B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

She removed the velvet cloth cover to reveal the contents. Some yardage of black silk ribbon; a few embroidery needles; a small dagger; and a collection of fine yarn in different hues of red to pink.

  “I am leaving this afternoon on the king’s business, and will be passing Fleet Street. Should there be anything else you need, I can stop and pick them up for you. Or perhaps, you would like to accompany me?” He regarded her hopefully.

  She looked up at Strangeways, remembering the secret he had confided to her on the riverbank at Windsor two years after Richard’s death. First, however, he’d required her to take an oath on the Bible, swearing never to impart it to anyone. Then he had revealed that Dickon had been brought to London to see Richard at the Tower, and had given her the reason. Her legs could scarcely maintain her when she heard his words and she had collapsed on a bench. Strangeways, mistaking her tears for sorrow, had tried to soothe her until she’d lifted her face to his and he saw the tremulous joy that lit her features. “My babe lives,” she’d murmured in an awed whisper. Not only had Richard seen Dickon—not only had Richard been allowed this one grace—but now she knew their babe lived!

  Dickon, her beautiful boy, still lived!

  “Where—” She could not form another word, but Strangeways had understood. “Wales,” he’d replied. “I have family in Wales. I shall visit them, and make inquiries.” Now her dream had a name. Wales. And Strangeways had connections in Wales.

  He spoke again, jolting her back into the present.

  “You are departing for Wales with the queen in a few days, and this may be the last time I can take you to the Fleet before you go.”

  Wales, she thought, savoring the sound of the word. She looked at him as he stood before her, and realized that he’d mistaken her silence for refusal. “I shall be happy to accompany you to the Fleet. Perhaps you can also find a way to come to Wales?” she said with a meaningful look. “Wales is very beautiful, so I hear.”

  “Indeed, it is. I shall try my best, my lady.”

  Gratitude warmed her heart.

  After an abstinence of three years that she had imposed following the execution of her kin, Queen Elizabeth was with child again, for she had taken Henry back into her bed after Arthur’s death in April 1502. The babe would be born in February, the month of her own birth. The royal household had borne witness to her words to Henry. “We are still young,” she had said. “We can have more children.” And fertile as ever despite her thirty-six years, she lost no time conceiving a child.

  But Catherine had no doubt as she moved about the royal chamber helping to dress the queen and prepare for their journey to Wales that Elizabeth would never recover from the loss of her firstborn son. The queen went through the motions of daily living like a waxen figure, unaware of this world, only of the next, and more and more she was to be found at her devotions. The child she had carried in her womb these four months brought her no smiles, and music wrung only tears. Patch failed to draw her laughter, and feasts failed to delight as she pushed a fork around her golden platter as if she didn’t know what the instrument was for.

  She will not survive long, Catherine thought, watching Lady Daubeney set the queen’s gable headdress over her bound hair. A vision of herself after Richard’s death flew into her mind. I will never eat again; I will never sleep again, she’d thought, but she did. Had she ever looked like the queen with eyes that held the dazed look of pain, like an animal dying in a trap? Elizabeth was as fragile as a precious crystal figurine that one feared to touch lest it shatter in one’s hand. Somehow Catherine had survived the loss of her son, for she had hope to cling to. But Elizabeth had no such hope. What little joy had been hers in marriage had come from Arthur, and now he was gone.

  Catherine watched her make her way to her prie-dieu, as was her custom before leaving her chamber to attend her royal duties. Her eyes went to the Book of Hours Elizabeth carried. She had sent her one just like it after Richard’s death; indeed, she sent anyone suffering a loss the same gift, expecting them to find the comfort there that she did. But Catherine had barely touched hers. She drew her solace from nature, where the hand of man was unseen. There she communed with Richard and watched the butterflies and beautiful birds, especially white ones, for they made her think of a white rose whenever she saw one flit across the palace gardens. At night, she worked on her embroidery. The tapestry that depicted Hell now wrapped nearly one half turn around her kirtle, and would go on endlessly thickening as the years passed. For the artwork that gathered in her skirts served to cushion her like armor, reminding her daily of the dark depths she had trawled. And survived. She had borne the worst that could ever happen. She could bear anything now.

  The journey to Ludlow proved slow and ponderous, for the queen was unable to travel far in a day. Their accommodations were the best that abbeys, castles, and wealthy subjects could provide, but Catherine found herself too anxious to sleep. She was going to Wales, and Wales was where Dickon was.

  As they rode along, Catherine watched Elizabeth. She was the golden-haired Tudor queen instead of the raven-haired Plantagenet queen Catherine would have made. Like her own child, Elizabeth’s first son was conceived out of wedlock at Yuletide; like her own, he was born in September. Instead of her own, he had been heir to the throne. Now both the queen and the captive, united by marriage as sisters, but not daring to embrace as such, mourned their firstborn children on a pilgrimage to the place that had devoured them. Elizabeth’s marriage had been unhappy and brought her a stream of losses, and many whom she had loved were now gone forever. Catherine’s own marriage had been the happiest this world could bestow, and yet it, too, had brought suffering and woe. Death had stalked them both for so long, no doubt it seemed an old friend to Elizabeth, just as it did to Catherine. Like her, Elizabeth felt abandoned by God. Her motto, Humble and Reverent, came from a treasured book of an Augustinian friar named Walter Hilton, who died in 1396. “Wise and well-grounded is the lover of God who behaves himself humbly and reverently,” he had written, “and who remains patient and calm, without despair and bitterness, when He is absent.”

  Absent, indeed. Arthur had been Elizabeth’s hope, and God had taken him from her. Catherine marveled that Elizabeth, weary with the weariness that comes when hope is gone, could still find comfort in Him who had deserted her. I may not have God, Catherine thought, but I still have my Dickon.

  So ran her thoughts as she trotted her palfrey to Ludlow beside the queen, crushing the drifting leaves of autumn underfoot.

  In Tewkesbury, she was pleasantly surprised to see James Strangeways and a party of the king’s horses riding toward them.

  “My lady queen,” said Strangeways, “we have received instructions from King Henry to accompany you to Ludlow.”

  “It contents us much to have your company, but we hope it does not inconvenience you, since you had hoped to return to London long before now,” Elizabeth replied graciously.

  “Quite the contrary, Majesty. We are delighted to be charged with this task.” Strangeways’s dark eyes sought out Catherine as he spoke.

  Soon Catherine found him riding at her side. “How do you feel now that you are close to Wales?” he inquired.

  “What is it like there?” If she could know more about the place, know what kind of skies Dickon saw when he woke up in the morning, what the ground was like that he played on, it might help her feel closer to him. She bit down hard, flooded by a sudden torrent of emotion that she held back by will alone. If her resolve ever broke, she knew she would weep forever.

  But Strangeways was not to let her off easily. “It surprises me that you are not happy to see Wales.”

  “It is my fault he is in Wales,” Catherine said in a choked whisper. She felt his stare.

  “No, it’s not. There are things in this world beyond our control. We try to blame ourselves to make sense of them.”

  Again, Catherine turned her gaze on him in gratitude.

  They crossed into Wales, and immediately the sea of und
ulating meadows and lines of tall poplars gave way to the rugged terrain of gorge and thistle, cliffs and rocky rivers, and a succession of border strongholds and mountain ranges that soared and dipped across the horizon. There was a wildness to the place that lifted her heart, for it made her think of Scotland, and of home, and of her father, who had died the previous year, and whom she missed more now that he was gone from this earth than ever before.

  Bells were pealing for evensong when they arrived at Ludlow. They were met by an entourage of officers led by the constable of the castle, a man of stature and noble bearing dressed in a blue velvet doublet with hanging sleeves, high boots, and a fur hat with a large feather. He introduced himself as Matthew Cradock and gave an eloquent welcome to the royal party. An instant liking ran through Catherine at the sight of him and she felt a strange connection, as though she’d known him before. Like her father, there was an air of command about him, but also a courtly refinement. He was older, with sandy hair flecked with silver, but handsome. His eyes were as blue as the thistle she had picked as a child, and there was a chivalry about him that reminded her of Richard and brought to mind the knights of the Arthurian romances. He turned around to look directly at her, and she averted her gaze with a blush. She had been staring.

  They dined elaborately that evening on boiled wheat in venison, cured tongue, roasted swans and herons covered with their own feathers as in life, and for dessert, tarts, cheese fritters, and quince dumplings. But peace did not find Catherine that night as she lay on her featherbed. Nor would it find the queen in this place, she thought, turning her eyes to the window that stood open to the frosty stars. Both our sons were born in this month, and here in this castle Elizabeth’s took his last breath. And somewhere out there, I pray my little one is celebrating his sixth birthday.

  After two weeks in Wales, the queen decided to return to London. She was ailing and the pilgrimage had not helped her grief, nor had all the prayers she had murmured in the chapels and churches and cathedrals of Wales. Her son was gone, leaving behind no trace but her broken heart.

  At Westminster, it was the same. Except for one thing. Cecily came to visit. Catherine ran to take her into her arms, laughing and teary-eyed at the same time.

  “Cecily, Cecily! I have missed you so! How is married life? How do you like the Isle of Wight? How long will you be here—” The questions were endless, and never in many long years had her heart felt so light. Cecily was the only one who could make her smile. She was a sister. The two women linked arms and went into the garden, taking care to steer toward a secluded corner.

  “Tell me—tell me everything—are you happy?”

  Cecily grabbed both of Catherine’s hands into her own. “Oh, Catherine, you were right—I am so happy—deliriously happy—if I were a bird, I would burst into song! Never did I know what happiness was until I married Thomas!”

  “You didn’t last long in widow’s weeds,” Catherine smiled, admiring her green velvet gown with a plunging neckline.

  “Frankly, I know not how you do it, Catherine. I hated looking like an ugly crow.” Quickly, so as not to offend, she added, “But you’re so pretty, you give black an allure.”

  “No need to temper your words. I wear black because I choose to.” She remembered her promise to Richard at St. Michael’s Mount to find happiness. Impossible then, she thought; and impossible now. Maybe one day, when her child was restored to her, she could fling away the mourning gowns.

  “Oh, Catherine, thank you for making me understand love! For making me see what I was missing. You and Ri—”

  Catherine placed a warning finger to her lips. Nearly four years after his death, it was still not safe to speak Richard’s name. Maybe in a thousand years, she thought sadly, but not now. “I am glad, Cecily. No one deserves to be loved more than you.”

  “Oh, I can think of others more deserving—but not one who enjoys it nearly as much as I!” She winked, leaving no doubt that she meant the bed sport. Into Catherine’s mind flashed Richard, sweeping her into his powerful arms, passion written all over his face. For an instant she felt a surge of desire; then it was gone, and she was back in the present. “I miss that so much. It’s like a giant emptiness inside me that nothing can fill. But love has cost you much, Cecily. I hope it makes up for the deprivations you have known since the king confiscated all your property.”

  “Oh, we are as poor as church mice, but I care not, Catherine! I care not! I had to borrow to make this trip, we are so poor—” She laughed. “I could use some money. I came for Elizabeth’s sake, of course, but I hope to weasel some of my lands back from Henry. For soon there will be another mouth to feed.”

  “Another mouth?” Catherine’s joy for Cecily bubbled in her laugh as she clasped her friend and held her close. So pure was her happiness that anyone watching would have found difficulty declaring with certainty which one of them imparted happy tidings, and which received it.

  Cecily’s merry eyes grew thoughtful as they rested on Catherine. “I just realized that never in all these years have I heard you laugh. You have a beautiful laugh, Catherine . . . Catherine, did you find anything in Wales?”

  She swallowed hard. “No, nothing. But one day—”

  Cecily gave a nod, and changed the subject. “I heard Strangeways came with you.”

  “He’s been very kind. He takes me to visit Richard at the Austin Friars. The grave is unmarked. I would never have found it, but he knew where to go.”

  “He loves you, you know.”

  Catherine smiled. “Nonsense, Cecily. Why ever would you think that?”

  “I saw it in his eyes when I was at court, and I’ve heard about it since I’ve returned.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s just a friend. He’s never made an untoward remark.”

  “Of course not. He values his head, and he knows the king is watching.”

  The king. She had no desire to dwell on that unpleasant subject. “You’ve heard that your niece, Margaret, will marry King James?”

  “Oh. When?”

  “Henry wishes it to be immediately, but the queen deems twelve too young. She has extracted a promise from the king to wait until Margaret is fourteen before he sends her off. I have been instructing Princess Margaret on what to expect. She’s learning the customs of the Scottish court, and our poetry, and our dances—and about James, of course, his likes and dislikes. She is fortunate to wed such a man.”

  “Once I would have been jealous,” Cecily said. “But now I wish her well. Will you go with her to Scotland?”

  “The king will not permit it. He has informed me that I will be accompanying her as far as Northamptonshire, and will take my leave there and return to London. But I look forward to seeing my cousin, Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell. He will stand as proxy for King James in the marriage ceremony.”

  “Henry still loves you, Catherine, as desperately as ever. He’s terrified you might leave him. If he lets you loose near the border, he’s afraid you’ll bolt for it.”

  Catherine did not answer. She was thinking how different she was from the girl who had left Scotland with Richard in search of adventure. She could never go back, not until she knew what had become of her son. That was all that mattered now.

  “You are Henry’s obsession. Even when you are not here, he speaks incessantly of his black swan.”

  She winced. Deep in her heart Catherine believed that Henry had made Richard suffer so brutally because of his passion for her. The thought haunted her.

  “You are, you know . . . A black swan, gliding in dark waters, all alone.”

  Catherine dropped her gaze to Cecily’s hand, clasping hers in her lap. No one is your friend, she had told herself so many times, and here was Cecily, a peerless friend.

  “Not always alone,” Catherine said softly. “Sometimes I hear Richard whisper to me . . . Sometimes I even feel the touch of his hand on my cheek. You think me mad. I’ve said too much—”

  “Poppet, don’t be silly. Go on, I
beseech you. There is much I have experienced myself and cannot explain.”

  “It could merely be my imagination—I know not. ’Tis not exactly his voice I hear, you understand? Mostly it takes the form of coincidences. Some people pay not much heed to coincidences, but I see them as messages. They comfort me, and help me bear what I must. I’ll be out in the garden, for example, and all at once everything rushes back in a torrent and the pain is unbearable, and at that moment, I’ll hear a bird singing. I’ll look up, and there’s a warbler perched on a branch, as close as he can be to me, staring directly at me, pouring out his heart to me. And I’ll think of Richard, that it’s him, that he comes to comfort me. Or I’ll say a prayer for Richard, and when I open my eyes, there is a white butterfly flitting around me, gliding the same speed as I am walking, first on my left, then on my right—as if to guide me, as if to kiss me . . .”

  Cecily winced, thinking of his suffering at the Tower. “Dear Richard.”

  A silence fell.

  In a low tone Catherine said, “And William Courtenay is sent to the Tower, and for naught but supping with his two de la Pole cousins on the night before they fled England.” She gave a shudder, thinking of Kate’s husband locked away in that dread place. Now that Henry had steeped his hands deep in royal blood with the murder of Richard and Warwick, no one was safe. Certainly not the de la Pole brothers, who stood too near the throne for his comfort. It appeared they had good cause to flee since even William Courtenay fell under suspicion merely for breaking bread with them.

  “I always blamed Elizabeth for what happened to us,” Cecily resumed, “but I know now that I was wrong. It was never her fault. She did her best, and she suffers, too. She sacrificed her heart to unite the country. Arthur was her great hope, and her gift to England.”

  To banish memories that pressed too close, Catherine said, “What about that extra mouth—how will you manage?”