Catherine closed her eyes to better feel the soothing salt spray of the sea against her cheeks, and to better hear the steady rhythm of the waves, ebbing to and fro as if nothing of great import had happened to alter their direction since Creation. How wonderful it would be to turn into a droplet of water and become part of the sea; to be safe in the serene, unfathomable depths that mortal man can never touch. Safe from winds and storms that ruffle the surface but never reach deep enough to break the heart.
She opened her eyes and lifted her gaze to the Mount. Armed men stood on the ledge above, looking down on her. How she wished she could believe that God cared, that her life mattered, but inside she felt scraped hollow, emptied of all emotion. Her wandering gaze settled on the sky, seat of the heavens. Hope in the world beyond held no luster for her and seemed more a waning point of light than even hope in this earthly world. More for Brother Nicholas than for her own sake, she made the request she knew he expected.
“Brother Nicholas, will you bless me?”
The old monk rose to his feet, and Catherine went to her knees before him.
“Thank you,” she said, rising wearily. “I will not say farewell, for there have been too many of those of late. But know that I will never forget you.”
They embraced one last time. As she turned away, her glance fell on the Mount looming dark against the sky. There, in that corner jutting out over the sea and lashed by the winds, stood the chamber where she had lain with Richard and held her child against her heart. This stone fortress had borne witness to her dreams, and to the destruction of her world.
She leaned heavily on Alice’s arm as she mounted the mule that was brought for her. Her heart a leaden weight in her breast, she picked her way down the steep stone steps, the men who trailed her following closely behind.
As he watched her leave for the vessel that would take her to London, memories swirled in Brother Nicholas’s mind: the arrival of the Cuckoo, which had borne the tiny royal family to England; Catherine, with child, riding up to the Mount, her husband leading her mule; the nurse carrying their babe in the twilight. He remembered the hope with which they had come, a bleak contrast to the despair in which she left. And it touched him to the quick that she had not asked for his prayers.
Chapter 6
Red Rose, White Rose
The palace of Shene rose up before Catherine, splendid and festive, for the Feast of Saints Simon and Jude was fast approaching. The sea voyage from the Mount to London had been taxing and she was glad to have it behind her, yet she could scarcely say she was pleased to have arrived here, in this dread place. Imposing it was, and set like a jewel on the south bank of the Thames with a lovely view along the river, but it boded her no good, this lair of the monster that had usurped Richard’s throne and torn her babe from her arms. Her roving eye caught on Tudor’s shield, carved into the stone of the gatehouse looming ahead. Emblazoned with leopards and fleurs-de-lis, the shield displayed a dragon on one side and a lion on the other, all standing on a scroll of roses. She felt a vague tremor and cast down her eyes as they trotted over the moat and into the great court.
Behind her and her small party strode more guards. To ensure she would not turn and flee, she supposed. But where was she to flee? The Tudor must be an overly cautious man if he did not know she had no friends in this alien land that hated the Scots and had rejected her husband.
Richard . . . Would she see him here? She both yearned—and feared—such a possibility. To see him captive, in the hands of his arch-enemy, could not be a blessing—
And what of Dickon—
Somewhere my babe cries for me, she thought, and stumbled in her steps.
“My Lady Cate!” Alice exclaimed.
Daubeney’s arm went around her shoulders, and she sagged against him gratefully. “We may rest a moment, if you wish, my lady,” he said. “The path is steep.”
Catherine’s broken heart felt like a heavy black rock within her chest. Nay, I must not think on him now, not yet. She swallowed her torment and looked at Daubeney in bleak despair. She shook her head.
All she knew for certain was that she would meet the Tudor—and Richard’s sister, Elizabeth of York, his queen. She wondered if Elizabeth ever thought about her brother. Surely she would not let her husband harm Richard, for how could she live with herself if she did? Ah, but they said Elizabeth had no influence on the Tudor. She had loved her uncle, Richard III, who had been slain at Bosworth by the Tudor. Scandalized by the rumors of Elizabeth’s torrid affair, the Tudor had spurned to wed her when he took the throne, but Elizabeth’s mother, an ambitious and determined woman, contrived to prove to him that Elizabeth was a virgin, and arranged a liaison in the month of Yule. From this encounter Elizabeth emerged enceinte. Henry and Elizabeth wed in January, after Epiphany, and their child, a son, was born eight months later, in September.
The tale bore an uncanny resemblance to her own circumstances. Dickon, too, had been conceived out of wedlock and was born a month early, in September. Uncertain hope flared in Catherine’s breast. Maybe Elizabeth will get me back my child.
She and her sister-in-law seemed bound by destiny in many ways. Had Richard’s bid for the throne proved successful, she would have been queen and Elizabeth would be walking up to this palace in her stead. Then her wee Dickon would have been the heir to the throne instead of Elizabeth’s son, Arthur. A stab of pain came and went, but this time she did not falter. She merely closed her eyes.
If she could trade places with Elizabeth and be queen, never having known a day of wedded joy, would she do it? And if Elizabeth had been offered the same choice, would she keep what she had—or trade it all for love? Sometimes Catherine thought Fate played the Jester. In her mind, she could almost see Fate hiding in the shadows, laughing at them behind her jingling sleeve.
Daubeney escorted her to her chamber and left her with a small bow. If she had hoped to rest for a short while, she was disappointed. Three ladies waited to receive her.
“Lady Catherine,” said a handsome, dark-haired, older woman coming forward. “King Henry has put us at your service. My name is Lady Elizabeth Daubeney. You have already met my husband, Lord Giles—” She gave Catherine a smile. “I am lady-in-waiting to Her Grace, Queen Elizabeth. There is water in the basin for washing, and wine in the pitcher. Here you see we have fruit on the tray, cheese, and cake. Is there anything else you would like that we can bring you?”
“I thank you for what you have provided me.” Catherine spoke in a tremulous whisper.
A soft look came into Lady Daubeney’s hazel eyes. “Perhaps you would like to be attended by your own ladies?” she asked gently.
“If it is permitted,” Catherine replied, startled by kindness where she expected malice.
Catherine and her ladies were left alone to tend their needs, and soon Alice and Agatha were adding the final touches to her toilette and dressing her hair, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. They tied her embroidered velvet belt low on her hips and adjusted the black undersleeves beneath the flared outer ones of her heavy black satin gown. As always, they freshened the folds of her skirt so that the ribbon trim was seen to advantage.
She didn’t have to wait long for the knock at the door. It was Lord Daubeney. He had two men with him, one of whom kept something hidden behind his back. Catherine felt sudden alarm. Daubeney had been naught but gallant throughout her journey to London, and seemed unable to do enough for her. Now he avoided her eyes and looked utterly miserable. She drew to her feet.
“My lady, I—” Daubeney cleared his throat nervously. He glanced briefly at her hair. “My lady, King Henry wishes you to wear your hair loose about you—”
There was a gasp from her ladies. Catherine raised her hand haltingly to the coiled braids beneath her veil. No self-respecting woman wore her hair loose at court, unless she was to be wedded or crowned. Her voice was faint when she spoke. “Lord Daubeney, I did not know it was the fashion for ladies in England to appear thus at cour
t.”
Daubeney looked down at the floor. “It is not, my lady. But it is the king’s wish that you wear your hair unbound—and that your hands be bound instead.”
Catherine reached out to support herself on the table. Even so, she faltered. Her ladies rushed to her side and turned their horrified eyes on Daubeney.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said.
His voice held such a tremor that Catherine forgot her own misery. Here stood a valiant knight, trained in the Age of Chivalry that lay dead with Richard III on the field of Bosworth. Now was the Age of Tudor, and this king had cast out all the old rules. Instead of protecting a helpless damsel, a knight was required, at the bidding of his king, to cast dishonor on her. Brother Nicholas’s words came to her: “Be strong and carry on—for them.” Drawing herself up to her full height, she lifted her chin. “Lord Daubeney, here are my hands. Fault yourself not, for one must do as one must do, and I forgive you.”
He managed a nod, as his men came forward to bind her hands. “I fear, my dear lady, that there is one more thing—” He lifted his head and looked at her, misery naked in his eyes. “The king has asked that you appear barefoot before him.”
Gasps went around the room. Like a bondswoman, Catherine thought, he brings me as low as he can—I, who the wise-woman said would be a queen. Her vision blurred as she gazed at him, and the room tilted around her. Only by imposing a rigid control over herself did she keep erect. With a nod of her head, she acknowledged Daubeney’s words.
The doors were thrown open to the Presence Chamber at Shene. Catherine heard a sound that might have been the shock of a hundred throats catching their breath at the same moment, but she barely made out the faces in the crowd that stared at her from the sides of the room, or the figures straight ahead on the dais where a man and a woman sat on their ornate thrones, draped in furs and glittering with gold and jewels. She saw only the blindingly bright candles of the candelabras and the sun’s rays that poured through the windows. The air of the room was close and still. She turned from the hurtful light and her glance caught on a mural on the wall that depicted colorful birds in gorgeous plumage grouped around the feet of a dragon. Lowering her lids, she shuffled forward in her bare feet, drawn along by the man who jerked the rope that bound her wrists. Animals moved thus; bears who had been blinded and were about to be set upon by dogs for sport, and slaves who had lost every human right and breathed at the will of their captors. When there were no more tugs, she knew she had reached the dais. Only then did she look up. She saw that Elizabeth the Queen wore an expression of sorrow, and that a tear glistened in the corner of her eye. Her glance took in the gaunt king, the fat bishop at his side, and the stern matron who stood beside the queen.
King Henry leaned forward in his throne. “Who is responsible for this outrage?” he roared, looking at everyone and no one before riveting his eyes on Catherine. “Untie the Lady Catherine at once! Dear lady, forgive our ignorant servants. They mean to please us, and do not know their sin.” His voice was grave, filled with concern. Beside him, his queen threw him a confused look, for she had heard her husband remark to the bishop standing by his throne, “Here is a prize suitable for a king!” Now he sat as if mesmerized by the captive princess who lit up the hall with all the tender brightness of youth, beauty, and innocence.
Catherine watched as her jailor drew a knife and slashed her ropes, which fell to the floor in jagged pieces. She rubbed her sore wrists, already reddened by the rough hemp, but said nothing. She was not about to thank this gap-toothed king for the indignities and griefs he had heaped on her. She averted her gaze and stood blushing with eyes downcast, humiliated by her bare feet and the unbound hair falling over her shoulders.
“Noble lady,” the king said, “we see that you are weary from your travail and in sore need of rest. We shall speak to you in private, illustris domina.” He rose to his feet.
There was a rustle of silk and flash of gems as the lords and ladies curtsied and bowed. The king and queen descended from the dais. “Allow me, Lady Catherine,” the king said gently, taking her hand as he escorted her out.
The private chamber where Catherine sat on a settle beside the king was comfortably furnished with silk cushions embroidered with colorful flowers: no dragons, serpents, or evil-eyed birds adorned these walls, and the single tapestry displayed only angels. The queen had sent Catherine slippers and a net caul so that her hair was caught neatly at the nape of her neck once more. Though her dignity was restored to her, Catherine didn’t look at the king but sat stiffly erect, her hands tightly clasped together in her lap. Yet she knew that he gazed at her intently, for his stare burned her face.
The king took her hand into his own. “Noble lady, you have been through much, and all reports have informed us of your dignity and grace throughout your ordeals. Tell us what we can do to make you feel at home here in our realm of England, for we know you must sorely miss your family. Your father, the Earl of Huntly, is a great man of high fame, and I wish to honor his daughter.”
Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat. Her father, and Scotland, and all that had been familiar and was now lost to her, formed an iron weight across her heart. Catherine lifted her eyes to the king’s face for the first time. Though he was about the same age as her father, he looked nothing like him with his blackened, gapped teeth and lanky build. Still, he seemed kind, this man she had thought a monster. “Aye, my lord, I do miss him—so very much—” With effort, she choked back her emotion. “My lord, I see you are good and merciful, and that gives me courage to beg from you a boon—a great boon—”
It was the first time King Henry had heard her voice. For two years he had studied her from afar, fascinated by the reports of his spies that spoke of her alluring beauty. Finally, here she was before him, and he could say with full authority that their reports had been vastly understated. Even the lilt of her Scots accent was enchanting.
When the king did not reply, Catherine rushed onward. “My babe has been rent from my breast. You cannot know the sorrow of a mother who has lost her only child. Pray, my lord, for pity’s sake, return my babe to my empty arms!”
“My Lady Catherine, this child is fathered by a boatman’s son and an adventurer who tried to murder me and steal my crown from my brow. I cannot restore him to you.”
“My lord, my child is innocent of any crime against you! He is of my blood, and therefore of the royal lineage of Scotland! Give him back to me! Send us both home where we belong.”
The king did not reply, and Catherine choked back the sobs that came to her throat, not daring to speak further lest she dissolve into a fit of weeping that might never cease. Breathlessly, she awaited his reply, but when he spoke, he did not address her plea.
“Now, now,” the king said, patting the hand he held in his. “Most noble lady, I grieve, too, and it pains me very much, second only to the slaughter of so many of my subjects, that you have been deceived by such a sorry fellow. You shall be a lady-in-waiting to my queen and enjoy every advantage we can bestow upon you. You shall lack for nothing. We are ordering that you be given a generous allowance and more gowns of your choosing, and that sober matrons be given to escort you, for you are but a young woman.”
Catherine stared at him, disbelieving. Was he a monster after all? She stiffened. “I should like to have my own ladies in attendance.”
Barely conscious of her words, Henry murmured, “If that is what you wish, my dear . . .” He was staring at her, thinking that she must surely be God’s own masterpiece, for she was in truth the most heavenly creature he had ever seen in his life. A swan neck, lustrous black hair, a milky complexion tipped with delicate rose along the cheekbones, all this crowned by an exquisite little mole near her luscious mouth and a set of teeth as tiny and perfect as daisies.
“You must feel so alone, dear lady. But rest easy, illustris domina, for we intend to do you every reverence.”
“There is kindness and generosity in you or you would not do me re
verence,” Catherine replied. “But more than reverence, I pray, Sire, give me back my child!” To her horror, emotion broke her composure and she erupted in sudden sobs. Henry gathered her to him, clucking softly. She let her head fall against his shoulder and wept in his arms, aware only that here was a refuge against the pain that swept her being.
Henry held her patiently as her grief poured out from her. Yet it was not with a father’s tenderness that he held her, but with a lover’s heat. Her hair was silken soft against his cheek and his lips. He had not felt such powerful swirling emotion in all his forty years—care, concern, and a need to protect, aye, but far more urgent than all these was the need to possess. He let her drench his gem-encrusted robes with her luscious tears that tasted so delicious on his lips, and now and again he dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief and murmured soothingly.
At last, her sobs eased and she drew away. “Forgive me, my lord,” she sniffled, taking his handkerchief and wiping her own cheeks as she attempted a wan smile.
“You have been through much, my dear, but have no fear. I am prepared to set everything right again for you.”
Catherine looked at him, a ray of hope lighting her heart. Had he relented? Was he going to give her back her babe and send her home to Scotland after all? And Richard—what of Richard, would he treat him with honor as his brother by marriage—or better still, let him go? Surely, he would let him go, for now that Richard had disgraced himself by deserting his troops, he no longer posed any threat to this king. No man would ever follow him into battle again.
“I am prepared to obtain—as soon as it can be managed—at whatever cost the pope demands—a divorce for you from that wastrel you married.”
“Nay, my lord!” Catherine recoiled at the words. “I do not wish a divorce! Never—I love my husband!”
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