What had the young man said? That the king lusted for his wife, a princess of Scotland . . . Prior Ralph had not known in his ignorance what evil lurked in the world of man. Even a predator in the woods would not look that way upon his prey before he pounced for the kill. Nay, he did not relish putting back into his king’s hands the hapless captive who inspired such depths of hatred, of envy, of fear.
As the men-at-arms waited outside the monastery wall under the sharp eye of their captain, Simon Digby, Prior Ralph went to inform Richard of the outcome of his meeting. He found him in the church, prostrate on the stone floor before the altar. When he arose, his breath reeked of wine. Pity overwhelmed the prior. Would that he could empty his cellar of the king’s prized wine that was delivered to him every Yuletide, he thought, and give it over to this lad—this prince—to take with him to the Tower! Doubtless he would have need of it. Compassion twisted his heart as he looked upon the young one standing unsteadily before him. The prior rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“My son, I bring good news. The king has given grant of life.”
Relief washed over Richard and he grabbed the prior’s hand. He took it to his lips and laid a kiss on its withering skin. Oh, to live—what it meant to live—how good it felt to know that he would live! That he would see Catherine again! “Thank you—”
“Now, my son, let us pray before you go.”
Together they knelt at the altar. “Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea . . . Emitte lucem tuam—” they intoned together. For You, O God, are my strength . . . Send forth Your light and Your truth; they shall lead me on and bring me to Your holy mountain. “Quare tristis es anima mea?” Why are you so downcast, O my soul? Why do you sigh within me? Hope in God!
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancto,” they ended, making the sign of the cross.
They walked together from the church into the small courtyard, where the splashing fountain lightened Richard’s heart. From inside his shirt, he removed the pouch of coins Catherine had given him and handed it over to the prior. “Father, take this—I regret it is not much, but it is all I have.” He dropped to a knee before the old monk. “Do not forget me in your prayers, Prior Ralph.”
Prior Ralph looked at the pouch in his hand that constituted all the worldly possessions of this destitute prince, and turned his gaze to Richard, to the eyes that were as blue as cornflowers and to the mouth that lifted even in distress, and he was moved to deepest pity. For the young man’s teeth were for laughing round an apple, and his arms were for raising high the girl he loved, and these things would never be again. He watched him mount his horse in the sunshine as birds sang in the branches and rabbits hopped through the lettuce. He watched him turn his reins and throw him a salute. Then, he watched him disappear over the green hills into the distance, surrounded by the army of guards that would take him to the Tower.
Chapter 14
Tower of Hell
It was an easy pace that Digby set, and Richard enjoyed the journey back to London on the beautiful summer’s day in June 1498. Delighting in his gift of life, he savored with heightened joy the world around him. The flight of the birds across the sky, the flapping of their wings, and the sound of their song all brought him renewed pleasure, and he marveled that he had given so little thought to God’s creation before. In the forest, he breathed deep of the scented air, and plucking a blossom from a wild fruit tree, inhaled its fragrance. As he passed through the rolling fields that bordered the city, he delighted in the fresh smell of the earth and of the feel of the wind in his face that stirred the trees into sighs. He thought what music there was in nature’s creation and was amazed he had not noticed it before. He thought about Catherine, and wondered if he would see her before supper.
Bells were ringing for nones when the Tower rose up on the north bank of the River Thames, its many stone towers and turrets marking the line of the sky. As soon as he arrived, he would wash and change and give thanks to God in the chapel. Then he would go in search of Catherine.
They trotted into the outer courtyard of the Tower and handed their reins over to the stable boys. With purposeful strides, Digby led the way into the inner court and Richard followed, ringed by the men-at-arms and wondering at the sudden tension he felt around him. Why were the men-at-arms not dismissed now that he was safely delivered to the Tower? “Where are we going?” he asked.
“The king wishes to see you,” said Digby, not slowing his pace.
Richard fell silent. He had forgotten about Henry. He would have to thank him for his pardon, but Henry was probably angry, and the meeting would be unpleasant. The knowledge dampened his excitement as he entered the White Tower and climbed the stairs to the king’s apartments. The customary two hundred yeomen and men-at-arms lined the halls, and he was met with a hiss when he appeared. Picking at their teeth, they leered at him, shoved and heckled him. Someone called out, “Perkin’s back!” and someone else replied, “Not for long!” and everyone guffawed. A man put his foot out to trip him, and almost succeeded. By the time he reached Henry’s council chamber, Richard was as tense and unnerved as if he were walking into a lion’s den.
Henry sat at the table, playing solitaire. His monkey sneered at Richard from where he sat watching his master with a cup of wine in his hands, but Henry didn’t look up. He continued to lay his cards down thoughtfully, now and again removing one to the side. Richard shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering when Henry would see fit to put an end to his little game. Finally, Henry gathered up the deck of cards and shuffled them expertly from one hand to another.
“I won,” he said, acknowledging Richard’s presence at last. “I always win.”
Richard didn’t reply.
“You should know that by now.”
Richard still made no response. He could see Henry was in an evil mood, and he didn’t know what reply to make.
Henry rose from the table and slammed a hand down so hard that Richard jumped.
“Finally, a reaction. So you still live . . . and breathe . . . You are not dead yet I see. Pity—for you, I mean.”
Richard decided it was time to defuse the animus that was building in Henry. “I am indeed alive, thanks to your great mercy, King Henry.”
Henry closed the gap between them until he stood uncomfortably close. “Mercy you do not deserve, but never mind. That will soon be remedied.”
Richard lifted his gaze to Henry’s eyes. They held a fearful glazed look. Richard shuddered inwardly and his legs went weak beneath him. He held himself erect by force of will alone.
“You persuaded that old man that you really were Edward’s son, didn’t you? With your pretty mouth, and your perfect jaw, and your golden good looks. But mark my words, by the time I’m through with you, you’ll look nothing like Edward—and I’ll have you begging for death! Begging, you hear me?” He struck Richard a blow to his ear that sent his senses reeling. Richard nursed his injury and Henry continued talking, but his voice faded in and out as he paced to and fro. Richard couldn’t hear what he said for the throbbing pain on the side of his face until he caught the name “Catherine—” He dropped his hand, momentarily forgetting his injury.
“Catherine—how is she? I beseech you to tell me how she is—”
Henry in the motion of striding away turned to stare at him, his hands behind his back. “You are well matched to one another, I daresay. For she is as much fool as you. She refuses to divorce you, but she’ll change her mind, I’ve no doubt. She is not accustomed to living like a pauper, and now that I’ve cut her allowance and dismissed all her attendants save one, she will come to realize you’re not worth the cost to her. What kind of a man are you? You can’t even provide for your wife.”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, Richard felt a moment’s joy. Catherine had refused to divorce him despite everything. Despite everything—Oh, my beloved, my dear heart, my God-given angel, he cried silently. You are with me in bliss, and in woe. How I love you—
At the door, Simon Digby snapped to attention. “Sire!”
“Take him away. You know what to do with him,” Henry said.
“Aye, Sire.”
Richard’s blood went cold.
Digby was Constable of the Tower.
Richard spent the night in a small windowless room in the Salt Tower and awoke the next morning to a strange silence. It was the Feast of Corpus Christi, yet he heard nothing of the revelry or noise of the pageants he knew were taking place all over the city. From the guards he learned that court had moved to Westminster in his absence. His most bitter disappointment was that he didn’t see Catherine.
“Will I be going to Westminster?” he asked one of his guards. The man looked up from the game of cards he was playing. “Aye. Tomorrow,” he grinned, exchanging a look with his companion.
Tomorrow, Richard told himself, forcing himself to be patient. Tomorrow.
At daybreak, he was taken to Westminster Palace with his hands bound before him and his feet tied beneath the belly of his horse. As they had done since the first time they’d seen him, the common folk in the streets of London tormented him, and the homeless who slept in the streets sat up to marvel at the sight of someone more wretched than they. But Richard paid them little heed; he knew Catherine was at Westminster.
At the palace, Digby helped him dismount and led him to the gigantic hall that served as both a concourse and a meeting place. It was thronged with people. The props from the pageants of the day before had been left up and still divided the large chamber into three areas. He looked up at the gilt signs hanging over the displays that declared PARADISE, PURGATORY, and HELL.
“Sorry, Perkin, it’s not Paradise for you, but Purgatory,” said Digby as they passed boughs dressed with leaves and flowers, decorated with golden hanging cages of chirping, colorful birds. He followed Digby as he led him farther away into a dark and gloomy place lit by few candles. A scaffolding of barrels stood among huge rocks and burnt-out tree branches.
“Climb up, Perkin,” Digby demanded. “You’re to be in the stocks in Purgatory for two days.” He locked Richard into place with chains around his hand and feet. “I have a message for you from King Henry,” he said. “He said to tell you to prepare yourself well here, for on the third day you shall descend into Hell.”
Richard swallowed hard.
People soon began swarming around him, jumping up and jostling one another to gain a better look. Some spat at him, and cursed. Since his neck was secured into the stocks, he could only shut his eyes to shield himself from their phlegm. When the day finally ended and he was released, Richard breathed a sigh of relief: his joints ached from the enforced confinement.
As he lay down on his straw pallet in his windowless chamber that night, his thoughts were of Catherine. She had to know that he was there at Westminster, and she had to know, too, that he would never want her to see him this way. Beloved Catryn—He wished the room had a window so he could see the stars; the night with its beautiful stars always reminded him of her. He was awakened by a harsh shove. A bowl of gruel was thrust into his hands, accompanied by a crust of dry bread teeming with weevils.
“Breakfast, Perkin.” Digby laughed in response to the expression on his face. “Food straight from Purgatory.”
Richard put the bread down. He had little appetite in any case.
Digby shrugged. “It’s worse in Hell.” When Richard was on his feet, he chained his hands and took him back to the stocks. On this day, however, he was made to stand on the barrels and read his confession to the crowds who came to see him.
“First it is to be known that I was born in the town of Tournai and my father’s name is called John Osbeck . . .”
On the third day, Richard was taken to the Tower. The sun was shining brightly as he rode past Cheapside and St. Peter’s Church, and along Mark Lane in the greatest ignominy, cursed by many of those he passed in the streets and laughed to scorn. But at the Tower gates, a nun regarded him with tears, and a sob broke from her throat. “Pray for your king—” he called out to her with the last ounce of courage left in him. One of the guards at his side raised his weapon to strike him, but then dropped his arm, confused. Do you really think I mean the bastard you call king? Richard thought, allowing himself a small smile as he passed beneath the portcullis into the outer ward.
The rope that bound him to his horse was cut, and he was helped to dismount. He followed Digby to the Salt Tower, but at the entrance he came to a halt, blinded by the darkness. The torches had burned out. Digby and his men-at-arms waited for a man-at-arms to bring replacements. A flame was put to them and the entry flooded with light.
“This way—” said Digby, leading the way down a stairwell.
Frozen with horror, Richard looked into the black pit that led to the dungeons. An evil stench of dampness and slime wafted up, and with it a strange dull roaring sound. Here was a chorus that mingled together all the cries, screams, pleadings, and moans that torture could elicit from a human throat. “Why are we going there?” he cried.
“Hell is always underground,” Digby replied as his men snickered.
“I won’t go!” cried Richard, pushing back in terror.
“You have no choice, Perkin.” Someone gave him a hard shove.
Richard fought them, but they seized his elbow and twisted it behind his back until the slightest resistance elicited an unbearable pain. They forced him down into the curving stairwell. He couldn’t see for the shadows, and kept losing his footing on the wet, narrow steps. The terrible din from below grew louder until it burst on his ears with the force of blows.
“You don’t have to do this!” Richard cried desperately, struggling in the arms of his captors. “I’ll say whatever you want! Tell me what you want me to say!”
“Not say,” replied a man with a hatchet-face who came forward to take him. “But give.”
What did he mean? Was he mad? He could scarcely breathe; every part of his body vibrated with terror. “Tell me what you want—” he cried again, louder, more urgently. “I’ll say anything you want—anything at all! Money—is that what you want? I have friends—powerful friends—they’ Il get you gold—tell me what you want—”
“Too late for that, Perkin,” said Digby. “Now I must leave you. Bear your fate as bravely as you can, son.”
Someone guffawed. “Bravely, eh? Not likely, that ’un. I smell the urine already.”
Richard turned to look at the one who spoke but his vision had blurred and he could see nothing except a hideous set of grinning teeth. His gaze went to Digby’s retreating back and panic flooded him. “Don’t leave me, Digby—help me—Digby! Why are you doing this?—O God . . .” Richard cried as men dragged him to a wooden table and strapped him down. He fought until they slipped his wrists into iron gauntlets, first one hand, then the other, and manacled his feet in place so that he lay helpless, and spread-eagle. The man with the hatchet-face took out a long dagger and ran his finger along the edge. The blade glinted in the torchlight. He laughed again, sending ice down Richard’s spine.
“The king has ordered a very special treat for you,” he grinned.
Wide-eyed, his mind a tumult of terror, Richard stared at his tormentor. He struggled with all his might. His chains rattled but the irons held fast.
“Tell me what you want—” he begged.
Someone tied a blindfold around his eyes. Moments later, such a tempest of pain came over him that he screamed in agony, and knew no more.
Sounds of weeping came to Catherine from the antec
hamber as she lay dry-eyed on her bed. Agatha had cried every night in the past week since Catherine had given her the news that she would be let go. She’d ached for her lady-in-waiting, but at the same time she felt gratitude that Henry had left the choice up to her. What if he had appointed Meryell as her sole lady-in-waiting? Somehow, she would find placement for Agatha. Cecily would help. Already she was spreading the word.
A week later, as Catherine watched children play in the garden, the Scottish ambassador crossed her path and took a seat beside her on the bench. Whether from intent, or pure coincidence—but likely the former—the dear man happened to mention that he had a vacancy in his service. She offered him Agatha, and he accepted.
“I hope she won’t mind leaving England, however?”
“Leaving?”
“I must return to Edinburgh next week and shall be gone for a month. She will have to come with my party. She may return to England with me in September, if she wishes.”
Catherine had taken his hand into hers mutely, and gazed at him through a blur of tears. He was going to deliver Agatha home, and James would give her a position in his court. Agatha would be safe in Scotland again. There are still good people in the world, she thought. I must never forget that, no matter what happens.
For all the blessings of those good people, however, there was unspeakable evil, too. For Richard, Catherine had sobbed until she had no more tears. She knew that if he were caught, no one would be able to help him—not Margaret of Burgundy, nor Maximilian, nor her cousin James, no one in this world, not even if they offered up their entire kingdoms to Henry. The king would wreak a terrible vengeance. The memory of her last meeting with him rose before her and again she saw his narrowed eyes flashing with a hideous glint as he deluged Richard in a torrent of epithets.
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