awaken in the morning to the sweet voices of children singing in the village.
One evening, as a gentle rose twilight settled over the earth, I returned from a picnic in the woods with my ladies and noticed a tall friar climbing the steep path up to the castle gate. He walked with his head bowed and I saw him from the back, but something about him struck me as familiar. I slowed my gelding and drew up to his side.
“Sir Friar,” I said, restraining my spirited palfrey. “Do I know you?”
He lifted his cowled head and looked at me. A silver cross glinted at his throat. My breath caught in my chest.
“I know not, my queen,” he said. “Do you?”
I stared at his face, at the strong square jaw, the dark hair, the brown eyes. O Thomas, Thomas. The years had left their mark on him, but it was Thomas! How could he think I would ever forget? Memories flooded me, and again I saw the little pond where we used to meet; felt the honeyed sweetness of my first kiss; remembered the hopes and dreams of my maidenhood. I swallowed hard on the memories, thankful I had my back to my attendants and that I obstructed their view of him, for the heartrending tenderness of his gaze made my own heart turn over in response.
“I see that I was mistaken,” I said. “I do not know you.”
A silence fell.
His eye went to the sapphire brooch he had given me, pinned to my bodice, in the spot he had chosen for it so long ago.
He said, “I heard of your sorrow and came to give you this, my queen.” He took out a breviary from the folds of his robes and drew near. He held it up to me, and I bent down and reached for it, but he did not release his grip, nor did I seek to remove it from his hand. Our eyes met and held.
At last I took it from him. “You are most welcome here, dear friar, and since our paths have crossed, will you not take my Psalter in return?” I put away his breviary and accepted my Psalter from Lucy. I passed it to him.
“I thank you, my queen,” he said, taking the book. “I shall keep you in my prayers always.”
I gave him a nod. He stepped back. I jerked my bridle, and my palfrey jingled forward.
ILL TIDINGS REACHED US AT WINDSOR SOON AFTER Henry returned from London, where he had gone to attend Morton’s funeral. At eighty, Morton had outlived almost everyone I had known from childhood. Life is strange, I thought; the good die young, and the wicked flourish. I watched Henry’s face change as he read the missive delivered to him in the solar.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Suffolk has fled for Burgundy with his brother, Richard de la Pole. Tyrrell has let them through Calais,” Henry said through clenched teeth, a muscle twitching at his jaw.
Welladay, what do you expect? Suffolk stood next in line to Edward of Warwick in the order of succession. To Suffolk, that had to mean next in line for execution.
“He had no reason,” said Henry.
No reason, I thought scornfully, when you set such an exorbitant bond on him that he faced financial ruin paying it!
Henry had devised a policy that had worked well for him. By keeping his nobles in desperate fear of being penniless and losing the means to support their rank, not only for themselves, but for their children, he kept them in firm check. Edmund, the son of a duke, had lost the family title along with the family money as punishment for his brother’s support of the rebellion at Stoke. The loss of rank meant loss of honor, but unlike my brother Dorset, Edmund had pride of lineage and found it impossible to abide the humiliation.
Henry was good at humiliating noblemen. “ ’Tis our intention to keep our subjects low; riches would only make them haughty,” I had overheard him tell de Puebla.
Henry’s voice came again, jolting me from my thoughts. “I am informed that the de la Poles had dinner with the Earl of Devon and Kate’s husband, William, on the night before they left. Dorset’s son and Stanley’s son were also with them.”
My blood went cold. Kate’s husband?
“Surely you cannot suspect William, or his father? They helped you capture Perkin!”
“I suspect everyone,” Henry replied, his pale, hooded eyes as cold as steel.
“By your leave, my lord, I shall take some air in the garden,” I said.
He nodded absently, and I knew I was already forgotten. At the door, I glanced back. He was writing in his new memorandum book, no doubt adding William’s name to the list of those to watch. I gave a shiver.
I did not go to the garden but to the river. There was something about the lapping of water and the mewing of river birds that always comforted me. Bidding my attendants to wait by the water gate, I strolled along the banks of the Thames, alone with my thoughts. The light was draining from the sky, and the clouds glimmered with a soft touch of silver. Geese scattered out of my path with a flutter of wings and loud honking of horns, and on the river a few barges and scarred wooden boats passed in the distance. I inhaled deeply of the fresh, wet air. The evening was bathed in calm and serenity.
But I was deeply troubled. I knew Henry. He would not act rashly, but cautiously, and take his time. Like a cat with a mouse, he would play with his victims first; let them hope for reprieve or escape before he pounced for the kill. I remembered with a shudder the heretic in April with whom he had disputed the true path to God. He had converted him from his error and given him alms. Then he rode away and the man was burned alive.
But surely he will not hurt William Courtenay?
A terrifying realization washed over me. Suffolk’s departure left Kate’s sons next in line for the throne! I felt as if a hand closed around my throat. “Jesu—!” I whispered. Abruptly, on the wind, came voices. I heard them as clearly as if they spoke in my ear:
“He had a deadly disease, the poor young lad,” someone said.
“What’s that?” asked another voice.
“Royal blood,” came the answer.
I gasped, stumbled
in my steps. They are talking about Edward of Warwick, and know not that they mean all my relatives. I looked around but saw no one. The oppression in my chest sharpened into panic and my stomach clenched tight. Feeling nauseated, I sank down on a nearby bench. Henry had inverted the natural order of things. Now, that which should have been at the bottom lay on top, and all those who should have been on top had to die to secure the place of the low one who had risen.
I placed a hand to my brow, my head reeling. Henry persecuted my family because he feared them, and he would not feel safe until they were all dead or helpless against him. I lifted my eyes to the heavens. But what can I do? Tell me what I can do!
A cloud moved across the sky. I watched it take form and shadow, and it seemed to shape itself into a crown. Somewhere in my mind, across the far reaches of time, the memory of a distant voice echoed—“my best”—and I saw Richard’s face as it had been when he had sent me away to Sheriff Hutton, and remembered what he had said: I have done my best for England. ’Tis for God to judge me now.
I bowed my head. I had done my best. I had given my people Arthur. The rest was in God’s hands. All I could do was pray.
MAXIMILIAN WOULDN’T EXPEL THE DE LAPOLE BROTHERS. At St. Paul’s, Henry had them cursed with bell, book, and candle and excommunicated, but he worried that he hadn’t caught the traitors involved and turned his suspicion on Suffolk’s friends—all his relatives—anyone of Yorkist blood. One of these was Sir James Tyrrell, the governor of Guisnes, who was lured back to England by Henry’s safe conduct, which was promptly discarded as soon as he stepped aboard ship. Tyrrell was conveyed directly to the Tower, and no doubt tortured until he confessed to whatever Henry wanted.
I closed my eyes, remembering the kindly knight who loved a good jest. In this new world of Henry’s, even a king’s promise is worthless.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 37
