B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  “I am right about this, and you are wrong,” she said coldly. “You will rue your decision, have no doubt.”

  “Once before, you persuaded me to take a course I had no wish to take. You were wrong then, and you are wrong now.”

  Catherine stared at him, stunned. He blamed her for everything that had happened, and she had not known it until this moment! She twisted her hand to her mouth and gave a cry. “You are responsible for everything that happens to you from now. I no longer care!” She flung the words at him too loudly, for the guards and the workmen fell silent to watch them.

  Sick at heart, she turned and fled down the staircase.

  Chapter 12

  Fortune’s Dance

  That night, Catherine sat at the window in an agony of mind, pondering Richard’s words. She’d thought he blamed only himself for the disaster that had befallen them, and she had offered to share culpability with him in order to lighten his guilt. He’d wanted to turn back at Ayr, aye; he’d gone on because of her, aye. But that he saw her as pushing him into the venture against his will and better judgment? He’d barely objected—it hadn’t taken much to persuade him at all—merely a few kisses and choice words. Hadn’t she tried to dissuade him at St. Michael’s Mount? He didn’t give in to her then. Had he forgotten? She hadn’t raised her doubts until it was too late, and she knew even as she did so that turning back would be difficult, but she had tried nevertheless.

  Yet now he saw her as the driving force of their calamity. Why had he not objected more vehemently if he’d been against the enterprise? Why had he given in so readily, without a fight?

  Was she a shrew? Had she dominated him so completely that—desperate to be free—he was willing to throw himself to the hounds? Or was the fault in him? Was Richard too compliant a husband willing to gamble his own life and everything he held dear to please the whim of a domineering wife? Or had she been blinded by her own ambition, planted there by a soothsayer who once said she’d be a queen?

  Catherine searched her memory for the words the wise-woman had spoken. “You shall be loved by a king, me wee beautie,” the old woman had said.

  Not queen—but loved by a king! The difference had escaped her childish mind and guided her life, bringing them to this place where she stood. Fool! Catherine heard Fortune laugh from the darkness,’twas merely a jest, me wee beautie. Covering her ears, she closed her eyes and bit down on her lip until it throbbed, longing for her home and her father as she’d never longed for anything in her life.

  If Richard had spoken up when he’d wished to turn back, a small voice demanded at the back of her mind, would you have listened? Would you not have fought him until you changed his mind?

  In the black night, her words at Ayr returned to mock her: There is no wrong we cannot right; no fight we cannot win. For God is on our side, Richard! The person she used to be had spoken those words, and now they had the bitter taste of gall.

  The sleeping castle stirred at daybreak. It had turned suddenly cold, and ice formed in the ewer overnight. Catherine sent Meryell to fetch a bucket of water, then stood patiently as her ladies helped her wash and dress.

  “You are pale this morning,” Alice said as she braided her hair, aware that Catherine hadn’t slept. The entire fortress knew about the fight her mistress had had with her lord husband, and no doubt it gladdened King Henry’s cruel heart to hear of it. “May I see if Countess Cecily’s maid has a few drops of pomegranate juice for your cheeks?” she asked. She wished there was something she could do to take away the distress in Catherine’s eyes.

  “Nay, Alice,” Catherine said softly. “I am late to the queen’s chambers as it is.”

  Alice was about to pin the garnet to her headband when Catherine stopped her. “I shall not wear it this day, but I wish to take it with me,” she said.

  Alice gazed at her in bafflement.

  “Pray find me a pouch to carry it in.”

  Alice knew that the goldsmiths were coming to the castle after luncheon. So Catherine was planning to sell her mother’s brooch, but why? Stiffly, she moved to Catherine’s small casket that stood on a rough-hewn chest. She riffled through the bits of ribbons, tin brooches, and pins until she found a pouch with a string. She slipped the garnet inside and handed it to her mistress.

  Catherine tucked the garnet into her bosom beside Richard’s love letter. It was all she had left of her dead mother. She adjusted the locket around her neck, avoiding Alice’s inquiring gaze before heading toward the arched passageway to the queen’s privy quarters.

  Music drifted along the hall. Elizabeth’s golden head was bent over her lute and her sweet voice was raised in a lament that Catherine recognized too well. It was the old Gaelic love song Richard used to sing to her a lifetime ago. In her mind she returned to Loch Lomond, and it was Richard she saw there, strumming his lute, lost in the music:

  My true love’s the bonniest lass in a’ the warld,

  Black is the color of her hair.

  She forced the memory away, and made her way forward into the chamber. The queen was singing the last words of the lament as she entered:

  But the winter’s passed and the leaves are green,

  The time is passed that we have seen . . .

  Catherine could scarcely keep her mind on her tapestry duties. She moved about the table blindly like a wooden figure. Richard hadn’t said when he would attempt his escape, and she feared he might have already fled in the night, for he had missed breakfast. Why had she said those things to him? What if she never saw him again? How would she live with herself?

  All morning the minutes dragged intolerably. She found herself throwing constant glances at the Tower clock, but it seemed painfully silent, and it took an eternity for the periodic quarter hour chimes to sound.

  At long last, church bells pealed for sext. With curtsies around the room, the ladies let the queen pass, and Catherine fell in behind her. Henry had accorded her precedence over all the royal women except the king’s mother and his two daughters, nine-year-old Margaret and five-year-old Mary.

  Luncheon was another interminable affair. She scanned the hall for Richard, to no avail.

  As soon as the meal was over, she went in vain to search for him, followed by three of her ladies. Admitting defeat, she made her way unsteadily to the merchants’ chamber. Many goldsmiths had come to offer their wares, and it bustled with activity. Robed in elegant dark gowns edged with fur around the collar, and each wearing on the right hand the gold and ruby ring that was the emblem of their guild, they stood in front of the tapestries and tall iron candelabras that were set around the room. Ladies and noblemen milled about the tables, inspecting crosses in gold, silver, and bronze; reliquaries, chalices, goblets, engraved platters, candlesticks, and jeweled book covers. Even a few clerics were present.

  Catherine scanned the chamber and her gaze settled on an earnest-looking man who held up a rolled parchment that displayed a variety of rings. He removed a sapphire and handed it to an admiring noble. When their transaction was completed, Catherine approached the goldsmith.

  “My lady,” he said with a courtly bow. In one sweep, his glance took in the heavy black of her mourning gown, headband, and veil, and settled on the necklace with the fleur-de-lis design that only royalty was allowed to wear. “For you, there is this cross, or perhaps a locket for a miniature portr—”

  Catherine held up her hand. “Sir Goldsmith, I am not here to buy, but to sell.”

  The goldsmith lifted his eyebrows. He had never known royalty to part with any jewel. Then he saw the tears that sparkled at the tip of her lashes.

  Catherine removed the pouch from her bosom, and hesitated. Resolutely, she thrust it out to him, before she could change her mind again.

  The man wore a pair of spectacles as he studied her stone. “’Tis a fine piece . . . flawless . . . well-cut . . . the silver heavy.” He looked up. “Most likely from Bohemia, where the best garnets are mined. Are you certain you wish to sell this jewel?”
His tone was surprisingly gentle, and for some reason his kindness cut her to the quick. She averted her eyes and nodded.

  “I can offer you seven pounds. But ’tis the highest I can go.”

  Seven pounds! It was a full month’s allowance from Henry—enough to buy passage aboard ship. She hadn’t expected that much. He was being generous. She looked at him gratefully.

  The jeweler counted out the coins.

  The next morning, Richard appeared at breakfast, and Catherine’s heart took up a glad pounding. As soon as the king and queen had filed out, she fled to Richard’s side. For a long moment, they stood silent, then both spoke at the same moment:

  “Pray for—”

  They laughed together.

  “Celtic princesses first,” Richard grinned.

  “Pray forgive me, Richard. I regret my words to you and want you to know I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “Pray forgive me, my love. Neither did I mean what I said.”

  She moved into his embrace. He held her tenderly and brushed her cheeks with his lips.

  “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” Catherine asked at length, conscious of the eyes on them. The hall seemed suddenly stifling hot. “’Tis a lovely day, is it not?”

  “A splendid day,” said Richard, offering her his elbow with aplomb.

  Outside, ravens flew around them as they strolled, cawing vigorously. Catherine leaned into Richard with a shiver. “I hate this place,” she whispered.

  Richard slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I know. You can almost smell the evil.” They passed the Beaufort Tower. “Poor Edward of Warwick has never left the Tower.” His eyes sought the window of his chamber.

  Catherine shuddered.

  “Being here has made me think of him lately. I find myself so very fortunate in comparison. I have known what it is to love. To be happy. To father a child—”

  Catherine closed her eyes at the thought of Dickon and swallowed hard on the sudden constriction in her throat. Her hand tightened on Richard’s arm.

  “We must speak of him, my love. To remember,” he said gently. “Our blood is mingled in his veins, and when he has children, we shall pass on into them. And on. Forevermore. ’Tis a good thought, is it not?”

  Catherine’s mouth had gone dry. She gave him a plaintive look.

  “Aye, I know. If he lives. But Catryn, we must believe that he lives. We cannot allow ourselves to think otherwise. Everything we do rests on that premise. He lives—” He halted his steps, and took her by the arms. “Catryn, will you make me a promise?”

  She nodded.

  “Promise me to find him. Promise you will not rest until you find him—or what happened to him.”

  She closed her eyes. “I promise.”

  They resumed their pace. He threw a careful glance behind him. His guards lagged a distance away, strolling with her ladies and chattering merrily, as if they truly were servants and not spies. They had grown lax lately. “Forgive me, Catryn, but I must say these things now. If it is forever that we part, I bid you know what is in my heart, my dearest love.”

  She felt his arm tighten around her waist. Her eyes flew open in panic. She willed herself to be strong.

  “When I look back, I see my life as water, flowing here, flowing there, belonging nowhere. Until I found you. You have been my oak, Catryn, giving me strength and succor, and helping me stand tall in the fiercest wind. How I love you! If you could only see yourself with my eyes. Your peerless beauty. Your courage and loyalty. Never have I loved you more than I do now.”

  “You know what my father liked to say,” Catherine replied, fighting to suppress the emotion that threatened her composure. “Today’s mighty oak is merely yesterday’s nut that held its ground. So I suppose I am a nut.”

  He laughed. Then he grew serious. “Skelton is right about one thing. I am proud of you, Catryn, and I hate myself even more for the disaster I have wrought on your lovely head. I know not how you forgive me, or how you bear it.”

  “We are alone, Richard, and cannot look anywhere for strength except within ourselves. For me, you will always be riding through the castle gate at Stirling. You will always be with me at Loch Lomond. You will always be at my side as I hold our newborn babe in my arms and look up to see you smile. When life is at its lowest, I come to you in my mind, Richard, and remember. That is what sustains me. That, and Dickon. One day I shall find him. One day I will know what became of our sweet child.” More than the beautiful past, it was the hopeful future that she looked to in the darkness of night. It was her son who gave her will to carry on.

  They had reached the staircase to the wall-walk overlooking the river, where they had parted in anger two days before. They fell silent as they mounted the steps. The wind, so fierce on the parapet, blew from the west, carrying their words to the river and away from their guards who followed them. Richard bent down and covered her face with light, tender kisses.

  “You see, Catryn,” he said gently, “I no longer know who I am. I always saw myself as English but everyone else sees me as a foreigner. I am not Flemish, nor Scots. I am worse than that monkey Henry carries around. At least he knows where he once belonged. I have no country. No mother. No father. No brother. A wife, yet no wife. A son somewhere—God willing—but a son who knows me not and who I cannot protect. Another man pays for your dresses and sends you hose.”

  Voices came to them from the circle of green below. The queen was passing with her ladies. “I have a sister, yet no sister—” Elizabeth looked up at them and inclined her head in greeting. Catherine curtsied, and Richard threw her a bow. They watched as the royal party disappeared around the building.

  “Do you understand, Catryn? I need you to understand.” He looked at her with eyes as blue as the thistle that covered the Scottish spring, but such a depth of misery swam in them that she could no longer stem the tears that sprang to her own eyes.

  “When?” she asked.

  He threw a glance at his guards at the other end of the wall-walk. “I know not. When the time is right. When I can. As soon as I can.”

  She covered her mouth to choke off her cry. If it was not now, it would soon come. Like a dangling sword, the blade was waiting to fall. One morning, she would awake to find him gone.

  He took her chin. “One thing you must promise me, as you did at St. Michael’s Mount.”

  She lifted her eyes to his.

  “If I do not succeed, you must promise me not to mourn forever. You are not meant to be alone.”

  Anger edged through her grief. “I will never love again—how can you ask such a thing?”

  Richard took her hand. “Catryn, there are many kinds of death. If I should fail and find my life forfeit, I must know I do not take yours as well. That would be a burden I could not bear. If matters should not go . . . as we wish . . . you must not remain alone forever. You are made to love—to dance. If our parting is—forever, I want to know—nay, I need to know—that you remember me in happiness, and not in tears.

  “Treasure the happiness, Catryn. ’Tis only when darkness falls that the stars come out. Honor our love with your smiles. Look for me in the stars, and wherever I am, I will live in your happiness.”

  She turned to the river. For thousands of years, through the time of dragons and unicorns, through storms and mist, in darkness and in light, it had flowed relentlessly, inexorably to its destiny. As we must flow to ours, bearing what we must bear. Her time with Richard had reached an end. If the Fates were kind, it was a promise she would not need to heed. But if they were not, could she send him away without this comfort?

  “ ’Tis curious, Richard, that what brought us together is what tears us apart.” She looked at him through her tears. “The English throne.”

  “Fortune’s dance, Catryn.”

  “Will I ever see you again, my love?”

  “That is in the hand of God.”

  Catherine bit her lip until it throbbed with pain like her heart. Then she removed the v
elvet pouch with the coins from her mother’s garnet, and put it into his hand. “For you—to help you. And this is for good luck—” She gave him the little groat with his image and King Richard IV stamped on the silver.

  “May the wind be always at your back,” she murmured in a choked voice she scarcely recognized as her own. She folded a finger over his palm with each wish. “May the sun shine warm on your face—”

  “May the rain fall soft on your field,” Richard murmured, picking up the prayer. “And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

  On Trinity Sunday, June ninth, one of the great feast days of the year, Richard bided his time and waited for his chance. There was much music and carousing all day; wine flowed and folk celebrated with merrymaking and the lighting of bonfires. Richard lay in bed between his two jailors, waiting for the fires to die out and the drunken revelers to fall asleep.

  At last the only sound that broke the silence of the night was the chirping of insects. Stealing over his sleeping guards, he tiptoed to the window they’d left unlocked and crept out to the ladder the workmen had forgotten to move in their rush to begin the festivities of Trinity Sunday. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest that he thought his captors would surely hear. The climb down was tense; he had to move slowly and with utmost caution to avoid making a sound. Beads of perspiration blurred his vision and his palms were so slick with sweat that he feared losing his grip. Finally he reached the ground. So far, so good, God be thanked! He glanced up at the sky. There was no moon this night, only layer upon layer of magnificent stars. Enough to guide him to the Salt Tower, where workmen had left a coil of rope. From there it was but a short distance across the garden to the Cradle Tower. The outside wall overlooked the moat near the river. He hoped the rope would be long enough to get him down on the other side. Then he’d steal a boat, row out to a fishing village, and buy passage across the sea with the money Catherine had given him.