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by Worth, Sandra

  Chapter 18

  A Leaf of Hope

  When she returned to her room, Catherine flung herself on her bed and wept in earnest. It was one of the few times she’d given vent to tears, but the great reservoir of sorrow and regret that filled her soul did not cease to exist because she cried. She stayed in her room the next day, and the day after that, until she lost track of time and the days ran into one another. She always awoke from her dreams in an agony of grief. Remembering Cecily’s warning, she also remembered her own reply: I can take care of myself. I have done so all this time. What arrogance! God must have sent this latest trial to trample her pride. Never, even in her darkest moments, had she anticipated that Henry would propose. Oh yes, she had thought of the other things he might do—she had not failed to consider that he would attempt rapine. Then she would have made some pretty entreaty about honor and love, and warded him off with words to evoke guilt. But this—this offer of marriage—this, she had never anticipated!

  Strangeways came hourly to check on her, and when Alice had told him that she was unwell on that first day, Henry sent his royal physician to see her and Alice had the thankless task of turning him away. Catherine had heard them outside her door. “My lady demands not to be disturbed,” Alice had said. “Does she have fever?” the doctor had asked. “I know not, for she sleeps, and I dare not wake her.” “But if she has fever, I must see her. Her life may be in peril.” “If she wishes not to be disturbed, I dare not disturb her, even for the king’s own physician,” Alice had insisted.

  Henry had contented himself by sending her a daily basket of marchpane, truffles, and other delicacies, but she couldn’t bear to look at them and sent them to Lady Daubeney. Nor did she touch food of any kind, for her stomach had tightened into a ball. All the while she pondered what to do, and how she might avert this latest disaster. The idea of sleeping with the man who had castrated Richard and broken the bones of his face, who had taken his youth and crushed his spirit, who had stolen her babe and refused to restore him to her, horrified her to the depths of her being. She had thought she had survived the worst that could happen to her, but now she feared the worst was yet to come, and that it would last all of her life. Raising her eyes to the sky, she had cried out to the heavens, God, where are You? For which of my sins do You turn away all my pleas? God, will You not answer me this one time—one time? Richard, are you there—if you exist somewhere—anywhere—can you not help me in my calamity?

  But all she saw was darkness; all she heard was the screaming of the wind.

  She knew she risked Dickon’s well-being by defying the king, and the thought struck new terror into her. She could not hide forever, nor could she abide the fate that lay in wait for her. One night, as she turned over in bed, her eye fell on her tapestry that lay on her tawny kirtle. Death wore a crown of horns, but behind its dread figure sat her mother, embroidering on a beautiful hillside in radiant light. If she died, perforce he might forget about her child and she could buy her babe’s life with her own. She dried her tears and rose from bed. She took her cloak down from the peg where it hung and drew the hood over her head. Noiselessly, she stepped over Alice’s sleeping form and, moving carefully in the darkness, cracked the door and crept out. Shadows danced on the crooked walls of the empty stairways and corridors she passed, and she thought of Richard, how afraid he had been of shadows. “I am not afraid of shadows when I am with you, Catryn,” he had told her. “You banish them all, like a beautiful light.” She quickened her pace.

  She slipped out of the palace unnoticed by the patrols. The wind whipped her clothes and her breath made mist on the frigid air as she followed the path down to the Thames. Across the city, church bells marked the hour of matins with three long chimes. She hurried along the deserted riverbank until the walls of Westminster Palace and the sound of its patrols were swallowed up in the night. No oars splashed on the Thames. No fishermen were out. There were only the sounds of night critters and the dank smell of the water, punctuated by the rhythmic lapping of the tide. She advanced to the river’s edge and looked down into the black water. Long reeds swayed in the wind, and above her a willow tree waved its bare branches to and fro, sighing heavily. She begged God for forgiveness and closed her eyes. She raised her arms over her head. She was about to fling herself headlong into the water when she heard something—a flutter—a cry. She looked up. A small white bird sat on a low branch, gazing at her. It burst into a beautiful, melodious song and she listened in wonderment, balm spreading over her anguished spirit.

  The song ended; the bird flew off with a flap of wings. How could this be—birds were not out at night. She fell to her knees. Domine, et clamor meus ad te veniat—O Lord, let my cry come to you—hear my prayer—

  Church bells pealed, but she heard them only dimly, for she was seeing Richard in her mind. He stood before her as something stirred in her, a memory, words, she knew not what, and then realization washed over her, bathing her in comprehension and light. Her heart thundering in her breast, she staggered to her feet with the awesome knowledge.

  The king’s mother, wishing to wed Tudor instead of Suffolk, had seen a vision in which Saint Nicholas had commanded her to marry Tudor!

  Catherine turned. She fled back to Windsor, her feet flying over the rutted ground, the small pebbles and rough grasses. There was still hope! She had been blessed with an answer! She had been given a way out and saved from the mortal sin of suicide!

  She would endure, but endure on her own terms. First, however, she had to get back to the palace! The clock was striking the hours: One . . . two . . . three . . . It was four o’clock, and soon dawn would break over the world.

  A bird had saved her life. Catherine stood quietly as Alice dressed her, pondering the ridiculous truth. A bird had saved her life, and that bird had been a white bird, the kind of bird that had grown special to her over the years, and it had come to her at night, when birds were not out. Was it coincidence or a miracle that it had landed on the tree and broken into song just as she was about to cast herself into the water? Was it coincidence or a miracle, the knowledge that had come to her then? She didn’t know, and would never know, but she had begged Richard to intercede for her with God. And the bird had come.

  If Alice had wondered at the mud that caked her shoes and the condition of her gown and cloak, she said nothing. She had merely taken down another black gown from the peg, helped Catherine into it, and brought her another pair of slippers. She set Catherine’s veil on her head and secured the velvet headband to the abundant coils of her black hair.

  “There,” she said absently. “ ’Tis not possible to believe you’ve been so ill when you look as beautiful as a vision from a dream.”

  Catherine jerked her head up.

  “Did I say something wrong, my Lady Cate?”

  “Why did you use that word—vision?”

  “I know not. ’Tis just what came to mind—”

  “While I was ill, I received a vision.”

  “Oh, my Lady Cate! Can ye speak of it? Does it bode well?”

  “I shall tell you in good time, but the king must be the first to know.”

  Alice looked at her with wide eyes.

  “I pray you to inform Strangeways that I need to see King Henry.” She went to her prie-dieu, conscious of Alice’s stunned gaze, for it had been many years since she had knelt in private prayer. But all Alice said was, “Will you not be coming to breakfast, my Lady Cate?”

  “Nay . . . I need a different kind of sustenance this morning.”

  It was shortly after breakfast that Catherine found herself beside Strangeways, making her way past the armed men that massed along the hallways leading to the king’s royal chamber. Only this time it was Catherine who was silent at his side, ignoring his curious glances.

  Henry came rushing up to take her hand as soon as the door was thrust open, as solicitous as a loving husband. “My dear Cat, I am relieved to find you well! I have been worried about you. You wouldn’t se
e my physician, and you refused food—I know not why. But I am relieved that you are well now.”

  Catherine gave him a curtsy.

  “You have an answer for me, do you not—I see it in your face. Here, come—sit . . .”

  “I thank you, my lord, but with your indulgence, I prefer to stand. What I have to say requires all my will.”

  “Beloved Cat, stand if you wish—sit, if you wish—your wish is my command—”

  He was excited and smiling broadly, but when Catherine didn’t return his smile, his expression changed.

  “Sire, you know that I have been ill, and fasting. I have also been praying. Many times in my illness I came near death.” She drew herself erect and lifted her chin. “Sire, I have received a vision that concerns you.”

  Henry didn’t move.

  “Saint Margaret, Queen of our Scottish King Malcolm III, came to me with my lord husband, Richard, at her side,” Catherine resumed, “and behind them stood a dread figure, stained with blood and crowned with a horned serpent. This specter was neither male nor female, and its waist was bound in cords of spotted snakes. I saw it through a mist of foul-smelling vapors that stung my nostrils. The ground beneath its feet was of scorched earth, broken by fissures that emitted the fumes, and I realized that I stood in a cemetery, one choked with weeds and crowded with crooked tombstones clustered closely together. Shapes of men and horses passed to and fro, carrying pale banners that fluttered vaguely above their heads like shredded veils. This, I knew, was the kingdom of the shadowy dead.”

  Catherine broke off to draw breath and saw that Henry was staring fixedly at her.

  “A fearful hissing came to me then, and I looked up. Above my head, the wind was making an arc, and caught in its circling currents were foul black things with birdlike forms resembling dragons with scaly wings. One, more hideous than the rest, bore the face of a man in torment as he whirled about in the dark wind with the halfgnawed carcass of a child in his coiled tail.

  “I shrank in horror from the sight, and Saint Margaret spoke. ‘This soul,’ she explained to me, ‘is the soul of a babe-killer who has just begun his journey. Far worse awaits him below. As you have no doubt guessed, this grim terrain where you stand is but the threshold of the domain of the horrors of Hell.’

  “My lord husband said nothing, and Saint Margaret went on, ‘ ’Tis by God’s Grace that I bring you this warning. Listen well, and take heed. To wed, or to couple with the tormentor of your liege lord here, Prince Richard of York, shall deliver you and the earthly king into the clutches of the creature you see behind me, one of the minions that serve the Devil, his Master. You may tell the earthly king of what awaits should he choose to disregard this warning. His punishment shall begin at the moment of death when a thousand damnable esprites invade his throat to tear out his innards and seize his soul. They shall drag him screaming into the depths of this terrible place, and he shall suffer there through fire and ice, blackness, torment, and terror for all eternity. Tell the earthly king that he defies this warning on peril of his immortal soul.’ Saint Margaret and Richard faded away into radiance, and I awoke from the evil place where I had been.”

  The color was gone from Henry’s face and he was as white as a phantom. Heavily, he lowered himself into a chair. The hand he raised to his head shook visibly, and he seemed suddenly a very aged man. For a long time he said nothing, nor did he look at her. Then, at last, he lifted his eyes to her face, and in them she saw a grief so profound that she was flooded with pity.

  He nodded. She curtsied, and let herself quietly out of his chamber.

  Catherine was swept with a joy she was careful to hide from all eyes. She had saved herself, and she had saved her child. God had not turned away from her, and if He had, He had seen fit to embrace her once more. And somewhere in Heaven, she knew Richard survived and that he waited for her. She had always believed that, but not with the depth of conviction she had been newly granted. Not since Scotland had she felt so free, so light. She understood now the weight of the burden she had shouldered since captivity, and the blackness of the cloud she had struggled beneath since the day Richard had died. She remembered, as if in a dream, how she had stood at this same windowsill in her room at Windsor listening to Alice’s muffled sobs. She had been frozen and dry-eyed, as if she, too, were dead with him, and it had seemed to her that her very soul had seeped from her body and vanished into mist. “Gone,” she had whispered to her reflection in the glass. “Gone forever.”

  But now another image rose in her mind, more real, with more substance. Richard was chasing her down a woody embankment. She heard herself giggling and heard him cry out in jest as he threw himself backward into a waterfall for her amusement and emerged looking like a drowned rat. Seizing her hand, he pulled her down with him into the cold water.

  This was what she would remember whenever she looked back. The laughter. The happiness. She smiled and lifted her eyes to the scene outside her window. She felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. Doves and wagtails chirped loudly in celebration of the coming spring, swooping and diving from the branches of trees already bursting into bloom. It had rained fiercely that morning, she realized, but the sun had come out meanwhile and the raindrops that were caught in the foliage sparkled like diamonds in the thickness of the evergreens.

  She opened a window and drew a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. Aye, ’ tis a new day. A day unlike any other. I have survived and I will survive. Someday, with God’s Grace, I shall see Dickon again. A sound from behind broke into her thoughts. She turned to look. Alice was gathering the linens from the room and bundling them into a pillowcase.

  “Where are you going with that?” she asked.

  “Why, to do laundry in the river. ’Tis Friday.”

  Catherine smiled. “I shall come with you.” Ignoring Alice’s stunned expression, she took her by the arm and led her out the door.

  Catherine wore black for Margaret’s proxy wedding to James in August 1503, but for the first time since her arrival in the Tudor court, she changed the color of her headband to a bright and beautiful shade of red. At the festivities, which were sweetened with strawberries, cream, spice cakes, and seven cartloads of cherries, Catherine welcomed her kinsman, the Earl of Bothwell, Patrick Hepburn. She took his arm and led him off to a secluded corner of the hall where they might converse alone. Patrick, the first Earl of Bothwell, was married to Margaret, one of her many sisters, and she wanted news of her family.

  “The years have scarcely touched you, dear sister. Ye look as beautiful as ever, Catherine.”

  “But not as beautiful as Meg, I’m sure.” Catherine smiled.

  “Ah—are ye still nursing a broken heart over me?” he demanded, with dancing green eyes.

  “Aye, and never shall you be forgiven for choosing to wed my sister instead of me when my father gave you the chance to choose between us.” She threw him a sly smile.

  Patrick chuckled. “Ye know why I chose Margaret. She was two years older than ye and would have been mortified had her younger sister wed before her.”

  “No, Patrick, that was not the reason. You were both in love . . .” And my destiny was to love Richard, she thought. Aloud she said, “Though I may not have told you, I have always been happy for you both. Tell me, does Meg still play the bagpipes?”

  “Not for many years now. Can’t deny I’m glad. Always thought it an odd choice of instrument for a woman.”

  Catherine grinned. “I asked her once why she chose to play the bagpipes. You know what she said? ‘Because ye don’t.’ ” Catherine and Patrick both burst into laughter at the same moment.

  “Sounds like Margaret,” he said, catching his breath.

  “We were very close in spite of our rivalry. I miss her.”

  Patrick patted her hand.

  “How is Adam?” Patrick’s little red-haired firstborn had been three years old when Catherine left Scotland.

  “A devil still. He manages to get into mischief daily.�
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  “And Alexander?” Catherine asked, inquiring after her eldest brother, who had inherited the Earldom of Huntly.

  “Doing well, and I suppose it can be said to be good that I have naught to report about him. Likewise yer brothers, Adam, William, and James . . .”

  “And my sisters?”

  “Now that would take all day, but in a nutshell, the Gordons are well and flourishing. Yer six sisters are thriving—and multiplying. They send their love and beg to be remembered to ye.”

  Catherine reached for his hand and her face took on a grave expression. “Pray tell my fair cousin, James, how deeply his noble gesture has touched me. He is in truth the most chivalrous king in Christendom.” As part of the marriage negotiations, James had demanded that Richard’s body be taken back to Scotland. Henry had agreed but wanted the knowledge to be kept secret. Naturally. It would be too hard to explain why a boatman’s son was laid to rest with kings and queens, even in a foreign country. Harder to explain than the Austin Friars in London, where executed nobles, not commoners, were interred.

  “James feels great sorrow that he failed to save Richard’s life. He says it is precious little that he does for him now but ’tis better than leaving him in England. He will be interred in the royal vault where James’s parents are buried, and one day he and Richard shall lie together, as befits their ties of royal blood and friendship.”

  “It means I cannot visit him,” said Catherine sadly, “but he loved Scotland. ’Tis meet that he return to rest at Cambuskenneth Abbey.” The abbey was a stone’s throw from Stirling, that happy place where they had met, and wed, and conceived Dickon, and known the greatest joy that life could bestow. “If Richard could have had his way, he never would have left Scotland. Now he shall rest there forever.”

  “’Tis time to dance again, Catherine,” said Patrick softly, as the beat of a popular tune came to them.