B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  The friar looked from Henry to Catherine, but if he thought it unseemly to depart, he dared make no objection. When the door had shut and they were alone, Henry gazed at her. “Cat, you know I have loved you since the moment I first beheld you. Now, before it’s too late, I want to know what you feel for me.”

  Once, the thought of flinging the truth into Henry’s face had lit her dreams and guided her way, but now there was nothing she desired less. She didn’t know why this should be, except that the hatred in her heart seemed to have been washed away, leaving behind only pity. She despised much of what she saw in Henry, but he was not wholly evil; there was goodness in him, and sometimes even kindness. It was just as Elizabeth had said it would be that day on the riverbank when she’d given her Richard’s portrait. The anger dies away, but the loss is always with you.

  “Cat, tell me how you feel about me—” Henry persisted urgently.

  Cat. Here was her chance to tell him how she really felt, to remind him of the malicious role he had played in her life. Perhaps he would show remorse that could benefit him in the afterlife. Perhaps he would even choose to make amends for the pain he’d caused her.

  She rose to her feet and drew up the outer skirt of her velvet gown. Henry watched in bafflement as she untied the black silk panel that lay over her tawny shift.

  She held the panel close to her heart as she spoke. “You wish to know how I feel, and I have decided to tell you, Henry. Let me say first that I do not judge you. That is for God to do. We are told to confess our sins and do penance for them in sorrow and contrition. It is for this reason, and because you have commanded me to, that I shall unfold the truth to you now, for the sake of your immortal soul.”

  Fear flickered on Henry’s face.

  “You remember the vision that I related to you?” she said in a gentler tone.

  “. . . cannot forget . . . never forget—” Henry wheezed, averting his eyes, as if to avert the memory.

  “Over the years I felt compelled to capture it on silk. I embroidered the dream through my loneliness and grief on the many nights when sleep would not come, and I believe now that I must show it to you. Not to torment you, Henry, but to permit you the chance to do penance to one you have greatly wronged. If you understand the weight of your actions, and make restitution here on this earth while you still live, God will surely take it into account when your sins are weighed on His divine scale. Do I have your permission to proceed?”

  He managed a nod. She unfurled the silk, and waited. He turned his head and raised his eyes to the tapestry. A look of horror passed over his features. “That face . . . the one of the demon bird with the carcass of the child . . . that looks—like me!” he rasped, panting.

  “I had to render it as I saw it, Henry. I know not what child this creature held in its coiled tail, for the face was eaten away. Perhaps it was King Richard’s son, or King Edward’s son—or mine—”

  “No, no!” he screamed. “I did not kill your son, Catherine!”

  Catherine closed her eyes and put out her hand to the bedpost, for her breath had caught in her chest. “What did you do with my Dickon?” She brought her gaze to his face.

  “I had him taken to Wales.”

  Catherine’s hand went to her beating heart. “Where in Wales?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “I must know!”

  “You cannot know.”

  “You have much to answer for before God, Henry! This is one matter you can still rectify, if you choose to—”

  “I . . . cannot do it . . . he is a danger to my throne, and my son’s throne—”

  Catherine bent down to his ear. “What is more important now, Henry? Your throne, or your immortal soul?”

  Henry clutched her arm tightly with more strength than she thought he had left. “If I tell you . . . he will be in danger from Harry—”

  “Harry need never know. You have stolen my child from me, Henry. Release him to my arms now. I give you my sworn promise that he shall be my secret. All I want is to see him again—and for him to live. Tell me where in Wales he is.”

  “I know not—” Henry groaned.

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. Could he have lied about Dickon being alive? Had he killed him after all? Henry must have seen in her face her disgust for him for he protested, “I speak truth, Catherine—I gave him over to Daubeney’s care—and he placed him with a family in Wales . . . He took him to see your husband before he died . . . He was returned to the family . . . I know not what happened to him after that. He was of no use to me any longer . . . I did not keep track of him—”

  Of no use to me. Like a piece of trash, thrown into the moat! Catherine felt sick. Daubeney had died last year, taking his secret with him to the grave. She raised her hand to her brow, sank down into the chair, and forced herself to breathe. Then she turned her gaze on Henry. “You speak of love, but you do not love. How can you be so cruel? If you do not rectify this wrong that you have done us, you will suffer, Henry. Do you really wish to have a horned devil dive into your throat to seize your soul and take you away to unspeakable horrors? Do a last good deed now, while you can.”

  “I—” he wheezed. “I speak truth, Cat . . . I love you, and I will help . . . If anyone can find him, ’tis Somerset . . . I have made him the most powerful man in Wales. He can find out anything.”

  “Will you demand he do this for me? May I send for him?”

  Henry gave her a nod. Catherine rose and placed a kiss on his brow. “Thank you, Henry.”

  “There is one more thing—” he whispered hoarsely.

  Catherine waited.

  “I wish to make provision for you, Cat . . . A manor house somewhere . . . and an annuity, so you need not fret about money . . .”

  His voice drifted off, and he closed his eyes. Catherine bent down and adjusted the coverlet. She took a long, last look at him, this man who had shattered her life. Then she went to summon Somerset.

  Catherine pulled another weed from the thousands that choked the grass around her new manor house. She stood up, and grimaced at the pain in her back. The August sun was hot and she had been hard at work since morning. She wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand and looked up at the sky. Not a cloud anywhere and blue as lupine in spring. Or as Scottish thistle . . . or as Dickon’s eyes. Always, behind her hard work, was ever the thought that drove her: she had to make Fyfield beautiful, for this manor was Dickon’s, too. One day he would come home.

  Henry had died on the twenty-first day of April, 1509, after many frenzied offerings for his soul. England did not mourn him. All over the land, Harry’s ascension was hailed with jubilation and hope. The new king inherited a throne made secure by the stern hand of his father, a fortune greater than any amassed by any previous king, and a kingdom beaten into submission by the bloody ordeal of the Wars of the Roses and Henry’s repressive measures. King Harry was handsome, young, happy, and full of promise; he had at last wed the princess he loved, Katherine of Aragon, and on the second day of his reign, amid the rejoicing of trumpets, he rounded up his father’s two most hated tax collectors. They now languished in the Tower, awaiting execution. He had also freed Kate’s husband, William Courtenay, from the Tower. There was much to celebrate. “Avarice has left the country, and everything is full of milk and honey,” one of Harry’s nobles announced in a burst of enthusiasm. “Our new king is not after gold or gems, but virtue, glory, and immortality.”

  Catherine bent back down and pulled more weeds.

  The bells of the St. Nicholas Church on the other side of the yew-tree hedge chimed the hour of five. Soon it would be time for vespers. She rose and gazed over the scene that fanned out before her. Cascading meadows, golden wheat fields, and green farmlands undulated into the distance, covered with red wildflowers and dotted with sheep as far as the eye could see. The estate Henry had given her lay near the Vale of White Horse in Berkshire, eight miles from Oxford, in the midst of rich arable soil, and the are
a sustained an extensive trade in wool. It was a lovely place, and she was grateful for the serenity she had found here in these months.

  Henry had died full of fear to the end, tormented by his sins. Terrible memories and imaginings assailed him, and he implored the Virgin to save him from his ancient and ghostly enemy, so that no damned spirits or horned devil would dive into his throat and seize his soul. It was clear to those around him that it was Richard he feared.

  Catherine was surprised to find that she missed him. Even more surprising, his death brought back memories of Richard’s own. Like a scab on a wound that bled again when picked. But it also meant her freedom, and once she’d grasped the concept that no one cared anymore what she thought or where she went, she reveled in her newfound independence. This manor was her home; it had given her a new life and a future that offered hope. All that had happened at court no longer existed, except in memories that had to be fought back in weak moments.

  As the sun began to set, Catherine made her way to a chair placed on the lawn near the house. It was a peaceful hour. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune to be here, in her own home, on her own land. Sixteen hundred acres. She loved to sit and listen to the thrushes and watch the light dim over the earth. Somewhere along the long road that had wound through the years, she’d left the carefree girl she’d been behind, and became the frugal woman she was, one that did not shrink from menial tasks, who counted pennies, treasured birdsong, and cherished solitude. ’Tis a beautiful world, she thought, and now a corner of it belongs to me and Dickon.

  The property had not been occupied since the owner’s death a century earlier. When she’d arrived in May, she had been disheartened to find the grounds returned to wilderness and many buildings in need of repair. She’d bought ploughs and carts to till the fields, and hired a steward. Thomas Smyth was a man in his forties, competent, responsible, and hardworking, and a great asset in the management of her estate. She had a lady’s maid, too, Phillipa Huys, whose husband, Alan, was assistant to the steward.

  As more servants were hired, and their families came with them, the house filled with the laughter of young people. Sometimes Catherine would close her eyes just to listen, thinking of Dickon. But those moments were few. There was never-ending work for every pair of hands: animals to feed, floors to sweep, clothes to wash. Soil to till and land to clear and buildings to restore. Her expenses were heavy, and the annuity Henry had left her was almost gone for the year. Still, Henry had chosen the estate well. The sprawling manor house was a hundred and fifty years old and in all these years it had had but two owners: Sir John Golafre and, more recently, John de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, who had died in the first rebellion against Henry. On his attainder, the property had passed to the crown, and there were no claimants fighting over it. Henry knew she would have no legal worries, for a woman alone was easy prey in the courts.

  Meanwhile, her days of hard work were brightened by regular missives from Thomas and Maggie, and an occasional visit from James Strangeways, who brought news from court. He was now in the service of Henry VIII and enjoying the new king’s lavish banquets and entertainment.

  “Sir Charles Somerset has appointed me usher to King Harry,” he said, sitting in the garden with her in the full sunshine of the late August day, taking a goblet of wine as she embroidered a square of rose silk for a chair cushion. He was particularly proud of his appointment, for Lord Daubeney had never done much for him, though he was kin.

  “That is splendid, James. I wish you great honors.” Catherine smiled as she drew her needle carefully through the silk.

  “I wished to visit you earlier, but I couldn’t get away. The new king keeps me busy twelve hours a day running his household, meeting with his messengers, assigning men to their daily duties, overseeing all the meals, and maintaining the records of expenses to submit to the counting house each day. You may remember his father took care of that detail?”

  “Indeed he did. He would entrust that task to no other.”

  “’Tis how he came to leave his son such a monumental inheritance.”

  “Henry was a careful man in all things.”

  “King Harry is the opposite in many ways. Take war, for example. King Henry feared war, but King Harry dreams of the glory of another Agincourt. He has already declared himself desirous of an invasion of France to win back the duchy of Aquitaine that Henry VI lost.”

  Catherine did not reply. The young and the rash always tended to rush into war heedless of the consequences. She thought of Richard, who had dreamt of war on England when he’d been little older.

  “Court is a gay place now, Catherine, and filled with pleasure,” James resumed, carefully removing a dandelion seed from his brown furred mantle. “King Harry believes in enjoying himself.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “Did you also hear that the king’s mother is dead?”

  Catherine was taken by surprise. She lowered her embroidery. “When?”

  “Two weeks ago, at Westminster.”

  “So she survived Henry by only two months?” Catherine exclaimed. “One would almost say she died of a broken heart—although they did quarrel in the last year of their lives. And over a manor house, no less.” The manor of Collyweston in Northamptonshire had been Lady Margaret’s favorite residence, but Henry had grown jealous and decided he wanted it for himself. His mother, however, had no intention of relinquishing her property. As avaricious as her son, and as determined to keep her property as he was to get it from her, she fought him in court every step of the way until he died.

  “No, indeed, she didn’t take kindly to the confiscation.” His eyes were dancing merrily, and the impudent smile she knew so well lifted the corners of his mouth as he watched her. “As soon as the king died, it was awarded back to her, but it proved a hollow victory. She may well have died of a broken heart, for no one did more to secure King Henry’s crown, except perhaps Morton, and she may have felt she’d lost her purpose with his death.”

  “Henry was very bitter about his mother at the end. He was used to having his way, you know.”

  “Not entirely. I can think of several occasions when he didn’t have it.” James was staring boldly at her, leaving no doubt what he meant.

  Catherine blushed. “But I imagine the judges are relieved?” she said to divert his thoughts.

  “Very,” he said, not taking his gaze from her face.

  “Still, to die so soon after her son’s death. ’Tis curious . . . Almost as if Fate is playing her games again. James, stop looking at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He grinned. “I am perfectly innocent of any crime. I was just thinking how well it agrees with you to be here, in your own home. Are you happy?”

  “Happy enough. I am grateful to have found a good steward, and I think that Alice is, too.”

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  She lowered her voice and threw a smiling glance over her shoulder. “I believe there is a romance blooming between those two—indeed, I hope so. I would love Alice to wed, and to have children before it is too late . . .”

  A silence fell.

  “Something is still missing, then,” Strangeways said, giving her a penetrating look. “Is it of Wales you think, or of the past?” He stared at her as if everything hung on her reply.

  “I have taken your advice, James. I live in the present now, and have let go the past. It is Wales that I think of with longing.”

  “Have you heard from Somerset?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “I think you will soon, Catherine.”

  Catherine drew a sharp breath. “Have you learned something—did he say something?”

  “He gave me a message to give you. He told me to tell you he has not forgotten his oath to the old king.”

  Tears rushed to her eyes. She seized his hand. “Oh, James—how wonderful it would be—what it would mean—”

  James looked down
at her hand, and Catherine saw that his color had deepened. A sudden thrill passed through her. She pulled her hand from his. “I am glad you are here, James,” she said softly.

  “Are you?”

  “I am.” And Catherine realized with a jolt of surprise that the words she had spoken were true.

  Sir Charles Somerset arrived late one winter afternoon, surrounded by his entourage. Catherine saw him from the window of her upstairs bedroom as his procession came down the long gravel path between the hedges. She smoothed her hair beneath her headband and veil, and straightened her gown as she ran downstairs, calling for her ladies.

  “The king’s lord chamberlain, Sir Charles Somerset, is coming! Make haste—have the servants get the rooms ready—have we food? Tell the cook to slaughter a pig for dinner—and have them bring us cheese and sweetmeats and wine in the great hall—quickly!”

  Catherine drew a deep breath and stepped outside to greet the man she hoped would bring her news of her son.

  “My Lord Somerset,” she said, holding out her hand to the grayhaired gentleman clad in the rich velvets and furs of a courtier, and wearing the gold chain of office around his chest. His crinkly blue eyes took sharp appraisal of her, and she hoped anxiously that she met with his approval. “’Tis a great honor to see you again.”

  “I am on my way to Oxford on the king’s business, and thought to stop briefly and pay my respects. It has been a long time, Lady Catherine.”

  “Ten months,” Catherine replied.

  “I regret I have been unable to come earlier. I was in France. We have begun negotiating the marriage of Princess Mary Rose to the Dauphin.”

  “’Tis most kind of you to come here now, as busy as you are with royal matters. Shall we go inside?”