B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  “Indeed, it is.” She gave him her hand. They took the floor as the minstrels picked up a gay tune. Twirling and parting, they came together, and hopped hand in hand. Catherine was aware that Henry’s eyes were riveted on her.

  “King Henry does not seem happy,” Patrick whispered when they drew close, but they parted before she could reply. Catherine’s eyes went to Henry’s glum expression. She twirled and drew near. “’Tis a bittersweet occasion for him. He is losing his daughter, even if she is to be queen.”

  Patrick was unconvinced. That Henry was besotted with Catherine and called her his black swan was the talk of Britain and the Continent. “Perhaps.”

  They gave a clap and placed their hands on their waists. The melody drew to an end. He bowed to her, and she gave him a graceful curtsy.

  “It has been so good to see you, Patrick. I shall miss you.”

  Patrick took both her hands into his own, and lifted one to his lips. “Ye are indeed the brightest ornament of Scotland, and also of England. Whoever said that spoke true, Catherine.”

  Catherine’s hand strayed to Richard’s love letter that she kept over her heart. She gave Patrick a soft look. “Whoever said that was in love. Love is a wonderful thing. I am glad you have it still, Patrick.”

  The minstrels broke into a Celtic melody, one she had danced with Richard years ago at Stirling, stirring another round of painful memories in her heart. She saw Patrick staring behind her, and turned to see the crowds parting, making way for the king, who was striding toward them.

  Henry came to a halt before her and inclined his head. “My Lady Catherine, would you care to dance?” He offered his hand.

  “Sire, pray forgive me—but I only dance with kin, and never to Highland music.”

  “But I sent for the bagpipers to please you.”

  Catherine made no reply and held herself stiffly so she would not tremble or flee. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  Henry’s expression tightened. He dropped his hand, gave an angry nod, and spun on his heel. “Women,” she heard him mutter under his breath as he left.

  At her side, Patrick sought her hand and gave her a squeeze.

  Catherine lost track of time as the mundane and familiar days folded into one another. The court fed on idle gossip and the flare of an occasional spicy scandal. First came Henry’s treatment of Katherine of Aragon. He had never allowed her to go back to Spain. In fact, after Catherine refused him, he considered marrying the Spanish princess himself. But he was forty-six, and she was seventeen, and her parents were outraged. He was her guardian, and her father-in-law. They threatened violence. Harry, too, protested fiercely.

  “You can’t wed her! You’re too old!” Harry shouted at his father one night in the privacy of the solar. He had been infatuated with his older brother’s widow since the age of eleven when he’d met the ship that had brought her to England, and he wished to wed her himself.

  “How dare you?” Henry said to his son, rising to his feet with rage.

  “I’m only telling you the truth you clearly have no wish to hear!”

  “This is a state affair, and of no concern to you.”

  “You’re a lecher! I hate you! I can’t wait till you’re dead! Then I’ll do the opposite of everything you have done!”

  “And you’ll pay a hefty price for it if you do!” shouted Henry. “Every action I take, every groat I save, I do it for you—to secure the throne you shall sit on one day—and this is the thanks I receive? Get thee gone from my sight! Get thee gone—” Henry took a step forward and raised his cane to strike him, but Harry was too nimble. He sprang out of his father’s range, strode red-faced from the room, and slammed the door behind him. Catherine, bearing witness to this scene, watched Henry sink slowly back into his chair. He was an old man now, frail and ailing, and in cold weather he had need of a walking cane. She rose and went to him. She placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “He doesn’t care for you much, does he, my lord?”

  “If only Arthur hadn’t died . . .” Henry managed in a choked voice. “I was about to give Harry over to the Church when Arthur died.”

  “Harry is but a child, my lord, brilliant as he is. Someday he’ll appreciate what you have done for him, and thank you for it.”

  Henry placed his hand over hers. “I wish we could have wed, Cat.”

  Catherine made no reply.

  Beneath the burden of his worries, Henry became stingier, more distant and more melancholy.

  Through his various illnesses and emotional suffering, Catherine was with him. She sat with him in the evenings, playing chess and cards with him. Sometimes she won, and he had to pay her a gold noble or two, much to his great chagrin. This she sent to Cecily’s little daughter, Margaret Kymbe, whom she visited each year, and who was dear to her heart. On occasion, she played the lute for Henry, and sang, but she knew that her musical talents didn’t compare to Elizabeth’s, or to Richard’s, and she resisted more often than she agreed, deferring to his younger daughter, Mary Rose, who was an accomplished musician.

  That Henry was growing increasingly distrustful, bitter, and lonely, Catherine knew, but the full extent of the fear and dread that he lived with eluded her until one evening when Simon Digby paid him a visit, accompanied by a manservant. Catherine stiffened when she heard his name. Digby had been constable of the Tower while Richard was imprisoned there, and had played too close a role in his torment. Digby’s eye fell on her, and he colored and almost stumbled as he bent a knee.

  “Sire, I bring you this with my own hands,” he said, turning to his manservant, who offered Henry a bronze goblet. “’Tis from a different source, for the other died.”

  “Has it been culled with wine?”

  “It has, my lord. Other ingredients have also been added. The royal physician and the royal alchemist have conferred together on the combination, and the elixir has been declared fit in their estimation.”

  “And the donor was young, and in good health?”

  “He was, Sire.”

  “Very well.” Henry accepted the cup and gave a nod of dismissal. Digby and his servant quitted the chamber. Henry took the cup to his mouth and drank carefully.

  “What is it, Henry?” Catherine inquired, wondering about this mixture that required Simon Digby to bring it to him from the Tower.

  Henry didn’t reply right away. “You know that my health has been deteriorating for many years,” he said as he gazed into his cup thoughtfully.

  Catherine gave a nod. He had almost died after Richard and Edward were executed, and Elizabeth’s death had taken a further toll, as did her own refusal of his offer of matrimony. Though not yet fifty, he fell sick every spring with a variety of maladies. Employing more and more physicians, he craved exemption from the Lenten fast, consulted the finest doctors from Germany and Italy, and prayed longer and harder as the years passed, but nothing had helped.

  Henry spoke at last, not taking his eyes off the cup. “My alchemists have been searching for the fifth hidden element after air, earth, water, and fire, and it is my hope that they have found it, Cat. They assure me this elixir shall preserve my body from rotting and restore it to youthful vigor.” He swirled the liquid around, lifted the cup to his lips, and drained it.

  “What is it, Henry?” Catherine inquired again, watching him grimace at the taste.

  “Human blood, from sanguine young men. They must be sanguine, you see. To give their health to me.”

  Catherine’s stomach lurched.

  Henry spoke again, almost to himself, mulling over his empty cup. “But I fear there is no elixir of youth.”

  She regarded him coolly, the pity gone.

  When Catherine received the anguished tidings from the Isle of Wight in that cold winter of 1507, she packed to leave London with hurried urgency. These days she had a little money, for Henry had elevated her status and given her three more ladies to tend her. He also reinstated her annuity and even granted her small gifts from time to time. More p
recious was the measure of freedom she was allowed. Spies were everywhere at the Tudor court, but not for many years had guards been set to watch her.

  Catherine sent Alice for Strangeways while she packed her belongings into a small coffer with careless heed—a few black dresses, some ribbons for her hair, a black veil or two, slippers, a mink collar, and her tawny kirtle. The knock at the door came as she was nearly done.

  “James,” she said, for in recent months she had taken to calling Strangeways by his Christian name. “Lady Cecily is taken gravely ill. I must go to her immediately.” Catherine didn’t meet his eyes, for she could not bear to see in them a sympathy that might weaken her composure. “Pray tell the king I have left for the Isle of Wight and know not when I shall be back.”

  “May I help you with your coffer, Lady Catherine?” His voice was soft, and Catherine raised her eyes to him. This man she had once despised for his arrogance and insolence was now the one she most relied on, the one she turned to first for help in ways large and small. In those dreadful days after Richard’s death, he was there. As she sat alone and lonely, watching the court, his voice had come in her ear, “Bend with the wind, Catherine, and you won’t break.” Aye, she had fondness for him now and turned to him when she needed encouragement, or support, or simply a friend to offer her escort. She was grateful for his friendship, which had seen her through some difficult times. She gave him a nod, and he lifted the coffer up in his arms as if it were as light as a babe. Alice fell in behind them.

  The sea voyage to the Isle of Wight took only a day and a half, but Catherine was in agony for every minute of it. Cecily’s husband, Thomas Kymbe, had written that she was so ill that she was not expected to survive long. What if Cecily died before she got there? A swell of pain choked off her breath. She had to live—she had to see her again, if only for one last time! She had not had the chance to bid Richard farewell, or Dickon. That Cecily should be taken from her without a farewell embrace cut her to the heart. Catherine thought about little Maggie Kymbe, Cecily’s four-year-old daughter who would be left motherless. Her heart turned over for the child. No nurse could take a mother’s place and well she knew that the void would be with her for as long as she lived. Then there was Cecily’s husband, Thomas. How devastated he would be! So ran Catherine’s thoughts as she stood at the prow of the boat that took her across the sea to the Isle of Wight. It was the first time since St. Michael’s Mount that she made a sea voyage, and her memories were bittersweet.

  Thomas Kymbe was standing on the dock to meet her boat. He gave Catherine and Alice a warm welcome, though his face showed strain. He hoisted the coffer on to the litter and they climbed in.

  “What sickness does Cecily have?” asked Catherine.

  “We know not. She has been under the care of a physician monk from Quarr Abbey. He comes daily to check on her and has tried all the remedies he is familiar with, but nothing helps—” He broke off.

  Catherine threw him a look of sympathy. Fair, in his early forties, Thomas was lean and tall and his face was weathered by wind and water. Beneath the years that etched his face, she saw the young man who had won Cecily’s heart at Westminster, and she approved of him. She reached out and took his hand, and their eyes met in quiet understanding.

  Chapter 19

  Stars of Fate

  In August 1507, five months after Catherine’s arrival at the Isle of Wight, Cecily died. Catherine had intended to leave shortly after the funeral but found herself unable to abandon Cecily’s grieving husband and little daughter.

  “Why does it hurt so much?” four-year-old Maggie had asked her, with tears in her eyes.

  Catherine had pressed the little girl to her bosom and kissed her soft cheeks. “My darling little one, there is a hole in your heart now, for your mother has taken a piece of it away with her to remember you by in Heaven. That is where the pain comes from, but it will heal, I promise you.” Gently smoothing the little child’s fair curls, she’d added, “Though you can’t see her, she is up there with the angels, watching over you. She will always keep you safe from harm. Yet there is something I must warn you of. Something important.”

  Maggie’s wide blue eyes were fixed on Catherine’s face.

  “ ’Tis a dangerous world we live in, and though your mother is always with you, she cannot guard you from all evil. So I would like to ask a favor, if I may?”

  The child nodded solemnly.

  “I am your aunt, and I love you as if you are my own little girl, but never call me ‘Auntie’ in front of others, at least not now. Harm may come to you if you do, and I couldn’t bear that.”

  “Why?”

  “When you are grown, you will understand, my sweeting.”

  “What should I call you then?”

  “Lady Catherine.”

  “But that’s like a stranger!”

  “Think it as a game of pretend. We shall pretend to be strangers, knowing that we are not. It shall be our secret.”

  “Will I ever see my mother again?”

  “One day . . . one day . . .”

  Maggie went off with her puppy, and her father came to sit beside Catherine on the beach. “Thank you,” he said.

  “’Tis nothing, Thomas.”

  “Your kindness to Maggie is not ‘nothing,’ by any means, and I do thank you for it. But that is not what I meant.”

  “Then for what?”

  “Cecily married me because of you and Richard. She had thought the gulf in our births an insurmountable impediment. You changed her mind. You showed her the power of love. When she agreed to wed me, she said that love was all that mattered, that it leveled mountains, that it made you see dismal gray as sparkling silver, that it made you believe leeks give honey. She gave up everything for me, and claimed never to regret it. I am so grateful to her—and to you—for the blessing of the years we had together.”

  Catherine received news of court through the missives Strangeways wrote her. She was distressed to learn that Spain, where Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, had sought refuge, had surrendered him up to Henry on pardon of life, and he was now imprisoned in the Tower. Thus reminded of the doings at court, she delayed her return. She took long walks with Maggie on the white chalk cliffs that jutted out from the golden sand, and searched for dragon skeletons and footprints in the rocks, for many had been found on the Isle. I’ll go back in the spring, she thought as she plaited little Maggie’s fair hair by the fire in the cottage, where Cecily’s presence still hovered.

  When spring burst over the isle and fields of lavender bloomed purple, waving in the wind and perfuming the air, Thomas’s large herd of sheep gave birth to a multitude of bleating lambs. With soft eyes, Catherine watched the mothers fondle and nurse their young on the grassy meadows. On warm evenings, they dined outside in Thomas’s vineyard amid the ripening grapes, and she thought, I’ll go back in the summer. But in the summer, she wanted to stand with Maggie, looking out to sea as the wind whipped their hair, and to picnic with her in the forest, where they might spot a red squirrel or find a flower the locals called “orchid,” said to be the favorite flower of the ancient Greeks. She wanted to wash clothes in the river with Alice, and stand on the rocks and gaze out to the horizon. She wanted to visit Cecily at Quarr Abbey in Rhyde, where she was buried, and remember the laughter they had shared.

  And so she stayed. Soon it had been a year since she had arrived. In late March 1508, a summons arrived from the king. “Come quickly, my Cat,” his scrivener had written, “I need to see you, and I fear there is not much time.”

  Catherine looked up at the royal messenger. “What is the matter?”

  “The king is ill, my lady. He is not expected to live long.”

  Catherine tore herself from the family she had made her own and journeyed back to Westminster with Alice.

  The king’s chamber was darkened, quiet, when she entered. Sir Charles Somerset sat in a chair by the gold-canopied bed, and a physician and two favored monks hovered by the fire. A
musician strummed his lyre in a corner, trying vainly to dispel the distress and suffering that claimed the room. Henry lay on a huge fourposter bed hung with gold and crimson brocade and painted with his motto, Dieu et Mon Droit. God and My Right. A deep blue coverlet embroidered with golden dragons covered his gaunt frame.

  Catherine approached, knelt, and kissed the bony hand he held out to her. His fingers were cold. “Cat, ’tis you—you have come at last . . . Sit here, leave me not, my dear . . .” He spoke the words like a sigh.

  “Why did you stay away so long? . . . I have missed you . . .” His voice was faint, little more than a whisper. She gave him a smile.

  “Talk to me, Cat . . . Tell me what you did while you were gone . . . tell me a story . . . anything to take away the pain—” He squeezed her hand and lowered his voice so that she had to lean close to hear his words. “I am so afraid, Cat—” A choked sob escaped from his throat.

  She stroked his wispy hair back from his brow. “Now, now, Henry . . . it shall be all right. I shall tell you tales, and I won’t leave you, if that is what you wish. Do you know the one about the miller and his wife?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “A man was talking to his neighbor, a miller, who had newly married a widow. ‘Do married life agree with ye?’ the man asked. The miller replied, ‘By God, me wife never agreed with her first husband, but we agree marvelously well.’ ‘I pray ye, how so?’ said the man. ‘Well, I shall tell ye,’ said the miller. ‘When I am merry, she is merry, and when I am sad, she is sad. For when I go out of my doors, I am merry to go from her, and so is she. And when I come in again, I am sad, and so is she.’ ”

  Henry laughed. But it was a shadow of his old laugh, punctuated with coughing and spasm, and Catherine was swept with pity. She launched into another tale, and by the time she was done, he had fallen asleep.

  Catherine sat with him each day and tried to calm him with her presence and her words. One evening, she fell asleep in her chair and was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream. Henry was sitting up in bed, a look of terror on his face. He put out his arms to her, and she clasped him to her bosom like a suffering child. The physician came running from the hearth where he, too, had fallen asleep, and moved to prepare him a potion. Henry waved a hand. “Leave us.”