It seemed as if it were the middle of the night when Richard felt the sudden jab that woke him. It was Edward, and he was ashen-faced.
“What?” whispered Richard, seized with fear.
Edward threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure the door was closed, put a finger to his lips, and pointed to the window. Richard rose. What he saw sent him sagging against the wall, weak-kneed. His friends stood staring beside him, their faces drenched of color. The monastery was surrounded by armed men.
“How?” Richard uttered, feeling faint. He loosened his collar.
“They must have picked us up in Southampton,” Astley whispered.
“What do we do?” Richard’s throat was parched and he had trouble forming the words. “I must escape—” He flung himself past Edward to get to the door, but his friend held him back. “You cannot escape. There is no escape.”
“I can see the inlet—the water comes up to the abbey—there is a ship—I see it—”
“It’s the king’s ship, my lord. It bears the banner of the dragon! It’s here to guard you.”
“Jesu—”
“Can they do that? I thought the abbey grounds were out of bounds to the king’s men!” Edward’s voice seemed strangely hoarse in Richard’s ears.
“I heard the monks talking—Henry had the laws of sanctuary changed to permit him to surround an abbey if there’s a traitor inside,” Astley replied.
“I’m not a traitor to that tyrant!” Richard cried.
Astley put his finger over his lips to quieten him. “But we are. He’s always a step ahead of us, no matter how careful we are—but heed me. They can surround us, but they cannot violate sanctuary. The usurper has extracted many men by force, ’tis true, but Beaulieu is different. The pope would excommunicate him if he dared such a thing. Let us go down and break fast. We can assess matters more clearly on a full stomach.”
Richard nodded miserably. “The Tudor thinks of everything.”
“That he does,” John Heron grumbled under his breath. “He has been preparing for this day from the moment Richard III’s crown tumbled into the thornbush at Bosworth field and William Stanley set it on his head.”
With heads lowered, they filed into the lay refectory and went up to a sparsely occupied table set with cutlery. Richard and Nicholas took seats facing the window, their backs to the room, while John and Edward sat across from them. A server poured them wine. Richard downed his cup in one swallow, for he was in sore need of courage. The wine was good, and so was the food: boiled beans steaming on a wood trencher served with salted herring, a piece of cheese, and a slice of crusty bread. They ate in silence, as mandated by the rule of the Cistercians, and kept their heads low, but each time they looked up, they made sure to take in their surroundings. The river stood at high tide, gleaming in the morning sun, its banks full and almost up to the abbey walls.
When Astley jabbed his side, Richard stole a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Edward’s gaze. Three hard-faced men stood in the doorway, surveying the refectory. They might have been guests but for the fact that they didn’t act like weary travelers and made no effort to hide their scrutiny of those breaking fast.
Richard felt himself pale. He hunched his shoulders and buried his head deeper into his bowl as he ate. The men’s footsteps crunched in his ears as they strode slowly past the tables, examining each man present. When they reached him, they halted. Swinging their legs over the bench, they took a seat at the end. One of the men picked at his teeth with a piece of wood as he stared at Richard.
Richard swallowed hard and tried to gather his rampaging thoughts. As Astley and the others rose from the table, he followed, taking care to hunch his shoulders and retreat deep into his hood. His body trembled as he passed the three newcomers and he felt their eyes bore into his back. Footsteps sounded behind him. Sweet Jesus—were they following him out? Richard could barely focus as he and his men took the path to chapel. To his horror, the three men appeared on the bench behind him.
After the service, Richard and his group left for the orchard. There was no doubt now. These were Tudor’s men. They trailed him as he strolled, and kept pace with him all day, watching him eat and wash and pray; following everywhere he went, even to the privy. By vespers, Richard’s nerves were shredded, his every sense on alert. “I must escape—” he whispered again to his friends.
“We’ve been over this—there is no escape—he has the place surrounded by land and sea!” Astley whispered back.
“We must pray for deliverance,” John said under his breath. “There’s naught else to be done!”
Richard murmured his prayers with even more frenzied desperation in Beaulieu’s magnificent house of God. With bowed head, he offered many sacrifices and made endless promises to God, and while these words spilled from his lips, the church door creaked open, and a dark-eyed late-comer entered and joined the group of three at the end of his row.
Richard barely knew what words he sang to the last hymn of vespers. Such panic assailed him that he shook. When hymns were over, the lay members filed out, and Richard and his party had no choice but to fall in with them. They were approaching the west door that led to their dormitory when the stout man stepped out to block their way. “We have a message for you. You’d best come with me, all of you,” he said.
A cold sweat broke out on Richard’s brow and he saw his own dread reflected on the faces of his councilors. More than anything in the world, he wanted to turn and run. But to where? This was sanctuary! The safest place in England, protected by the pope! How could this be happening?
The stout man led them to the chapter house, where the abbot awaited them on the dais. Richard froze at the entry. Someone gave him a shove and he stumbled inside. The door slammed shut and the bolt slid into place with a thud. Somehow Richard found his voice and his courage. He turned to the stout man. “We are in sanctuary! You have no right to be here. Abbot Humphrey, tell them!”
The abbot clasped his hands together at his breast, and a look of pity came over him. “I fear, my son, that Mayor Godfrey and his men have every right. The laws of sanctuary have been amended to permit the king’s men entry, so they may keep vigilance over traitors who enter.”
“I am not a traitor!” Richard exclaimed. “I am the son of my father, King Edward IV, and the true king of England!”
“You be a boatman’s son!” retorted the mayor. “Perkin Warbeck, that’s who you be!” He cleared his throat and spat out his phlegm on the inlaid tile floor.
“Mayor Godfrey, there is no spitting in God’s house.”
“Forgive me, Abbot. His lyin’ words drove me to it.”
“State your business with these men,” the abbot replied.
The stout man turned to Richard. “As you may have surmised, we came here from Southampton to watch you and make certes you didn’t escape. That is, till Richmond Herald gets here. He’s on his way now, and he carries an offer from King Henry—and that be mighty generous and merciful of His Grace for it be better than you deserve! Plunge us into another war, would yeh? I’d kill you me-self if it wasn’t for King Henry’s merciful heart. He demands you be brought to him alive, and that’s the only reason you stand here breathing, you no-good cur! Welladay, ’tis the end for you now!”
There was a commotion at the door and the bolt was withdrawn. A group of men marched in. Richard’s eyes flew to the tallest among them, clad in a rich velvet tabard embroidered with red roses and a golden dragon, a plumed cap on his head.
“Richmond Herald here, on the king’s business,” one of the group announced.
“Abbot Humphrey . . . Mayor Godfrey of Southampton, I presume?” said the tall man. “You have done well.”
The mayor bowed, and the abbot inclined his head. Richmond Herald turned his attention to Richard. “And this, no doubt, is the lad who would be king? You’ve given us all much trouble, young man. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“That this is no way to talk to your
king,” Richard replied with a bravado he didn’t feel.
Richmond Herald said nothing for a moment. Despite his casual disdain, he had been unsettled by the sight that had met his eyes. Even in his rough homespun dark robe, the young man’s startling good looks, his graceful stance, golden hair, and regal bearing bore a remarkable resemblance to Edward IV, whom he himself had known. There was no denying the power of his presence. He might well have been a prince.
Richmond Herald recovered his composure. “We are—” he said at last, “empowered by His Grace King Henry VII to offer you an arrangement. If you leave by your own free will.”
“My councilors and I are quite comfortable here, Sir Herald,” Richard managed, assuming a royal tone. “Why do you think we should wish to leave? We are not fools. We know King Henry’s word is writ on water.” He spat the word “King,” so that it sounded like an epithet.
“King Henry—” Richmond Herald said reverently, “urges you to consider your situation. We can extract you by force—”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Nicholas Astley cried.
“You may put me to the test, if you wish. Or you can hear me out.” Richmond Herald waited.
Richard felt himself grow pale. “Pray continue.”
“As I was saying, we can extract you by force, or we can negotiate. King Henry is adamant that you, Perkin, be apprehended alive. If you leave of your own accord, he will grant you pardon of life, and full pardon to those who are with you, heinous though their crimes be. If you refuse, not only will you die, but consider what will happen to your wife and son.”
Richard stared at him aghast. “My wife—”
“And son.”
“My son—”
“We have them both.”
Richard felt a hammering in his head. For a moment, the man’s face wavered in his sight. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself to stand firm. This was no time to be faint of heart.
“How do I know you speak true?” Richard demanded.
“You only know what I tell you, but I doubt you will wish to test us. They are at St. Buryan. Lord Daubeney is on his way there from Taunton.”
Richard drew a long breath to relieve the aching tightness in his chest. If they knew that, they had them, just as they had him. “My wife and child must be kept safe,” Richard uttered in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own.
“They shall not be harmed. You have King Henry’s word on that.”
“And my men? I will accept nothing less than a full pardon for them.”
“That is what I am charged to offer.”
Richmond Herald hesitated before he replied, “Before you refuse, I am urged to remind you of Humphrey Stafford, Robert Chamberlain, Richard White, Thomas Bagnall—” He rattled off the names of a multitude who were forcibly extracted from sanctuary on the usurper’s order and butchered at Tyburn. Richard suppressed the shudder that ran through him.
“And you would permit that, Abbot Humphrey?” Richard demanded, turning to the old man on the dais.
“The king has an army, and we have but two hundred men,” Abbot Humphrey said kindly. “There is not much we at Beaulieu can do to protect your person should King Henry decide to seize you now, and negotiate for his soul later.”
“I merely ask you to consider your options,” urged Richmond Herald.
“Our options. That we have none, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
For a long moment, Richard hung his head. He was remembering his uncle, King Richard III, in his tent on the eve of battle, passing him the papers that would prove his identity to his royal sister, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, and the crowned heads of Europe. A vision of his aunt rose before him and he saw her weeping with joy over him in her private chamber, where the walls were hung in purple, and green velvet cloth covered the table. He thought of his mother, kneeling in sanctuary at Westminster, as she gave him the password known only to her—the password that would marshal troops to his side and win back his throne.
Now she was dead. No doubt, Tudor had seen to that, too. In this game of Fortune, he had thought of everything. From the moment he had seized the throne, he had set to work to keep it, unleashing spies over all the continent, bribing the pope, securing treaties with those who would be Richard’s friends, and murdering any who stood against him. Always he was a step ahead. Now Richard stood truly alone. Everything he loved, everyone he trusted, had been wrenched from his side. So much had been lost in this hopeless quest for the crown of England!
He lifted his head and brought his gaze to his friends. He could not undo his terrible sin at Taunton, but he could help these three hapless men and save them by his surrender. And he could save the two great treasures of his life—Catherine, and the child who would soon celebrate his first birthday.
“I shall give you my answer in the morning,” he said, although he knew it already.
Leaning heavily on the abbot’s arm, Catherine slowly made her way into the Chapter House at St. Buryan and took up a stance in the center of the dais. Her ladies had coiled and bound her hair, and for the first time in England, pinned her mother’s garnet brooch to the black velvet headband and veil that covered her hair. Now they draped the folds of the short gauzy veil that fell to her shoulders and arranged her skirt around her. They stepped back. The abbot took up his position on the dais.
“Are you certain you can stand without help, my lady?” asked Agatha.
“Aye,” Catherine managed in a hoarse whisper. I must stand, she thought. This moment would decide the entire course of the rest of her life. She had to meet it with dignity.
The abbot, who had a vague knowledge of the content of the messengers’ report, tried to persuade her differently. “My lady, mayhap a chair can be placed—”
“Dear abbot, I fear I am not as strong as I would wish, but a chair would appear to be a crutch. That is not seemly under the circumstances. I must stand without assistance before the king’s men.”
From the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Alice appear with Dickon in her arms. In spite of her anxiety, her mouth lifted at the corners. “Alice—pray, give me my bairn.”
“My Lady Cate, are ye strong enough to carry him? ’Tis the first time you have stood in weeks—”
“For that reason you may remain here on the dais—but behind me, by the wall—in case we should need you.” Though she spoke firmly, in truth Catherine felt weak. Her legs were unsteady and she feared to move lest she lose her balance and fall. Rigidly, she accepted her sleeping child from Alice’s arms and placed the lightest of kisses on Dickon’s angelic face so as not to awaken him. But Dickon, his slumber disturbed by the sudden jolting movement, stretched out his hands and splayed his fingers wide. Catherine’s smile widened into one of such sweetness as she gazed upon her child, that it pierced the abbot to the heart and he whispered a prayer for her under his breath.
Catherine braced herself, and gave the abbot a nod. “They may enter now.”
The abbot, in turn, passed the signal along to the monk at the door, and the man undid the latch. Across the octagonal room, Catherine watched a group of nobles and knights approach, their boots clattering against the tile floor, their swords clanging at their sides. At their head strode a well-made man in silver and red velvet. Catherine knew immediately that this was the seasoned warrior and king’s chamberlain, Lord Giles Daubeney, who had suppressed the Cornishmen’s rebellion a month earlier at Black Heath. With him came the Earl of Shrewsbury, master of the household to Henry VII, and Lord William Courtenay, son of the Earl of Devon. Courtenay had recently wed Richard’s sister, the Yorkist Princess Katherine Plantagenet, but she knew better than to expect help from that quarter, for he and his father had expelled Richard from Exeter.
Lord Daubeney swept his plumed cap from his head with a low bow. Catherine noted absently the touch of gray at his temples and the creases around his eyes and mouth. His was a good face, not unduly fierce. She took in these things without being aware, for her mind was fo
cused on Richard, and this man brought news of him.
“My lady, we are here to inform you of the outcome of your husband’s efforts to seize the crown of England.” Daubeney tried not to stare at the singularly beautiful girl with eyes like gems and hair of gleaming ebony who stood so gracefully before him in a stained tawny sea gown, her flaxen-haired babe asleep at her shoulder. The Scottish princess aroused his Yorkist sympathies, reminding him of the oath of fealty he’d once taken to York. Knighted by King Edward IV, he had espoused the Lancastrian cause only because he believed that Richard III had killed his royal brother’s sons and usurped the throne. Now her husband claimed to be the younger prince, to have survived the Tower, to be the rightful King of England. He could not know the truth of the matter, but he hated with all his being the distress he was about to cause this fair damsel. He disliked the Tudor’s harsh ways, and mitigated them when it was possible to do so without harm to himself, but recently he had fallen into disfavor for taking too long to get to London to quell the Cornish rebellion against Henry’s high taxes. By his delay, he had secretly hoped to give the Cornishmen a chance to prevail, but they had failed, and he had been obliged to crush them, the poor bastards. Even now, at great personal risk to himself, he had managed to destroy the names in the coffer that the Pretender had abandoned in his haste to flee Taunton and save himself. Daubeney’s mouth curved in distaste. At least the coward could have burned the coffer before he so foully deserted his men.
Daubeney did what he could, when he could, but he was a pragmatist. The Pretender had failed—and miserably so—to wrench the scepter from the iron grip of the Tudor who held it. Whether he was the true son of Edward IV made no difference any longer. The House of York had been led to destruction by a coward and a fool, and there was absolutely naught to be done for this young woman, no matter how it shredded the heart to deliver such cruel tidings.
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