B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  “Thank you, Lady Catherine,” the queen said in her gentle way. “You may place the Boethius there. Was the bookmaker able to repair the tear in the cover?”

  “He was, Your Grace. You can no longer tell where it was damaged.” Catherine set the queen’s treasured volume carefully on a coffer.

  “That is good. I shall have to ensure the book is well hidden the next time my lord visits with his monkey, so his creature has no chance to try to eat it again.” She smiled at the memory of Prince tearing up Henry’s precious memorandum book, then realized how Catherine must feel about the king’s pet, and rushed on. “The Boethius is a source of great comfort to me. You should read it, Lady Catherine. I think you would find much solace in its pages.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Catherine said. But Elizabeth was a fool if she thought Catherine’s troubles could be healed by a dead old man.

  “You are pale, my dear. Did you not sleep well?” the queen inquired.

  “No, my lady.” Catherine thought, I never sleep well. And not knowing how Richard fared made it worse.

  “Then why do you not take the rest of the day off? There is nothing pressing here. Rest and regain your strength. ’Tis the king’s forty-first birthday on the twenty-eighth of January, and you would not wish to fall ill and miss the wonderful feast that is planned.”

  Catherine bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, my lady.”

  She left the queen’s quarters and headed to the great hall, her pace matched by the two spies Tudor had set on her. Sarra was an older woman with round cheeks, and though she was brusque with her words, she was pleasant enough. There was nothing pleasant, however, about her companion, Meryell, whose pale eyes and colorless lips set in a bony face gave her the appearance of an angry vulture. Often, when Catherine felt the urge to stroll in the rain, or sit for long hours on a bitter cold day watching birds wheel in the sky, Meryell would press her thin lips together in disapproval at being so inconvenienced. But of what use was it to explain to this tight, hard-faced woman the emotions that tossed her like a rudderless ship on a stormy sea? She was a mother who had lost her only child. She was a caged bird that had once been wild and dreamed of freedom still. Who could understand that who did not walk in her shoes?

  Oblivious of the heads she turned along the way and the admirers who bowed and vied for her attention, Catherine continued along the passageways, searching each room for Richard. If there had been an escape planned, Catherine knew he had not made good his attempt on the night of the fire, for the talk at court centered on the loss of jewels, treasured tapestries, hangings, beds, cloths, plates, and furniture. Not a word had been uttered about any escape, nor did King Henry seem unduly troubled. She had overheard him telling the Venetian ambassador that he would rebuild the palace all in stone and much finer than before, and that the fire was not due to malice. Palace whispers, however, suggested otherwise. They took note that the blaze was suspicious because it started where Richard slept—in the king’s wardrobe. Based on what Catherine had overheard as she passed the Venetian ambassador’s chamber while he was dictating a letter to his Doge, Trevisiano felt the same way. “The fire began in the king’s wardrobe where the Duke of York sleeps . . . And by accident a blaze was set by a candle tilting into a curtain, or a glowing brand dropped onto the dry rushes on the floor—”

  Welladay, envoys had to be obtuse; they never said what they meant. Trevisiano’s Doge would decipher the meaning of “by accident,” and know it was no accident.

  If Richard’s escape attempt had been foiled by Henry VII, either he didn’t recognize it as such, or it had been a conspiracy he had manufactured himself to lure Richard into an escape. Otherwise, why would he let the matter drop? A dread thought struck Catherine. Had he truly let the matter drop? Or did he merely pretend to do so in order to spring a trap later? There was no telling, for this king was nothing like her cousin James. Cold and secretive, he had a devious mind and no one could fathom how it worked behind those hooded eyes. She grew anxious as she neared the great hall. Richard was nowhere to be found. What had this terrible man done with her husband?

  As she turned the last corner, a flock of children ran past her, almost knocking her down. Prince Harry was among them. He had his arms out like a butterfly and was running along on tiptoe, yelling, “What’s pretty and golden and flies from battle?” “Perkin!” screeched his little friends. “For he has no guts to weigh him down!” Squealing with delight, they disappeared into the tower staircase.

  Catherine closed her eyes and took a moment to recover her composure before she entered the hall. She found it bustling with activity, but Richard was not there either. She made her way to a far-off corner window that was clear of people, passing as she did so Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, and his brother, Richard. Both young men bowed low to her. Edward IV and Richard III had been their uncles, and their oldest brother, John, had died leading the Lambert Simnell rebellion against Henry back in ’87. If royal blood had counted for anything, Edmund should be king. He stood highest in the line of succession after Edward, Earl of Warwick, who was kept in the Tower. All three de la Pole brothers—Edmund, Richard, and William—had been pardoned by Henry and were received at court, and Catherine favored them, for they were always respectful of Richard.

  “My lords, have you seen my husband?” Catherine inquired.

  “Regretfully, we have not, my lady,” they replied.

  A multitude of nobles, ladies, knight, squires, and servants milled around, leaning against walls, sitting in window seats, jabbering and laughing while servants wiped spills and offered them silver trays of mincemeats. No one took much notice of her except a group of the king’s squires, who always made a pantomime of bowing and scraping to her in admiration whenever they saw her, as they did now. Their leader was a well-built, dark-eyed man who had once been a seafarer. She acknowledged them with a distracted nod and headed to the window, where she could be alone. At least as alone as possible, she thought, with a glance at Sarra and Meryell. Across on the opposite wall, children ran to and fro, trying to get away from their nurses, and squealed with delight when they were caught. Sudden pain shot through her. She turned away from the sight, but the children’s gleeful laughter and tearful protests twisted her heart. She should have two babies of her own now, and both were gone, vanished like phantoms.

  The children’s cries were drowned by the blast of a clarion fanfare. “’Tis no doubt Perkin, back from the kitchen,” said someone nearby. Everyone exchanged snide laughter but Catherine tensed and held her breath. Richard, my love, pray let it be you—

  King Henry appeared in the entry. The laughter in the hall was checked abruptly and all present scurried into their obeisance. An overwhelming dejection settled over Catherine. She bobbed a curtsy, dropping her gaze to hide her disappointment. When she looked again, the king stood before her.

  “Lady Catherine, what a pleasure. I had not expected you to be here,” Henry said, though in fact he had been advised by one of his spies that Catherine had been dismissed early by the queen and could be found in the great hall. She had dominated his thoughts to the exclusion of all else that morning—as she had done every morning since he had first met her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw that her spies had moved away and she stood alone with the king in an isolated pocket in the crowded hall. He called for music, and all at once the clarion minstrels were joined by pipers and gittern-players.

  “There,” he said with a grin, “that should take care of the eavesdroppers.”

  Catherine managed a smile.

  “What ails you, dear lady . . .” He tilted her chin up to him. “You look pale. Perhaps you are in need of sun? Perforce we should take a stroll together in the garden.”

  “It is not sun, I need, but my child, my lord,” she replied.

  He dropped his hand and was silent for a long moment, his eyes on her face. She met his gaze without flinching.

  “I regret that your child is not with
you—”

  “Dickon. His name is Dickon.”

  The king was not accustomed to being interrupted and he looked stunned for a moment. “Yes. Well. I do regret that. I had no choice.”

  “We all have choices, even when we think we do not,” Catherine said.

  “And you made yours when you came here.” His voice was hard as flint and the tenderness was gone from his eyes.

  “Is my child still alive?” she demanded.

  The king swallowed hard. Catherine realized he was not used to being challenged. His voice came again, so tender that it took Catherine by surprise.

  “Lady Catherine, you think me cruel, do you not?”

  “If you have killed my child, you are beyond cruel.”

  He blinked. For a long moment he didn’t reply. Then, “He lives.”

  Catherine put out her hand to the mullioned windowsill for support and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was looking at her with heart-rending tenderness.

  “Give me proof,” she whispered.

  He did not speak. She seized his hand. “My babe is a child! An innocent. If his father is a boatman’s son, as you say, then he is no threat to you as King of England! I am of the ancient lineage of Scotland. My son is a royal son of Scotland. Show me you are merciful. Send my child back where he belongs!” She lifted her gaze to his face. He stood as if frozen, his eyes fixed on some point above her head far in the distance.

  At last he stirred. “I cannot.” He couldn’t tell her that children grow up, that sons take up their father’s fight. Her child would return to avenge his father one day, and he would not come armed only with royal blood, as his father had done. He would come with an army at his back.

  Catherine realized she had not moved him one whit. She had only one play left. “If you allow me to see my child, and will send him back to Scotland, I will divorce my husband.”

  “I—I . . .” Henry found himself at a loss for words. It had not happened since he was a king, not since he was a boy of fourteen in mortal fear of his life on the dockyard at St. Malo, trembling to be sent back to England. Desperately, he wanted Catherine to divorce her husband. It would shame the Pretender before all the world; it would give his kingship legitimacy. It would free the woman he loved to be more to him one day. He cast around for words to deny her offer, yet give her a reason not to believe him a monster, but he found none.

  “Have I not given your husband honorable captivity?” he said at last.

  “Honorable?”

  “Better than he deserves, certainly. He came to us bringing war. More than anything, I wish peace for my land. I abhor bloodshed, Catherine.”

  “There is bloodshed in the land, and it is not because of Richard.”

  “Ah, Catherine . . .” He took her face into both his hands. “You mean the Tower? That is a necessary evil. Before there can be peace, there must be obedience. Surely you understand that?”

  Catherine knew the talk had turned dangerous. If she offended him, he would take it out on Richard, and there was nothing to be gained for Dickon; at least, not now. “My lord, I have not seen my husband in weeks. Can you tell me if he is well?” She averted her gaze from his and he dropped his hands from her face.

  “He can tell you himself. We shall have him brought to you,” he said, his expression tight. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, people dipping and bowing as he passed. The clarions left with him and the minstrels dispersed. Conversations resumed, though they seemed more muted now. Catherine gazed after Henry in stunned surprise. Though it displeased him to know she longed for Richard’s company, he was willing to unite her with him in order to gratify her, however begrudgingly. Never would she understand this king. He was ruthless, but not without scruples, and a touch of kindness.

  Richard appeared soon afterward, trailed by his minders. Catherine stroked his hair and gazed up into his eyes. “’Tis as if the sun comes with you when you enter a room, Richard.” She reached out a finger and traced the lines of the face she loved, from the cleft in his chin to the brow that was as smooth as marble. Richard pressed his lips into the palm of her hand. “The summer is gone, but in your eyes I see it still.”

  “’Tis not for nothing they called you the most chivalrous prince in Christendom,” she smiled. More than anything she wanted to speak the thoughts on her mind and ask Richard so many things—why she hadn’t seen him all these weeks, where he’d been, if anyone suspected him—but she could not ask such questions with their minders listening. Someone must have given them a tongue-lashing, she thought, for now they were as watchful as they had once been lax. Indicating their guards with a flicker of her lashes, she said, “I am grateful you escaped the fire at Shene. Thanks be to heaven you managed to get out.”

  “But not till it was almost too late—” Richard said, pressing her hand on the words “too late.”

  So there had been a delay of some kind; something had gone wrong and only the fire was set successfully.

  She decided to venture another question. “Why have you been absent all week?”

  “They did not let me out. I know not why.”

  A squeeze on “I know” and “why.” She understood. It was punishment for the fire. They suspected that Richard had set it. She glanced at the minders. All four had fallen silent and were listening intently. Richard took a cup of wine from a passing server with a silver tray.

  “Welladay, you are with me now,” said Catherine.

  That evening, they watched King Henry unwrap the gifts he received for his forty-first birthday, among them two bright feathered popinjays. As soon as the velvet was thrown back from their gilded cage, they squawked out bits of French and Flemish that sent the hall into tides of laughter. Many in the crowd turned to look at Richard while Catherine, seated at the dais, averted her gaze from the king and his offending birds. As soon as dinner was over and the trestle tables cleared, she fled the dais for Richard’s side. Launching their game of pretense, they chattered and smiled as they moved about the hall, Catherine leaning on Richard’s arm, Richard with a happy look on his face and his eyes only for her.

  “They’re like two love birds,” the queen said sadly to no one in particular.

  From his throne, King Henry watched them. If she would smile at me like that, he thought, what I wouldn’ t do for her . . .

  The minstrels broke into a lilting tune. Henry’s gaze followed Catherine as she took the dance floor with her husband. Then his eyes went to Richard. Handsome. Young. Golden—all that he was not. Jealousy burned his breast and the hand he rested on the arm of his throne balled into a fist.

  They celebrated the queen’s thirty-second birthday on the eleventh day of February. That snowy month gave way to stormy March, and Windsor Castle bustled with preparations for Easter. Servants dusted windows, swept rooms, beat carpets, and moved furniture to make more space for guests arriving for the sacred observance. Richard and Catherine, seeking relief from the noise and commotion, took refuge on a bench by the Thames, watched as always by their spies, Smith and Jones, Sarra and Meryell, who conversed among themselves, flirting and laughing with one another.

  The day was cold, and heavy mist rose from the river. Nestled in their woolens, Richard and Catherine huddled together, admiring the swans that glided past.

  “I hear the king calls you his black swan,” Richard said sullenly.

  Catherine cast Richard a quick look. His breath reeked of wine. “It distresses me to know that. I am naught but his captive, and never will I be more to him. Do not let it disturb you, my love.”

  Richard dropped his voice to a whisper so their guards wouldn’t overhear. “It is disconcerting to have him always follow you with lustful glances. I want to punch him in the nose . . . and cannot.”

  “It is as it is, my love. We must endure.”

  Richard shut his eyes against the despair that swept him. They were impaled on the horns of Fate, left to blow in the wind, and helpless to help themselves
. “When it touches you and Dickon, I find my penance hard to bear. I wish you had not insisted on coming with me, Catryn.”

  Insisted. Aye, Catherine thought; she had insisted. The words she’d spoken were etched in her mind and now she recalled the scene as vividly if it were yesterday, and not a lifetime ago . . .

  “’Tis too dangerous,” Richard had said. “You must stay with your father. You’ ll be safe in Scotland.”

  “I don’t want to be safe!” she’d cried. “I want to be with you!”

  “God knows what lies ahead for me, Catryn. I cannot put you in harm’s way—pray, don’t ask me to. If I win against Tudor, I’ll send for you, and you’ll come to me as queen, my Celtic princess.”

  “Nay—I’ll not be parted! I’ll share with you whatever lies ahead, be it joy or sorrow.” She’d put her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. “For joy is doubled when shared, and sorrow halved, my love.”

  She came out of her reverie. She knew now that sorrow is not halved, but doubled, when it descends on those we love. Softly, she said, “You never could deny me anything, Richard.”

  “I never could. Only now I wish I had.” Richard sighed and stared at the water. “What have I done by coming here?”

  Catherine put her arm around his shoulders. What had they done indeed? She was tired of being afraid, of going without. The ache for Dickon and for home was always with her, eating at her like a cankerous sore. But she had to be strong, for Richard, and for Dickon. She was all they had. They both depended on her, though neither of them knew it.

  “You are all Aunt Meg has left of her own blood. She will not give up her efforts to rescue you.” She kissed him on the cheek and took his hand into her own. “Let us dwell on that hope, my dearest love. Such sweet hope.”

  When Richard made no answer, Catherine said, “’Tis strange. I have never met your aunt, or exchanged many letters with her, yet I love her as if she were my own mother.” Margaret had written her when she’d wed Richard, and again when Dickon had been born. An ache for the past came to her and she shut her eyes. She removed Richard’s love letter from inside her bodice. “Remember this?” She withdrew the silver groat from its folds. It was one of many minted for him in Flanders and bore the profile of a crowned head, encircled by the words King Richard IV.