B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  They spent a comfortable evening remembering the old king, and his good queen, Elizabeth. Over dinner they took on literature, and history, and the fall of Troy, the sorrows of the vanquished, and the birth of Rome. The trestle tables were dismantled, and they moved into the solar, where a fire blazed and they could talk more privately over wine. Somerset took a seat across from Catherine.

  “And so it has been since the time of King Arthur—nay, since the time of Scripture it has been so,” Catherine mused. “Old ways give way to new, and lost hopes are buried or bury those who pine for them. The cycle has been part of life since Adam fell from Paradise. Nothing changes much, does it?”

  Somerset regarded her, his old blue eyes thoughtful, kind. “What you speak is called wisdom. You were very young when you lost your world. Yet you continued on with your head held high. And if you mourned for that lost world, no one knew it but you. I should like very much to learn your secret, Lady Gordon. For I find you quite remarkable.”

  Catherine turned her head to the window. Twilight was falling; the earth had grown still. Soon it would be dark. “Someone much wiser than I once told me that when darkness falls, the stars come out. Sir Charles—” She leaned close and lowered her voice so that no one would hear her words but him, “My star is my little boy. He is my secret. Do you have news of him?”

  Somerset was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Shall we go into the garden? I believe Orion can be seen this evening.”

  Catherine froze in her chair. “Orion?”

  “You know the hunter? He races across the night sky, fleeing Scorpio, but never the twain shall meet. Come summer, it will be Scorpio that rises, and Orion that falls.”

  She rose and led the way, her heart thundering in her bosom. Coincidence, nothing more, she told herself. Coincidence. And yet—

  The wind had risen and the night was chill, and from all around them came the chirping of night critters. They followed the long grassy path to the point where it fell steeply down into the meadow. Stars sparkled in the vast expanse of sky overhead, and from the sleepy village in the far distance came the faint flicker of light.

  “There is Orion—see?” said Somerset, pointing over his head.

  “I see indeed.” Fixing her gaze on Richard’s star, she sent a brief prayer heavenward, and turned her attention back to Somerset.

  “I have made inquiries, Lady Gordon, but this is a sensitive matter that demands utmost discretion. Therefore, I must warn you that progress will be slow.”

  Catherine waited, not daring to utter a sound.

  “That said, I have established that your babe was taken to southwestern Wales. ’Tis only a matter of time before I narrow it down and learn exactly where in Gower he was sent. You will have to be patient, Lady Gordon. As I said, ’tis a most delicate matter.”

  She nodded, and raised her eyes to Richard’s star sparkling above Somerset’s head. “Thank you,” she murmured to them both. “Thank you.”

  It was a glorious October day. Breezes swept the trees, scattering fallen leaves like jewels across the walks and pathways. From the chantry across the road there drifted the periodic chant of monk-song, while the bells of St. Nicholas on the other side of the yew-tree walk rang loudly, marking the hours. Catherine was in the garden supervising the laying of the flower beds when she heard the sound of hooves, and as she peered through a tangle of rose vines, she saw James Strangeways’s tall figure riding up to the house on his ebony horse. She wiped her hands on her skirt and, smoothing the hair that was caught in a net at the nape of her neck, walked to the path to greet him. He was almost at the porch when he saw her.

  “Catherine,” he said with a low bow, his dark eyes dancing, “my, how fine you look this day. You are a vision for sore eyes and a potion for my heart.”

  “And you, James Strangeways, are full of fiddle-faddle,” she said, surprised at how pleased she was to see him. He looks well in gray, she thought; it complements his dark coloring. Linking arms with him, she led him to the back of the house, where chairs had been set to face the view. She called for wine, and took a seat.

  “God’s knuckles, you have cleared the entire stretch here up to the fields!” he exclaimed, throwing a glance around.

  His stance emphasized the force of his thighs. She had forgotten how well built he was. Catherine blushed and looked away quickly before he noticed. “Aye, we’ve made good progress, haven’t we?” she said. “Everyone has been working hard.”

  “What do you have in mind for this area? More flower gardens?”

  “No, an orchard. Apples to sell, and cherries. Anything that makes money.”

  He laughed. “I hope you can spare a few cherries to bake me a pie? I happen to be very fond of cherry pie.” He caught her gaze and held it until she blushed and looked away. She found herself suddenly tongue-tied. It was James who broke the silence that fell between them. “I would have come to see you before now, but I had business in Wiltshire and Salisbury. My properties needed tending. How have you managed here?”

  Catherine’s face fell. She remembered how angry she’d been to hear the steward tell about certain tenant-farmers who were continually delinquent in their rents. She’d assumed it was because she was a woman, and had personally marched down to one of the shacks and pounded on the door. There she had found the tenant’s wife on her knees on the earthen floor, sobbing beside the lifeless body of their child.

  She banished the memory. She dreaded demanding rents, and avoided doing so, and too many unscrupulous tenants were taking advantage of the knowledge.

  “Since you ask, James—” she began. And from there, she found herself speaking of the difficulties administering her large estate. “There are problems with revenues. My tenant farmers tell me they need more time to make the payments they owe me and claim a variety of setbacks—sickness with their animals, or bad weather for the crops, and so on. Some lie, but not all. I have not the heart to be harsh with them, though the steward assures me that if I am to win their respect, I must be seen as a taskmaster.”

  “The king’s mother was respected because she never forgave a debt,” James said. “Not even one owed to her grandfather a hundred years ago. She fought in the courts for every groat she deemed owed to her. She would even take away a man’s plough if he could not pay, and send him to prison.”

  “James, that is dreadful! I believe in fair dealing and concessions to help those in need, but many of the excuses I am given are outright fabrications. I know I should press those who deceive me for their own gain, but it takes a great deal of time and money to pursue a claim in court—time and money I do not have. I will fight them as soon as I am able, but court is a hard place for a woman. ’Twas different for the king’s mother. She was who she was, and I am a foreigner, a woman alone now that Henry is gone. Besides, men side with men.’Tis common knowledge that King Harry hates the Scots and did not favor me with a position in his queen’s household. I fear I can expect little success in the courts where influence is all that matters.”

  Now a far more serious problem had reared its ugly head. Henry had given her Fyfield because it was clear of debts and claims. However, a claimant to the manor had emerged who was a distant relative to its onetime owner, John de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk. Suffolk had died in battle against Henry and been attainted, and his property and titles had been forfeited to the crown. No one would have dared present such a claim during Henry’s lifetime, but with a woman owning the manor—and a rich manor at that—she was fair game for unscrupulous men. She had never shied away from a fight, and fully intended to give as good a punch as she got, but there were only so many hours in the day.

  James listened patiently to her troubles, then reached over and took her hand. “Do not fret anymore. With the exception of the claim on the property, these problems can be dealt with fairly easily. I shall stay and do what I can to clear them up for you.”

  “How kind of you! But—how can you possibly stay? You must get back to the ki
ng.”

  “I required leave for urgent personal business, and if this does not qualify as urgent person business, I know not what does.” He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss into her palm. His touch leapt through her, warming and thrilling her body, stirring old memories of love beneath starry skies. For a moment she wanted to run her hands through his hair, and feel the hot stir of passion in her loins.

  But he is not Richard. Bewildered, blushing furiously, she withdrew her hand from his.

  Chapter 20

  A Rose in Bloom

  During the months that followed and the year 1510, James Strangeways was no stranger to Fyfield. He visited regularly and stayed at least a week each time, riding with the steward to the farthest reaches of Catherine’s sixteen-hundred-acre estate. As good as his word, he resolved many of Catherine’s problems. What he told her tenant farmers, Catherine did not know, but she received few excuses from them for nonpayment of their debts, and those that did plead for an extension due to hardship proved genuine. All her farmhands suddenly became cooperative and hardworking, and yields went up. In addition, there was injected into the townsmen who dealt with her a new attitude of deference. She began to receive good value for the money she paid them for goods and services, and the merchants who bought her wool no longer offered her low prices for her bales. Her worries eased; revenues increased; she slept better and ate with more appetite, and she began to look forward more avidly to James’s visits.

  Always, when she caught sight of his tall figure riding up to the house on his ebony courser, followed by his manservant, William Sholson, her heart leapt with excitement. Why this should be, she didn’t know. Surely it wasn’t love. Love came but once a lifetime, and she belonged to Richard. Never would she love again.

  “James!” she called, hurrying from the great hall to the front door. “’Tis so good to see you!” She did not venture out from the shelter of the porch, for the December day was cold and snow flurries fell.

  James dropped down from his horse and threw the reins over to Phillipa’s boy, who disappeared in the direction of the stables with Sholson. James’s powerful, well-muscled body moved with easy grace and his laughing eyes were filled with admiration as he came crunching over the snow toward her. When she looked up into his face, she felt suddenly young, buoyant, and happier than she could remember. Taking his arm, she led him into the house, which was bedecked for Yule, with greenery in the niches and ribbons and holly boughs in the windows. In the great hall, where a fire roared welcome, they took a seat together on a settle by the hearth. They were chattering about the weather when Alice entered, bearing a tray laden with wine and pasties.

  “Alice, my sweet, not married yet?” James teased. “You do give these lads a run for their money, don’t you? The talk in the taverns is all of you, my dear.”

  Alice blushed beneath his charm and smiled a gap-toothed smile, for she had lost a tooth in the past year. “There, there, ye know I won’t be believin’ anythin’ ye say, Master Strangeways,” she announced in her Scottish brogue. “Why, ye tell that to all the girls, whether they be fifteen or fifty.”

  Strangeways roared merrily. How wonderful it was, Catherine thought, to hear such a hearty, joyful male laugh in her quiet home. That Alice was fond of James pleased her, too. Often he smacked her rump, sending her into fits of giggles like a maiden. When she caught her breath again, she would pretend to be offended, and he would present her with a gift.

  “Such a nice gentleman, that Master Strangeways,” Alice would say after his visits. “What a difference he makes at Fyfield. And he’s sweet on ye, he is, my Lady Cate,” she’d say.

  “Alice, what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting the obvious, my Lady Cate. Anyone who has eyes in their head can see it for themselves, and ye’d have to be blind to miss it.” Pointedly, she would add, “Ye shouldn’t be single, m’lady.’Tisn’t natural. Ye be too young for one thing, and it’d be nice to have a man about the place.”

  “Master Strangeways is not the marrying kind, Alice—no man is who’s nearly reached fifty and never wed. And a good thing, too, for I shall never marry again either. You know that as well as I. In any case, that’s enough prattle, Alice. You have work to do, don’t you?”

  Now Catherine watched Alice set down a bowl of nuts and meat pasties on the coffer. She arranged two goblets and a flask of wine within easy reach, and curtsied her departure, giving Catherine a knowing glance as she shut the door behind her. Catherine smiled helplessly to herself. As if we need privacy, she thought.

  James missed neither Alice’s glance nor Catherine’s indulgent smile. He watched her pour wine, and accepted the cup she gave him. He had something important to say, and now, on the spur of the moment, he decided not to wait until after dinner, as he’d planned. He downed a long swallow, and put his goblet back on the coffer.

  “Have you missed me, Catherine?” he said, his eyes alert, expectant.

  “I have, James. ’Tis always good to see you. I am happy you came to Fyfield for Yule. I want little Maggie and her father to meet you. They are family to me, you know.”

  “Catherine,” he said, taking her hand into his, “I would like to be family to you, too.”

  Catherine knitted her eyebrows together in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”

  James fell to a knee before her. “Catherine, I want to marry you.”

  She stared at him in astonishment.

  “I have loved you for a long time, Catherine. While King Henry lived, I dared not speak of my affection. The day he proposed to you was the worst day of my life, for I thought I would surely lose you forever. Never could I have imagined that you would refuse a king! I admire you so, Catherine, and I love you in a way I could never have imagined loving anyone. There is no one like you in all the world. I beg you to say yes to me. Marry me, and make me the happiest man in Christendom!”

  As Catherine stared at James, it was Richard she saw, golden-haired, blue-eyed, full of princely dignity, bending his knee before her. She leapt to her feet and withdrew her hand. “James, I cannot marry you. Not because I don’t care for you—I care very much. ’Tis just that I will never marry again.”

  “Your husband has been dead for eleven years, Catherine—”

  But he is not dead to me, she thought, dropping her lids so he wouldn’t read her thoughts. “And you!” James exclaimed. “Catherine, you are alive! Let yourself live!”

  Before she could stop herself, she was in his arms and his lips were pressed down hard on hers, hot, demanding, urgent. Richard’s face blurred and dimmed into the deepest recesses of memory and there was only the present moment, and James’s hard body burning into her. She dissolved in his arms as ice melts before fire.

  “Say yes! Say yes to me—yes, to life—yes, to love!” he demanded, holding her tightly to him. He slid his mouth along her neck, smothering her with kisses, his breath scorching her skin.

  “Yes,” she murmured faintly, then with increasing fervor as fire surged through her once again, “yes—yes . . .”

  He took her hand and kissed her palm. Dizzy, she closed her eyes, savoring the tingling heat. She never wanted it to stop. Oh, for it to go on like this forever, and never to stop—She didn’t know she could ever feel like this again. Through her giddy senses, she heard him speak.

  “You won’t be sorry, my Catherine.”

  In a hurry to wed, James pressed Catherine for a January wedding, but she resisted. That month was sacrosanct, for it was in January that she’d wed Richard. Claiming to need more time to plan the wedding, she avoided giving James the real reason. Reluctantly he agreed to wait until March.

  The Yule of 1510 was a happy one at Fyfield. Catherine found that the thrill of living had returned. The scene inside the house was of domestic tranquility. She hired two minstrels to play until Twelfth Night, and they made merry while the manor prepared for the arrival of their Yuletide guests. Alice and the servants took much time to celebrate the tidings of
her betrothal by consuming barrels of ale, malmsey, and wine, for they all liked James and wished to ensure his health by frequent toasting. It became such a problem that Catherine complained to James about it.

  “Your popularity is costing me much money, James,” she grumbled one evening when they were alone in the solar together. “All the servants do is get drunk toasting your health. I’ve been considering limiting them, for they’re not getting enough work done. Our guests will soon be here, and we are not ready.”

  “I’d say you were jealous if I didn’t know better—” James laughed, kissing her brow. Then, in a change of tone, he added, “Forget about expense, Catherine. A betrothal should be celebrated in rowdiness, and joy should not be curtailed. Think of it this way—can there be too many nightingales singing at night, too many rosebuds in May, too many dawns in life? Let them rejoice, my sweet. Lenten is around the corner. They’ ll make up for it then.”

  Catherine saw then the truth of what he said, and let the servants alone. In fact, she found herself smiling when they grew boisterous and staggered carrying out their tasks. In one way or another, James’s presence had benefited everyone at Fyfield, she thought, not only her. From the advice he dispensed, to keeping the young and unruly farmhands under firm control, his manly grip had eased their lives. They all had reason to celebrate.

  Thomas and Maggie finally arrived from the Isle of Wight two days before Christmas. Maggie took to James immediately and was invariably found on his lap having her hair smoothed, or enjoying a card game with him by the fire. Local gentry came to pay their respects and brought gifts of homemade jellies, wine, or sweets, and often stayed to dinner, so that the house filled with laughter and dancing and the pleasant hum of conversation. But there was one neighbor Catherine could have well done without, and that was Francis Fremont. With his strange glinting eyes and unpleasant way of holding her hand too long, he unsettled her in a most discomforting way. He was unmarried at thirty-two, his reputation as a gambler, drinker, and lecher having preceded him all over the county. No self-respecting family would give him their daughter. James favored him, however, and so he came too often to Fyfield.