At first there was silence. Partly out of shame, and partly for fear, Perkin could not bring himself to say anything. At last, he openly confessed he was not who he said he was, and asked for forgiveness. He had been poorly advised, he said, and he grieved for her abduction. He begged the king that she might be sent back to her family.
His wife broke out in fresh tears, convulsed with a storm of loathing for him. “After you seduced me with your false stories, and had what you wanted of me,” she sobbed, “why did you carry me away from the hearth of my ancestors, from home and parents and friends, into enemy hands? O wretched me! O that you had never come to our shores! O misery! I see nothing before me but death now, since my chastity is lost. Alas for me! Most wicked man, are these the scepters you were promising we would have? Most accursed man, is this the honor of a king of which you boasted our glorious line would come? As for me, hopeless and destitute, what can I hope for? Whom can I trust? With what can I ease my pain? I see no hope except in the one who stands beside me. This most powerful and merciful king has promised not to desert me. I place all my faith, hope, and safety in him. I would say more,” she whispered, “but the force of pain and tears chokes off my words.”
With great tenderness, Henry caressed what Andre had written for him.
Chapter 10
Perilous Shadows
The March day was blustery and wild; howling winds rattled the windows and seeped through the cracks in the castle wall, billowing the tapestry coverings. Catherine was reminded of the Mount and gave a shudder as she sought the path at Windsor that led to the hedgerows. The Scottish ambassador had sent her a missive. Nothing written—but she had understood nevertheless. A minstrel had come to her as she sat waiting for Richard in the great hall and sang “Ring-Around-the-Rosie.”
“And whom may I thank for this?” she’d smiled.
The minstrel had handed her a single sprig of thistle. “’Tis with the compliments of Sir Alexander Stewart, my lady.”
Catherine gave him a coin. Twirling the thistle around in her hand, she tried to decipher its message. He wanted to meet, aye, but when, and at what time? The clock tower chimed the quarter hour and realization dawned. A single sprig meant one! One o’clock. He wanted to meet now!
Her heart beating furiously, she’d returned to her room, donned her black mantle and velvet hat, and announced to her stunned ladies that she would seek some air. That she wished to go out at such short notice did not surprise them, for they had become accustomed to her changing moods. She gave Alice and Agatha a barely perceptible nod that told them she needed their presence to distract the Tudor spies so they would not suspect anything amiss.
With both dread and hope in her heart, and taking long breaths to steady herself, she turned the corner into the shrubbery where she had met Sir Alexander nearly a month earlier. The wind was fierce, and the path littered with half-melted snow and patches of ice.
As the clock tower tolled the hour of one, Catherine ambled forward, as casually as she could. Then, down the path, from around a bend, appeared Sir Alexander. She caught her breath.
“Why, my Lady Catherine, what be ye doin’ out roamin’ on a day like this?” he demanded in a shocked but solicitous tone. He gave her a bow.
“I could ask you the same question, dear kinsman,” Catherine smiled.
He inhaled deep and threw a glance up at the moaning branches. “There be such a wind in the trees that this could be the forests of our native isle, I’m thinkin’.” He gave her a broad smile. “Still an’ all, I’m headin’ back indoors as ye should be doin’, dear lady. Pray come with me to the hearth. We can drink a warm cup o’ sweet white wine together—” He offered Catherine his arm. She smiled as she took it, and slid his note into her sleeve.
She read it by the flickering light of the candle in the privy. “Maximilian’s offer refused. Efforts underway to rescue prince and Warwick. Maximilian to lead army himself. Prince—do not give up hope.”
Catherine crushed the note in her fist.
Catherine looked for an opportunity to speak to Elizabeth, but none presented itself. Though she was the queen’s lady-in-waiting, she was one of thirty-five, many of them spies set on Elizabeth by the king. Their contact was minimal and kept formal, and they seldom conversed with one another except to exchange polities, for both knew spies were listening. On this sunny day in April, however, Elizabeth and her ladies enjoyed a walk through the garden that was budding with lilies, roses, and snapdragons. Catherine bent down and plucked a marguerite as she strolled beside the queen. She gave it to Elizabeth, watching her intently.
“Thank you, Lady Catherine. ’Tis a lovely flower.”
Then she passed.
She did not know the password.
Catherine sank down on a bench, wretched with disappointment. Her two minders checked their steps to watch as they pretended to admire a bed of narcissus. To her surprise, Elizabeth’s fool, Patch the Dwarf, left the queen’s party as it disappeared along the garden path, and came to her. He climbed up beside her, his awkward movements jingling all the bells attached to his patchwork orange and green costume.
“My lady, may I sing for you? I am sure it would delight you entirely, for I vouch that never have you heard a sound so unforgettable.” He grinned. It was the first time in all these months that he’d spoken to her directly, and Catherine was taken aback. No doubt he was a spy, but didn’t he know he wasn’t needed? She already had two women reporting on everything she said and did. She glanced at her minders. What she wanted more than anything else at this moment was to be left alone—by Tudor spies and everyone else. She threw him a hard look. “I have heard you sing before, but I don’t remember when.”
“My lady, you have a cutting wit.” He looked up at her with sad brown eyes.
“Forgive me, Patch,” she sighed, “I seem to have forgotten how to laugh.” There was no need to punish this man for her ills.
Patch burst into laughter, parroting first the high-pitched giggle of a maiden, then one in the tenor of a man, then that of a gleeful child, and then the gurgle of a baby, followed by a mule, and finally a monkey. When he jumped up and down on the bench, flailing his arms and showing his broad white teeth, he looked exactly like Prince. She laughed, along with others who had gathered to listen, for now there was a large group around them, including Sarra and Meryell. But Patch was not done. He placed his hand under Catherine’s nose and caught a needle that appeared to drop out of her nostrils. “My lady, you should embroider less, for you are veritably sneezing needles!” he exclaimed.
As Patch clambered down from the bench to give a deep bow, he whispered to her, “You must not forget how to laugh, my lady.”
That afternoon, she went in search of Richard, followed by her ladies. Passing through the high-arched entrance of the great hall, she saw him in a far corner, standing by a mullioned window that had been opened to the breeze from the river. His lute had been laid aside and he was in conversation with the Spanish ambassador, Doctor Rodrigo de Puebla. Behind him, his two guards lounged against the wall as they listened with bored expressions. Now they straightened up and smiled to see Meryell and Sarra.
Spain’s one-armed envoy had come to England to negotiate the marriage of Prince Arthur to Isabella and Ferdinand’s daughter, Princess Katarina of Aragon. He had a round, kindly face and wore his empty sleeve neatly tucked into a leather belt with a silver buckle. He gave Catherine a bow and kissed her hand in the courtly fashion of his country.
“Ah, the beautiful Lady Catherine. Always a joy to behold,” he said.
A warmth came to Catherine. Like the other foreign envoys, the Spanish ambassador was one of the few at court who treated Richard with respect and didn’t address him as Perkin, which he hated. They were both outsiders: Richard for his princely blood, and de Puebla for his Jewish blood, if not his deformity. Catherine gave him a smile that conveyed her affection and gratitude. “’Tis good to see you also, Doctor de Puebla. My lord husband is very f
ond of you, as you must know.”
“I enjoy our discussions immensely. His grace is most knowledgeable and well read.”
They fell silent as a young man, who they knew to be a servant of the queen, bowed to them. “Pray, forgive this intrusion, Doctor de Puebla, but your company is requested by the queen.”
They looked to the opposite end of the room, where the queen stood on her dais surrounded by a group of ladies. She gave them a nod.
A silence fell as de Puebla left them to attend to the queen. Catherine knew she had to tell Richard that Elizabeth didn’t know the password, but when? Their guards were listening. She had thought of writing Richard a note, but pen and paper was difficult to procure unnoticed and the love note she’d written as a test had required much effort. She dared not risk it again for a while.
When a group of playful children appeared abruptly, screeching merrily, Catherine leaned close and whispered her news to Richard. He kissed her brow, and nodded. Disappointment was an inevitable part of their lives now, and they had learned to take it with a measure of equanimity.
Two of the children grabbed her skirts, while others hid behind Richard’s legs to evade capture. He bent down and tickled one of them, and the child’s delighted giggle sent a spasm of pain rushing through Catherine. Richard looked at her, then drew her to him. She knew they were both thinking of Dickon.
“How is your leg?” Catherine asked softly to banish the thought that dredged grief in its wake. They had not spoken about Prince Harry since he’d kicked Richard on the day of the Feast of Candlemas.
“Fine now.”
“He may look like a cherub but he’s not,” said Catherine softly, thinking of the many times she had witnessed Harry spit on Richard as he passed.
“Skelton is his tutor, and Henry his father,” whispered Richard under his breath.
“When I think of our darling—” She caught her breath.
“I know, my love. Sweet were the days when he was with us.” He fell silent, gazing out the window.
Catherine leaned her head against his shoulder. “At least we have each other, my dearest.”
“We have each other, and yet we do not.”
Catherine looked up at him.
“I never knew it would be like this, Catryn. I never knew he’d take Dickon from us and keep us apart. He has me penned up here, dangling you before my eyes. It is a special form of torture he has devised for me. I am in my own Hell.”
“He is good at devising Hell for others,” Catherine whispered.
Richard lifted his hand and gently tucked a stray lock of hair away behind Catherine’s ear. She smiled up at him sadly.
At that moment, John Skelton entered the hall. Catching sight of them, he swooped around and dived down on them, a dark look on his face. “How dare you teach young Courtenay the lute? Who do you think you are? I am the poet and the composer of this court, and the teaching of singing, and the performing of music, falls in my purview, not yours!”
He was so affronted that his face had blown up into a round red beet-root as he shouted at Richard. In his black robe and hose, with his darting eyes and sharp little movements, he reminded Catherine of a bat, despite the laurel wreath he wore to remind everyone of his degrees in music and rhetoric.
“I meant no offense,” Richard said, standing before him like a prince, his head held high. “Courtenay asked me, and I obliged him. No harm was intended to you, or anyone else. In fact, I never gave you a thought.”
“You intend harm merely by breathing!” Skelton fumed. “I look forward with pleasure to watching you die at Tyburn, you dirty river rat!”
The hall had fallen silent. The queen, far away on the dais, was listening, and Lady Daubeney was marching toward them. Catherine suddenly realized that Skelton did not know Queen Elizabeth was present.
“Master Skelton, Her Grace demands to know the meaning of this uproar,” Lady Daubeney said.
Skelton gave her a deep bow, and offered his explanation.
“The Queen commands that you never again use such vile language in the presence of your betters, especially when noble ladies are present. Pray apologize to Lady Catherine.”
Skelton’s red color deepened and a vein twitched at his forehead. He murmured an apology, bowed to her, and turned to bow again in the direction of the queen. The hall watched, riveted by the spectacle.
Lady Daubeney turned to Catherine. “Lady Catherine, the queen will be taking dinner privately in her solar this evening and requests the pleasure of your company. It shall be a small group, only the princesses of the realm.”
“I shall be delighted,” Catherine said, curtsying gracefully in Elizabeth’s direction.
“Skelton, you are dismissed,” Lady Daubeney said sharply.
Lady Daubeney exchanged a look with Catherine as they watched the little man scurry away. The queen had interceded on Richard’s behalf this time, whereas the king had evidently given him wide latitude to insult Richard with impunity. Few dared challenge Skelton—a favorite of the king’s mother, Margaret Beaufort—but few liked him. For once, the miserable creature had been put in his place.
Catherine rejoiced in her good fortune. She had what amounted to a private audience with Richard’s sisters—and without her minders. The queen had been clear on that point. She nervously made her way down the various hallways, nodding absently to the men who bowed to her as she passed.
At the threshold of the antechamber, her ladies departed to dine in the great hall and Lady Daubeney came forward to greet her. “All the princesses await, Lady Catherine,” she said. “Her grace, Sister Bridget, has arrived from Dartmouth Priory. She is eager to see you again. This way, my lady . . .” Lady Daubeney led the way to the queen’s private chamber, bobbed a curtsy, and left.
From window seats and settles around the room, the five York sisters turned to look at her. It was the first time she had seen them gathered together this way and not dispersed among a host of unrelated people. They were a markedly handsome family, with a strong resemblance to one another—and to Richard—all fair, with good bones, fine features, and large eyes that were either bright blue or sea green. Even the severe habit of a nun couldn’t hide Bridget’s charms, just as Elizabeth’s black gowns and ugly gabled headdresses failed to dim her beauty. In the corner a minstrel played his gittern, and nearby, a table was set for dinner before a blazing fire, covered in white cloth and laden with silver trenchers and goblets. In the flickering light of candles and torches, the colored glass and tapestries in the vaulted chamber blinked with welcoming warmth.
Catherine was about to curtsy when all except the queen rose and bobbed to her. Although she was a captive, she outranked these English princesses by virtue of her royal Scots blood and nearness to her cousin James. Flustered for a moment, she stood blushing. Then she turned to the queen and gave her a gracious dip.
Elizabeth’s sister Cecily, sparkling in yellow velvet embroidered with gold thread, her V-collar and flared sleeves cuffed with fur and wearing a golden headband over her fair hair, came forward to greet her. Of all the royal ladies, it was with Cecily that Catherine felt a close affinity.
“Dear Lady Catherine, we greet thee well,” Cecily said, “and are pleased that you can dine with us this evening.” She took her hand and gave her a kiss on her cheek.
Catherine wondered much why she had been invited to such an intimate group. Perhaps the queen was trying to make amends for Skelton’s rudeness. Much as she resented Elizabeth for refusing to fight for Richard, not for naught did the people of England call her “Elizabeth the Good.” Her kindness of heart was legendary.
They dined on roast pheasant, poached fowl and bacon, and meatballs made with currants, spices, and almond milk and decorated with tiny flowers. Catherine’s glance touched only fleetingly on each member of the family, so she wouldn’t be noticed observing them. King Edward’s daughters ranged in age from sixteen to thirty-two. The youngest sister, Bridget, had been but three years old when Richa
rd was removed from sanctuary, so she would not remember her brother. But Cecily would, Catherine thought, turning her glance on her. She had been fifteen at the time.
“I adore mushroom pasties!” exclaimed Anne of York, and she seized a handful from the server.
Catherine turned her attention to the striking figure in scarlet velvet, thinking how well it complemented her milk and roses complexion. Anne of York was a year younger than Richard. As a child, she’d been betrothed to Maximilian’s son, Philip the Handsome. Those plans had been dropped when her father died. Now she was married to Thomas Howard’s son, the Earl of Surrey, in a love match arranged by her sister the queen. Father and son were trusted military commanders who had helped to turn the tide against Richard and secure the tyrant’s throne. She wondered if Anne’s husband ever questioned his action, and if he would come to regret it. Even if he did, what good could it do Richard now?
Seventeen-year-old Kate looked as fresh as a rose in pink satin embroidered with silver. Richard’s altercation with Skelton had involved her elder boy. She had married William Courtenay, the young lord who’d refused to snatch Dickon from her arms at St. Buryan. Her marriage was another love match arranged by the good-hearted queen.
The table was cleared and the desserts brought in: rose pudding, fried fig pastries, golden steamed custard. The evening was almost at an end and Catherine had not yet broached the subject that consumed her mind.
“What I would have given for such delights in sanctuary,” she smiled, accepting a portion of rose pudding. “All I knew during that time was stale food and leaky roofs. One storm so damaged my cell that a stonemason had to be sent in to repair it.” Elizabeth and Cecily were listening, their spoons halted midway to their mouths. They remember, she thought. She hurried on before she lost her courage. “The stonemason brought his young helper with him. I remember the child vividly . . . a sweet boy . . . so beautiful . . .”
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