B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  To offset this blot on her happiness, Catherine was pleased to find that Thomas and James got along well together. Cecily’s marriage to “an obscure man of no reputation,” as Henry’s historian, Vergil, had put it, had made Cecily an outcast among the royals, but Catherine remembered with a smile how her friend had declared, in her usual high-spirited and mirthful way, “And do I care a whit for their opinion?”

  Sometimes, during dinner, they played Maggie’s favorite game of “Pass the Parcel,” where a package tied with a ribbon would be passed from person to person between courses. When the music stopped, whoever held the parcel would open it, and they would either find a gift or a forfeit. This was accompanied either by yelps of joy or groans of disappointment.

  “I have a ring!” Maggie exclaimed in delight on the first day of Christmas, lifting her hand for everyone to admire the sparkle of a pink crystal stone set in gold.

  “God’s blood, I have a dare,” James complained. “I must leap in the air three times, like a tumbler!” And when he fell flat on his face on the third tumble, Maggie squealed with laughter.

  One evening, when they were between guests in the solar, Catherine stole a glance at Cecily’s family over her embroidery, and said a silent prayer for her friend. How dear to me you were, my sister, and how dear your family is now. If only you could have lived to see how well Maggie is turning out, you would have been so proud. Then she chased the sadness away with a smile, for life had taught her not to let the losses of the past blight the happiness of the present. She turned her attention to James.

  “Now that the old king is dead, the mood at court is much changed,” he was saying. “’Tis an almost unbroken round of daily revels, disguisings, mayings, pageants, tilts, and jousts, interspersed with long days in the saddle hawking, and long nights banqueting, gambling and dancing, and making music. Since it falls to me to arrange these matters, you can imagine how weary I am some days,” he smiled.

  “What is a pageant?” piped little Maggie.

  “Mummers perform scenes from the Bible,” James explained. “Or sometimes, from tales of chivalry. I remember one where beautiful maidens danced around the roses and pomegranates of England and Spain that were growing out of a golden stake set on a hill. The girls wore colorful tulles and silks that you would love, Maggie—and in their hands they held pieces of wood they clicked to mark the beat of the music as they twirled. It was quite splendid.”

  “I’ve never seen a pageant,” said Maggie.

  “Is that so, little lady? Then I shall make sure that you receive an invitation to the very next one.”

  Maggie beamed.

  “Court sounds delightful,” hinted Francis Fremont, who was present on this occasion.

  “It has its charms,” James agreed. But he didn’t promise Fremont an invitation, and Catherine wondered if James was afraid his friend’s reputation would reflect poorly on him among his peers.

  “Is the king handsome?” continued Maggie.

  “King Harry is as handsome as a god, my little lady. He’s tall and well built, with auburn hair and a round pink face. At seventeen, he’s not much older than you. And he is a gifted prince. He rides like a knight, and plays the lute better than the best minstrel. He’ll probably compose a song for you when you come, but you’ ll have to make me a promise before I allow you to meet him.”

  “What is that?” Maggie asked sweetly.

  “That you will not steal his heart.”

  Everyone chuckled, and Maggie beamed.

  “I hear that King Harry is contemplating war with France,” said Thomas, moving to a more sober subject. “Is it true?”

  “True indeed. King Henry followed the arts of peace and had no use for the sword. But King Harry is different. He has no wish to be a quiet working monarch. He excels in deeds of arms, and desires to prove himself in the field.”

  “I presume Spain will be our ally in the venture?”

  “Aye. King Ferdinand is interested in annexing Navarre.”

  Thomas fell silent, and Catherine, too. Harry had inherited a throne his father had made remarkably secure, and a fortune greater than any in history, as well as a kingdom that was the most obedient and peaceful in Christendom. And England had welcomed Henry’s son with a jubilation not known in living memory, for Harry’s father and grandmother had been grasping, stern, and much hated. To his people, the amiable young monarch represented deliverance from their oppressive rule. Few reigns had begun amid such promise and hope, but Catherine knew Harry too well. He was selfish, volatile, and jealous; he had quick-silver changes of mood, and he possessed a strong streak of cruelty. She remembered how he had taunted Richard. She remembered, too, how he had enjoyed watching and discussing executions. That he lost no time executing Edmund de la Pole and his brother, William, as soon as he was king came as no surprise. His playthings, in addition to the lute and pen, were hatchets, blades, and other instruments of death.

  No, she could not celebrate his ascension to the throne. Cruel as Henry had been, he had not been without scruples, and she suspected his son had none. Shortly after ascending the throne, Harry had executed two of his father’s most devoted ministers. Never mind that they were hated by the people. The fact that he could take life so carelessly boded ill for his reign.

  “When do you think he will take us to war?” inquired Thomas.

  “Soon.”

  “As gentleman usher, you will accompany him, I gather?” said Francis Fremont.

  “No. When I marry”—he reached for Catherine’s hand—“I shall request a position as Justice of the Peace so I can live here, with my wife.”

  “You will not miss the excitement of court life?” Fremont quirked an eyebrow.

  James laughed. “It shall be exciting enough here at Fyfield.”

  Blushing, Catherine smiled and dropped her lids. When she looked up, she saw Fremont leaning on a coffer in a corner of the room, staring at her with a flagon of wine in his hand. On his face was such a look of raw sexual desire that she recoiled.

  She left James on the settle and approached Fremont. She put her hand up to her lips as if to whisper a secret, and announced in a loud voice, “Master Fremont, I hate to tell you this, but your codpiece is slipping.”

  He colored to the roots of his hair.

  “What’s a codpiece?” Maggie asked from the other side of the room.

  “I’ll show you on your hound tomorrow,” Catherine said, smiling sweetly.

  A few days before her wedding, after communing with Richard in the garden and praying for him at St. Nicholas, Catherine removed the gold fleur-de-lis of diamonds that he had placed around her neck on their wedding day, along with his letter, and gently laid them to rest in a secret compartment of her jewel coffer. She didn’t abandon her widow’s weeds for her wedding, however. “Until I find my child, I can wear nothing else,” she had explained to James, but she made concessions. She added white ribbons and a pearl headdress to her veil, and white fur to her collar and cuffs, and carried a bouquet of white narcissus.

  For these past three months, Catherine had been beset with misgivings. To wed, or not to wed? Should she cancel the wedding before it was too late? Before she made a mistake? But what of the scandal that would ensue if she did? And what reason could she give for such a step? True, she didn’t like James’s choice of companions, but every wife in the land had to put up with disreputable relatives, or friends whom they would rather not see. Maybe it wasn’t Fremont but Richard who held her back, she thought. She didn’t love James the way she’d loved Richard, and it had been a long time since she’d slept with a man. Sometimes the thought of intimacy filled her with dread, and sometimes remembrance would flood her with the heady feeling that was hers each time James took her into his arms. What if she gave him up and he never came again to Fyfield—could she bear never to see him again? And what of the manor? Memory of the months when she had struggled as a woman alone rose up to torment her sleep. Without James, how would she fight off th
e de la Pole relative who litigated against her in court? That headache had not yet been put to rest, and posed peril to her hold on Fyfield.

  Aye, what of all this—how would she keep her manor without the help of an influential man?

  In the end she buried her doubts and wed James on the tenth of March, 1511. It was a small affair, for James had no relatives, and she had only Thomas and Maggie. She had invited Cecily’s sister, Kate Courtenay, but she had declined. She was in mourning for her husband, William, whose nearly eight years of captivity in the foul Tower had led to death nine months after his release.

  In other news that dampened Catherine’s spirits, their honeymoon had to be deferred. Young King Harry was anxious to begin his campaign against France, and James had to help Somerset plan the invasion.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, my sweet,” he whispered in her ear as they took their leave of one another in front of the servants. “And as often as I can.” With a kiss farewell, he trotted off on his ebony courser, Sholson following behind.

  James proved as good as his word. Since Fyfield lay but a halfday’s journey from London, he sometimes came for a night or two without being missed at court. And Catherine was mostly happy. Life had been so serious and bitter before, and now it was light and pleasant. She had done the right thing marrying James, she thought. He was amusing company and their nights were glorious, filled with delightful lovemaking that brought a blush to her cheeks with remembrance. Still, his frequent visits to Francis Fremont distressed her. Often he stayed all night and came back drunk and disheveled. “You know I like to gamble a little,” James would say when she pressed him. But she knew there was more to it than that.

  James made progress with the claim against Fyfield, however, and assured of Somerset’s support with the litigation and a good outcome, he was able to put her mind at ease on that issue. And in July he returned to Fyfield with heartening news.

  “Somerset’s inquiries about Dickon have proved fruitful,” he said. “He’s established that he was in Swansea for a while. He is pursuing some leads and is hopeful he’ ll have more information soon.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. Bowing her head, she gave a prayer of thanks.

  One afternoon in August, returning from a check of the crops in the fields, she found James in argument with another man in one of the small rooms off the hall. “I told you never to come here!” he was saying in an angry voice. “Get out and stay out! I never want to see you here again!”

  “James?” she said, coming into view.

  Both men fell silent and turned to her. The stranger gave a bow. “The famed Lady Gordon, I presume? ’Tis an honor to meet you.”

  Catherine glanced from the stranger to James, whose face had darkened as he fought for control.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the young man offered when James said nothing. “I am Giles Strangeways, a cousin to James.”

  Catherine extended her hand as she threw James a look. Should they not invite the young man to stay? But James glared at her and she dared not extend an invitation.

  Catherine turned on James after Giles left, claiming business in London. “Why would you treat kin in such a shabby manner?”

  “’Tis not your business!” he exclaimed. “And I’ll thank you never to mention his name again.”

  A few weeks later, a stranger rode up to Fyfield and pounded at the front door, yelling for James. Catherine leaned out of the bedroom window and looked down. Clearly, the man was drunk, for he waved his hands around and cursed her steward, Thomas Smyth, demanding to see James as he tried to push his way in. She reached the bottom of the staircase just as an altercation was about to break out between them.

  “’Tis all right,” Catherine called from the stairs, hurrying down. “I will see him, Thomas.”

  The man recovered a modicum of civility when she appeared, and removed his hat. He gave her an awkward bow, for his legs were unsteady from drink. “M’lady, me thanks to ye. Ye be a lady, not an uncouth, kettle-faced scallybag like this knave here—” Smyth’s face darkened and Catherine feared they would come to blows in her presence.

  “It would please me much if you would sheath your tongue long enough to inform me what this disturbance is about.” She turned to Alice. “Pray fetch Jack and Piers, for I have business with them, as soon as this matter is dispensed with.” Jack and Piers were two of the burliest young fellows she had working for her on the manor. They could be counted on to throw this ruffian out like a barrel of sour wine, if it came to that.

  Catherine swept into the great hall and turned to face the man who followed her, but he had halted in his steps and was looking around in awe at the soaring, ornate roof, the silver candlesticks in the niches, and the tapestried settle and velvet chairs. “A fine place ye have here. Fine indeed, n’er thought to see James livin’ in such finery.” He looked at her. “And with such a beautiful lady like ye. He’s done well fer himself, I’ll give him that, the old skullmudgeon!” He guffawed. “Mighty well indeed, I’ll say that fer him.”

  “State your business,” Catherine demanded.

  “Aw—ye don’t approve o’me, do ye? No matter, no matter, a fine lady like ye, ’tis to be expected. I’ll state my business fer certes—do ye ’ave a little something I can use to wet me mouth? ’Tis dry, my mouth is—I’ve ridden far this day, and it would help to have a little something—”

  Catherine poured him a cup of wine from the flask on the coffer and held it out to him at arm’s reach. She feared to catch lice or vermin if she drew too close.

  “Me lady, ye see it be like this, it be—” He took a long draught and smacked his lips. “Ah, that’s better . . . Ye see, Strangeways owes me money.”

  “Owes you money?” Catherine reacted without thinking. This was such an abominable, impossible farce, she couldn’t restrain from lashing out.

  “I know I don’t have the airs of a gentleman, but ’tis truth I speak—by the mass, it’s truth. Yer husband owes me twenty pounds he lost to me gamblin’ with the dice.”

  Catherine’s hand went to her lips to quell the gasp in her throat. “Twenty pounds?”

  “Twenty pounds he’s owin’ me. An’ he’s been sayin’ he’s goin’ to pay, an’ givin’ me promises for over two years now, but he doesn’t pay, and I’ve come to collect.”

  Catherine felt a chill creep over her as she listened to the man’s speech, for now she knew that James’s relative had come for the same reason. “I know nothing about this matter. You shall have to speak to my husband about it.”

  “See here, that be just the point. He’s a lyin’ bastard he is—”

  “How dare you insult my husband to me!” Catherine demanded, raising her voice and balling her fists at her sides. “To come here with this damnable lie when you know my husband is not home to refute you. How dare you!”

  “I swear it ain’t a lie, me lady—I have here this piece of paper—and his promise to pay is in his own hand . . .” He held out a filthy, crumpled piece of paper.

  Not taking her eye from the ruffian, Catherine moved closer. She cocked her head to read: I, James Strangeways, gentleman usher to King Henry VII, do promise to pay this debt of twenty pounds within one year from the date given.

  It was James’s handwriting, to be sure, dated June 1509. But it had to be a forgery, for where in God’s name would James meet such a scurvy character? “How did you come by this? Who gave it to you?”

  “Master James Strangeways, he gave it to me hisself—in Salisbury, when he gambled at the Old Boar Inn—and whored, too, I might add—” He began to snicker, then remembered where he was. “Me lady, forgit that part—I didna mean to add that—’tis only the money I care about.”

  For the first time since the man’s arrival, Catherine sensed he might be telling the truth. Salisbury was where James owned land and a few tenements. She had never questioned him about his properties, but now she wondered what else she didn’t know about her husband. She felt sick. She put her han
d to her brow to steady her head, and when she’d recovered her composure, she said, “You had best speak to him. He will be here the day after tomorrow.”

  The man was ushered out, and Catherine sank to the settle, trembling. Summoning the servants, she ordered them not to speak of the man’s visit to anyone. “The master is not to know until I’ve had a chance to tell him. Is that understood?”

  “Aye, my lady,” they murmured with one voice, scattering back to their chores.

  When James arrived two days later, she merely took his arm in silence. After he had rested and left to check matters with the steward, she took his key from his pouch and went to the coffer where he kept his private papers. Riffling through the stash, she found what she was looking for. Her strength ebbed from her as she read, and she leaned her weight on the desk, feeling weak.

  No, there was no doubt. In November 1510, James had received a loan of sixty-six pounds, thirteen shillings, and four pence from King Henry VIII. And fresh from this monstrous debt, he had ridden to Fyfield and proposed to her.

  Chapter 21

  A Song in the Night

  1512

  When James returned from his survey of the estate, Catherine led him to the solar and confronted him with the promissory note. “Tell me the truth—did you marry me for my money?” she demanded, still pale with the shock of discovery.

  “Have you lost your senses? What are you talking about?”

  “This!” She threw the royal note at him.

  He glanced at it, lying at his feet. “I didn’t marry you for money. But perhaps you should tell me why you married me?” he said coldly.