“I know I should be grateful to the men of Cornwall, but”—she braced herself and struggled for the words she had prepared—“but I don’t want to give up what we have found together. Pray, let us return to Burgundy, Richard. Let us not go against Tudor. Not yet—not now. I am not ready.”
Richard took both her hands tenderly into his own. “But we cannot turn back now, my love. I thought you wanted this as much as I did—nay, maybe even more, my Celtic princess.”
“I thought I did, too—at Ayr.”
“Remember the words of the wise-woman . . . ‘You shall be queen one day.’ ”
“I remember. But I no longer wish to be queen. I wish only to be with you and our wee ones—together—safe.”
“We must believe in God, Catryn—that He will help the virtuous against the tyrant. We must have faith in Him to set things right. For God knows my heart, as He knows Tudor’s. How could He turn away?”
“But we do not know God’s heart, Richard. His ways are a mystery and few things in this world happen as they should. I had persuaded myself that I wanted this for you—as much as you did. But I don’t, and I can’t let you go without speaking of it. I want you to see your new babe born, and be at my side to watch our Dickon grow into manhood. I want so much more than these twenty-two months we’ve had together. Let us board your ship and return to Burgundy, my dearest love. We would be happy there. One day we can come back to England to strike the Tudor from your throne with greater assurance of success.”
“Catryn, there is no better time to strike than now! I have no doubt that I would be happy anywhere if you are with me, but however much I want to—and I do want to—I cannot leave now. You know that. The longer Tudor sits on the throne, the better he can cement his power and destroy those who would support us. Time is his friend, and our enemy.”
“That time is our enemy is something I have always known, Richard. But I feel that never was time more our enemy than now, on the eve of your departure to fight the usurper.”
“You’ve seen the Cornishmen who have come here. They have placed all their hopes in me. These people have been taxed into starvation by the usurper. They are desperate. How can I abandon them now, when we stand on the verge of victory? So much depends on me, Catryn! Aunt Margaret has seen a tyrant usurp the throne of England and kill every male of her blood royal. How can I give up and return to her in Burgundy without ever striking a blow? What would I say to her?”
“You would say that the time is not right. That the Tudor has murdered everyone who was in a position to help you. That you have no knights, no money, and no true army—and that the time will come when England will revolt against the blood and torture this beast has unleashed on her, and you must be there to save her when she does.”
Richard sighed. “What you speak is truth. Yet it is impossible.”
“I know you believe it your duty to see this enterprise through to the end. But Richard—all who would have helped you are dead!” She couldn’t stop the rush of words that fell now that her lips had been unsealed. “Tudor found them and beheaded them—even his own close kin Sir William Stanley—the one who won him the crown! You have no one to vouch for you—no one to speak for you among the nobility. And it is only the nobility that count, not the poor. This much I have learned from my father! Ten thousand men with pikes are scarcely a match for the thousands of knights in armor that will be brought against you. Without the nobles, there can be no victory. If you lose, God forfend, the Tudor would send you to the Tower—”
She broke into a shudder that sent her trembling visibly from head to toe. Richard drew her to him. “Hush, hush, my love, speak no more of such dread things, lest you break my heart. You wouldn’t wish to send your husband to battle with a broken heart, would you?”
She shook her head as he wiped her tears with his handkerchief. She had failed. He was not to be dissuaded from his course. She had to accept what she could not change. Her father had told her that hope was stronger than fear, and now was the time to remember his words.
“I wish to send my husband to victory,” she said, laying her cheek against his strong chest.
“Victory,” he echoed, his lips seeking hers.
Mist lay so thick around Catherine that she could not see her way forward. She heard Dickon cry, but she couldn’t find him. Richard spoke, but his voice came to her vaguely. She could not see him. Blinded by whiteness, she groped her way through the fog. “Richard!” she cried in panic. “Richard—”
“Hush, my love, hush,” he said. “I’m here. All is well.
“’Tis but a bad dream,” he murmured, kissing her brow.
Nestling against him, she sighed with relief and fell asleep again. When next she opened her eyes, mist covered the darkness of the world, but this time she was not dreaming and she could not turn over and go back to sleep, for the monastery-fortress was awakening from its deep slumber. Soon the rooster would crow, the sun would rise, and Richard would leave for his enterprise against Henry Tudor. With iron control, she prepared herself for the inevitable.
Richard wished to bid her farewell at the Mount, but she insisted on walking with him to Marazion on the mainland. Too soon they were crossing the causeway with their entourage, Richard’s men-at-arms leading the way with torches, for the sun was only beginning to stir in the east. Wisps of mist drifted across the fortress and the sea, but inland it was dissipating. The ocean sighed in the chilly morning air, and birds shrieked loudly as they flew low over the water, seeking breakfast.
On the beach at Marazion, they came to a halt. Richard’s men-at-arms huddled together near a rising slope covered with heather that led to the high road going northeast, stomping their feet and rubbing their hands against the cold. Richard and Catherine stood a distance away on the silver sand where puddles of water caught the reflection of the sunrise and glittered at their feet like scattered jewels. With the sky as his backdrop, and bands of crimson and purple hailing the ascent of the sun that was now an immense orange ball on the horizon, Richard took Catherine’s hand in his. His hair glowed rosegold and his eyes were blue as the sea would soon be. How she hated to see this sunrise! Beautiful though it was, it was hideous to her. Not trusting herself to speak, she stared at the sunburned hands that held hers.
Richard’s resonant voice broke the silence. “If something should happen to me and I don’t come back, I want you to—”
She waited, the constriction in her throat tightening. Tears blurred her vision. She lifted her eyes to him but she could barely see his face.
“Take the Cuckoo, and go to Burgundy.”
“If something—something should happen—” Catherine said, forcing the dire thought away even as she spoke it, “I will leave here, but only for Dickon’s sake—and for the sake of our bairn yet to be born.”
“And, Catryn—” Richard braced himself to say what he must, for her sake. “If I do not return, I do not wish you to mourn me forever. I want you to leave your heart open to love.”
She looked at him, stunned. “I cannot promise that! How can you ask such a thing? I can never be happy without you.”
“You must promise me, Catryn.”
“Never!”
“Catherine, I beg you—grant me the peace of knowing I do not leave you bereft forever. I could not bear that.”
Catherine swallowed on the terrible choking sensation that constricted her throat. Closing her eyes, she cast about for strength. Richard’s hands tightened their hold on hers with urgency. “Do it for me—live life for me—remember me in happiness, not in tears; smile for me, Catryn; laugh for me. ’Tis how I want to see you remember me. I want to look down from Heaven and see you smiling, not weeping.”
“I promise,” she said at last. A tear splashed her wedding ring.
He bent down and brushed her lips with his own. She longed to fall into his arms and clutch him to her, to scream, and sob, and beat at his breast. But she did not. She held herself rigidly erect with the decorum of the pri
ncess that she was. She had to be strong, for his sake. She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. Resolute, determined, he would do what he had to do, though he did not wish it. For her, it was the same. They had no choice. This was their destiny.
“God willing, victory will be yours,” she said, in a voice she did not recognize as her own.
He managed a smile.
“May the hill rise behind you,” she said, taking his hand into both of her own and closing a finger over his palm.
“May the mountain be always over the crest,” he replied softly.
“And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.” She folded his last finger as she spoke.
Drawing her close, he held her tenderly for a long moment. He kissed her one last time, and strode to his war-horse.
Her fingers strayed to her face and the imprint of his kiss. He mounted his stallion and sat for a long moment, looking at her. He turned his destrier. His men fell behind him, and the rhythmic beat of horses’ hooves filled her being as he faded away into the mist.
Chapter 3
Darkness on the Mount
Such panic seized Catherine on the beach as Richard faded from view that she fled back to the Mount as if chased by a torrent of fire. Snatching her babe from Alice’s arms, she did not give him up even for his changing and feeding. Seated by the cow shed, she tended his needs herself, and rocked him to sleep in her arms, thinking every moment of Richard—not of the future, for that seemed suddenly filled with nameless terrors—but of the past. All the while, she clutched her son fiercely. He was her flesh and blood link to his father. She could not let him go, not for a moment. He was, suddenly, all she had.
Even with Dickon close, the day felt unbearable and without end, but as the ocean lashed the shore and monks chanted their songs of praise, Richard came to her again in remembrance as he’d looked the first time she’d ever seen him, riding through the castle gate at Stirling. Like a favorite melody, the memory ceased abruptly, and reverted to the beginning to echo its refrain. It restored to her the glorious moment when Richard had entered her life, and she clung to it, knowing she’d not forget a detail, however long she lived.
That evening she sought the curve of the stone wall where she had stood with Richard the previous night. Shielded from the eyes of monks passing for prayer, and seated with her child in a turret, she savored the day’s end. Birds screeched louder than they had ever done before. The arms of Marazion that hugged the Mount turned black around her, and darkness gathered the world into her folds until the moon came out. In her mind she saw Richard on the shore of Loch Lomond, pointing up to the stars. Her hand strayed to where his had rested on her shoulder that night, and she heard his words again. “See those three stars in a straight line down?”
She followed the direction in which he pointed.
“What does it remind you of?”
“I think I see the outline of a man—kneeling, perhaps—because of the fourth star that juts out—”
“Aye, they say that is Orion, son of Poseidon, stung to death by a scorpion.” Richard brushed her brow with a kiss. “At his father’s request, Zeus placed Orion in the sky, at the opposite side from Scorpio, so they could never meet again. One legend has Orion chasing the scorpion to finally kill it, and another has him forever fleeing away. But never can they be seen together. Orion only rises when Scorpio falls, and Scorpio rises when Orion falls.”
She looked hard at Richard. The significance of the legend was not lost on her. “And you are Orion.”
“I hunt my prize, as Orion did, to lay it at the feet of the one I love.” Richard took both her hands into his and gazed into her eyes. “Whenever I am gone, look up at that third star in Orion—the one with the bright blue light—and remember me. Then I will always be with you, my Celtic princess.”
Catherine came back to the present abruptly and kissed the sleeping babe at her breast. Richard’s blue star glittered over them both, and the thought comforted her. She lifted her eyes to its steady gaze. “My beloved, may God be with thee tonight, and keep thee safe—”
Dickon let out a wail and squirmed in distress. “Hush, hush, my wee one—ye be hungry, I know. I’ll get ye something to eat—”
“My Lady Cate—there ye be!” It was Alice. Catherine turned to find her appearing inside the wall, a thick blanket thrown around her shoulders, her hair whipping in the wind. “We have been so worried! We searched everywhere! Ye disappeared from the cow ledge, and no one knew where ye had gone.”
“You need have no concern. Surely you know I would come when I was ready?” Catherine said, tangling with Dickon.
“But, my Lady Cate, ye’ve not eaten and neither has the lord master.”
“He is hungry now, and you may take him.” She had to shout for Alice to hear her over Dickon’s cries. She kissed her sweetheart on his tender cheek and surrendered him, but Dickon was not happy with the arrangement. Yelling louder than before, he put out his hands to grab a strand of his mother’s hair, and struggled to pull himself back into her arms. “Nay, ’tis time for you to go inside, poppet. ’Tis time for bed.” She untangled her hair from his grasp.
Alice tucked him firmly beneath her blanket but made no move to depart as he squirmed to free himself. “Will ye not come in, my lady?”
“Not yet. I am not ready.”
“But the wind is picking up. ’Tis chill.” She shivered visibly as she bounced Dickon in her arms. “Ye may catch cold if you stay.”
“Nay, I do not feel the cold. This is where I need to be. Go, Alice. I’ll come soon.”
Alice was about to protest again, but changed her mind. Much as she loved her cousin, and as grateful as she was for her employment, she didn’t care for the stubborn streak that sometimes made Catherine so willful. She decided to enlist the prior’s help. Maybe he would have better luck.
Catherine gazed up at the sky. Sometimes she thought she’d fallen in love with Richard even before she ever met him. In the darkness, Richard’s twinkling star seemed to wink at her from its black velvet bed.
Velvet. That’s where it had all begun. With a king’s gift of fifteen ells of crimson velvet for her eighteenth birthday, and an invitation to a royal feast. Her thoughts filtered back to that day . . .
“By sweet Saint Marie, yer beauty lights up this gloomy day like a torch, Cate.”
She’d turned at the unexpected sound of her father’s melodious voice, thick with the accent of the Highlands. He stood watching her from the threshold of her chamber and in his blue eyes danced the special look he reserved only for her.
“Father!” she cried, running to him so suddenly that she almost knocked her nurse from the low perch where she sat adjusting the hem of her new velvet gown. “Do you like my dress?” She twirled for him.
“Very rich,” he smiled. “The color becomes you well.”
“King James sent me the fabric! He said the same—that crimson is my color. And he—” She broke off, suddenly realizing how weary her father was. She decided to wait for her brother, William, to arrive before giving him the most exciting news to come to Strathbogie in years. “Father, I am so glad you are back. I worried about you and William.”
“He’ll join us in a wee bit when he’s done with some other matters that need tendin’, me bonnie princess.” He held her out at arm’s length to gaze at her. He seemed to brighten until his glance drifted to the bleak, rolling hills beyond the window. “We are back, aye, but not for long.” He heaved an audible sigh.
The feuds with the Earl of Ross have claimed their toll, Catherine thought. As one of the king’s chief advisors, her father, the Earl of Huntly, had the responsibility for maintaining the king’s peace. “Never mind the Rosses and those other quarrelsome Highland families. They’re always fighting, Father; I doubt they’ll ever stop.” Linking her arm in his, she led him to the settle by the hearth, where a fire blazed to warm the cold, dreary November day, and assumed an imperious tone. “Now—as your princess—I co
mmand you to forget them. Cease all talk of trouble in the realm until I grant permission to resume the tiresome subject.” She sat down and draped her rich velvet gown across the silk cushion. “Ye are commanded to have a joyous time here at Gordon Castle in beautiful Strathbogie for as long as I shall decree. Which might be forever, Father.”
Clutching her hand tightly in his own, her father threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I see nothing has changed though I be away many months, Flora,” he said, directing himself to Nurse. “My youngest daughter still rules the roost, just as she has since the day she was born!”
Nurse shook her head helplessly. “’Tis the wise-woman’s prophecy that did it, m’lord. Said she’d be loved by a king, an’ she’s never forgotten it. Went to her head, it did, and ever since, our Cate’s been nigh on impossible.”
They both threw Catherine a glance overflowing with affection.
“Then you’d best remember that I require the utmost deference, or I might send you to the chopping block when I am queen,” she replied.
Her father and Flora laughed, and that was how her brother, William, found them. Catherine rose from the settle, and kissed him, breathless with excitement.
“Father, William—I have an announcement to make! While you were galavantering around Scotland, our royal cousin sent me the velvet for this dress”—she gave a pirouette—“and an invitation to Stirling Castle!” She picked up the document from the desk and held it up for them to see. “Our presence is commanded by King James! Richard of York is coming to Scotland and James states that he cannot receive the prince until all the Huntlys are at his side! Is that not splendid?”
“Do you mean King Edward’s son, Richard, Duke of York? The boy-prince who disappeared in the Tower?” her father inquired, rising.
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