She stared at him, incredulous. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean. You lust for Richard in your heart. Don’t you think I can feel it?”
“What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Richard! That’s what I’m talking about. You pretend I’m Richard each time you’re in my arms, don’t you—don’t you?” He was red-faced and shaking with rage.
“You’re mad! I married you because I cared about you. How can you do this? I’ve been a good wife to you—”
“Good is not good enough!”
“What more do you want? To ruin us with your gambling? Is that what you want?”
“I want you to stop thinking about him! I want him gone from our lives!” He grabbed her by the arms and shook her as if she were a rag doll. “I’m sick of having three in our bed!”
“Stop it!” Catherine cried. His eyes held a wild look and she was suddenly afraid. “Let me go! You’re behaving like a ruffian!”
He froze, then dropped his hands.
“We must discuss this, James! It’s not going away.”
“No. Richard has to go away—I can’t take it anymore.”
“Sixty-six pounds you owe the king! How many years do you think it’s going to take to pay back that kind of money? If you loved me, you wouldn’t be doing this. How can I trust a man who doesn’t care that he’s ruining us?”
“And how can I love a woman who wishes I were another man, and drives me to drink!”
“You drank and gambled before you met me! When are you going to stop blaming other people for your shortcomings? You are a coward, James Strangeways!”
He swung on her. “How dare you?”
“A coward you are, indeed. What else would you call a man who steals from a woman? If you had any guts, you’d find a way to pay back that money with honest labor.”
He stared at her, his face ashen white with anger. Swiveling on his heel, he grabbed his cloak from the peg and strode out. She ran after him to the driveway and reached him as he mounted his horse. “Where are you going?” she called as he galloped away.
“Where I’m welcome!” he yelled back through the cloud of dust he left behind.
James didn’t return for two days, and when he did, he was drunk. Sholson put him to bed, and Catherine went to the woods to find solitude, and to pray. Her relationship with God had been tested to destruction that night at the river, but it had come back stronger than before. She felt near to Him in nature where His hand was more evident than in a church built by man. Despite her faith, however, she was unable to shake her worry. She had to find a way to make James see reason, or they would indeed lose everything. This was the thrust of her prayer: that God would see fit to help her find a way.
That evening they dined alone, and in silence. When Catherine found the right moment, she went straight to the heart of the problem. “James, we have to do something, or you will be ruined.”
“I? From what I recall, it was ‘us’ only the other day.”
“I am the sole owner of Fyfield. They cannot come to me for payment of your debts.”
“Then you have no worries, have you?”
“I do have worries. I worry about you. ’Tis a terrible thing to see your husband on an evil path and not to be able to help him.” She raised her large azure eyes to his.
His broad shoulders sagged suddenly, and he gave a sigh and passed a hand over his face. “Oh, Catherine—”
“James—” she said, laying a hand on his sleeve. “Francis Fremont is part of the problem. You must cut him out of our lives.”
“I cannot,” James murmured miserably, his hand hiding his face.
“Because you owe him money?”
“Aye . . . him, and others.”
“How much?”
“Thirty pounds.”
Catherine’s heart sank, but this was no time for self-pity. “I will help you pay off the debt, James, but you cannot attend his gatherings, and he is not to come to Fyfield again. Inform him that you will be making monthly payments until the sum you owe him is paid in full. I’ll do the same with your other debtors. And James—”
He dropped his hand and looked at her.
“You must promise me that you will give up gambling and look for lucrative work.”
“What do you suggest? The king pays me twenty pounds a year for fourteen hours’ work a day, seven days a week, and I get another twenty from my estates. What would you have me do, Catherine? Pirate a ship?”
“You have a sharp mind. You are energetic. You know how to manage men. You’ll think of something.”
James cut back on his visits to Francis, though he still went, and still came back drunk. And they still argued over Francis, and James’s drinking. But he did think of something. Instead of requesting a post as Justice of the Peace in Berkshire so he could remain at Fyfield and manage Catherine’s estates, he requested to accompany the king on his expedition to France. War afforded a chance to acquire riches from booty and ransom. Maybe, in this way, if they were fortunate, they could shed their terrible debt.
James was assigned the post of captain. He went to work raising men for the royal army, and Catherine didn’t see much of him over the winter. She didn’t think he was drinking as much because work claimed his energies. In May, he was busy gathering gunpowder, bows, arrows, and bowstrings for the master of the ordinance, and in June he left for France.
Four months later, he was back. From the upstairs window of the solar, Catherine saw him trotting up the drive with Sholson. Relief flooded her as she rushed down the stairs to meet him. But she halted abruptly in her steps, checked by the expression on his face. He began to dismount. Catherine ran to him.
“You’re wounded, James! Here, let me help you . . .” She took his arm as he winced in pain. Supporting his weight on one side, as Sholson did on the other, she led him into the great hall. He let himself down heavily into a chair by the hearth. She poured him a cup of wine. “What happened?”
“I took a sword thrust to my back, and to my thigh. I was laid up for three months. And I caught the bloody flux.”
“He almost died, my lady,” said Sholson.
Catherine gasped.
James dismissed Sholson then, and together they watched him take his leave.
“Are you all right now?” Catherine asked gently.
“Depends what you mean by all right . . . I’m alive, at least.”
Catherine fell silent. Clearly, James had no wish to talk about his injuries, or his ailments. Dysentery was a dreadful disease, debilitating and often fatal, but James had survived. He was strong. Surely, time would heal him completely. “What about the war with France?” she asked.
He took a gulp of wine. “It was a disaster.”
Catherine sank down on the settle.
“King Ferdinand was supposed to be our ally against France, but once he won Navarre, he packed up and left, leaving our men to be slaughtered at Fuentarrabia. The army returned to England near mutiny.”
“And King Harry?”
James shook his head, and his eyes darted to the open door of the great hall. Catherine understood. Harry had made a mess of things. “He wishes to mount a second invasion as soon as possible.” He emptied his wine cup.
“There is something you should know, Catherine,” James resumed after a silence. “King James has renewed the ‘Auld Alliance’ between Scotland and France.”
Catherine’s heart quickened. Despite Margaret’s marriage to James, matters between Scotland and England had steadily deteriorated over the years. In contrast to the usual border squabbles, this was serious. France was Scotland’s traditional ally, and Harry’s hostility to France was bound to draw Scotland into the conflict sooner or later.
“What about you, James? You cannot sign up again.” Her eye went to his leg, propped up uselessly before him.
“I have applied for a post as Justice of the Peace for Berkshire. There may be opportunitie
s in county politics to augment my income. Meanwhile, Somerset has informed me there is only one way out of the legal action brought against Fyfield by de la Pole’s relative.”
Catherine held her breath.
“Your grant of lands from King Henry is not valid in law. You must surrender it, and the property will then be regranted to both you and me.”
Catherine stared at him. Could this be true, or was it a ruse to transfer his debts to her? That she could even think such a thing made her realize how irretrievably the trust between them was broken. She rose to her feet and turned to the window so he would not read her thoughts.
“’Tis the only way, Catherine.”
Her gaze settled on the autumn landscape and the orchard that she had so laboriously planted, where fruits now hung ripening on the green branches. She looked at the expansive west garden that had taken her two years of hard work. She had come to love every inch of her manor, and not merely because it represented such freedom to do as she willed. She had been homeless for so long, and this parcel of soil was a home for her at last. She had to know that James spoke the truth. She turned back.
“’Tis a long time since I’ve been to court,” she said. “I shall leave tomorrow and visit Lady Daubeney—and use the time to think on this. I’ll give you my answer when I return.”
He flushed beneath her gaze, and his expression told her that he knew the true purpose of her visit. There was something else. Fear? Oh, James, she thought. Where has it all gone—the hopes we had, the dreams we shared, the smiles we gave to one another?
Catherine had been told often enough that court was a gay place since Henry’s death, but never could she have imagined how festive it had become. How much gold it took to wage a war while turning daily life into one endless feast Catherine had no idea, but every day was a feast day for Harry, filled with music, song, and lavish banquets such as she had never seen before. Minstrels wandered the halls, playing their merry melodies, and troubadours sang sonnets in the garden. Wine flowed, and flowers bedecked the halls, and the nobles who moved among the palace rooms blinded the eye with their gems and rich brocades. Even the birds that ornamented the gilded cages now were not simple linnets anymore, but enormous creatures of gorgeous, jewel-colored plumage ferried at great expense from across the seas and the New World. But the largest and gaudiest of them all was Harry. He threw away huge sums of money gambling at cards and dice, and dressed lavishly, bedecked in priceless jewels. Every finger of his hand was a mass of gems, and from around his collar of gold hung a diamond as large as a walnut. If Henry could see him now, he would surely die of apoplexy, she thought. She saw Henry suddenly in her mind’s eyes, sitting alone at his ledger at night, going through his expenses, trying to pinch a groat where he could. What he had scratched together, his son was now scattering to the four winds with both hands.
She turned into the passageway that led to Somerset’s suite, marveling at it all. Here and there, those who recognized her dropped curtsies and bows. She acknowledged them with a graceful nod of her head. The antechamber milled with people, but the guard announced her immediately. Somerset looked up and broke into a smile. Though he was in conference with another man, he left the table to meet her and gave her warm welcome.
“My dear Lady Catherine, how kind of you to honor us with a visit.” He bent over her hand with courtly grace. “’Tis always a great pleasure to see you.” He led her forward to the other man in the chamber. She couldn’t see his face at first, for he was in shadow. Then he moved into view.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my deputy, Matthew Cradock of London and Wales.”
Cradock raised her hand to his lips with courtly elegance. “We met once, but Lady Catherine would not remember,” he said. His arresting blue eyes were heightened by the sapphire of his doublet.
Such was his charm and Catherine’s immediate sense of connection that the word Wales did not fill her mind. She gave him a wide smile. “But you are mistaken. I do remember. We met in 1502, when I came to Ludlow with Queen Elizabeth.”
Indeed, how could she forget the instant liking that had run through her at the sight of this vitally attractive man? She realized she was staring, but she was unable to tear her gaze away. Tall, with an aquiline nose and brown hair silvering at the temples, his face was bronzed by sun and wind, and etched by experience, and his generous mouth curled as if on the edge of laughter. Matthew Cradock exuded an air of command that reminded her of her father. But it was his eyes that held her. As blue as Richard’s had been . . .
“You have a good memory, Lady Catherine,” Matthew Cradock said. He’d been taken aback by the emotion that assailed him at the sight of her, for he was a grandfather, and a widower, and had thought himself immune to such feelings.
“Lady Catherine—” Somerset’s voice.
They both caught their breath and turned to him at the same moment.
“Your visit is most fortuitous,” Somerset said. “We were just discussing you.”
“Indeed?” Catherine said, aware of Cradock’s eyes on her. She forced herself to concentrate.
Somerset turned to the man-at-arms at the door, where men milled in the antechamber, awaiting their turn with the Lord Chancellor. “Shut the door,” he called, then turned back to Catherine. “I have news regarding the matter entrusted to me by the old king.”
Catherine became instantly alert.
“I have been given to understand that the search has narrowed in Gower to an area ten miles from Swansea. We have learned that the child in question was alive four years ago and it should not be long now before we get more details.”
Catherine’s heart lurched in her breast. Four years ago Dickon would have been twelve years old. “Thank you, my Lord Somerset.”
“I have other news as well. Would you care to sit?” She nodded gratefully and sat down at the long, polished table in the chair he drew out for her. Somerset and Cradock followed suit.
“I have been deluged with royal business of late and it appears my responsibilities for King Harry are going to demand my full attention in the future. As a result, I fear I may not be able to pursue the matter in Wales as expeditiously from now on as I would wish.”
Catherine tried to crush her disappointment, but said nothing.
Somerset resumed. “This does not mean, however, that it need drag on because I am unable to attend the details. In fact, my stepping back from the inquiry may actually help matters.”
“My lord?”
“Matthew Cradock here is my personal deputy in Wales. It is Master Cradock who has been gathering the information on the—ah—the matter in question, and keeping me informed. Now that he is no longer present at court, and I am unable to visit Fyfield to update you, may I have your permission to turn the inquiry over to Matthew Cradock, and have him report directly to you?”
“Mind? Of course not. Lord Somerset, Master Cradock—I am in your debt.”
“Matthew is Welsh himself and the most influential, respected, and trusted royal authority in Gower.” Cradock made a murmur of appreciation and Somerset continued. “You may know that his daughter’s father-in-law is the Earl of Pembroke? I myself have utmost faith in Master Cradock. I believe, Lady Catherine, that this is the most efficient way we can proceed.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all, Lady Catherine?”
“My lord, there is one other matter. My manor . . .” When Somerset said nothing, she went on, “Regarding the title?”
“Ah yes, my lady. The king agreed to Master Strangeways’s petition that the crown take back the property so it could be regranted to both of you. I thought I’d informed him of it before he left court?”
Catherine felt herself blanch as the blood drained to her legs. She was thankful she was sitting down, thankful she was able to hold her head high. It had been James’s ruse, as she suspected, and now she was trapped, for she couldn’t admit to these men here that her husband was a cheat and a liar and had married her for her
lands. To cover the truth, she turned to Somerset. “My lord, he forgot to mention it to me. He has not been well—”
Somerset threw her a look of sympathy. “The injury in France,” he said. The drinking, he thought. Pity for Catherine swelled in him. Her husband had turned drinking into a fine art form and only cleared his head long enough to sit upright at the gambling table. If he hadn’t been injured in France, it would have been only a matter of time before they had to let him go for inability to perform his duties. Maybe that was why Daubeney had paid him so little heed. The rogue was no good, and either wine would be the death of him, or another gambler would slay him over a debt.
The silence in the room lengthened until Catherine rose to her feet and held out her hand. “Thank you, my lord . . . Master Cradock. I must leave you now, but I look forward to seeing you at Fy field.”
When she’d left, Somerset turned to his friend. “Did you get the same impression I did?”
“Aye,” Cradock sighed. “She had no knowledge of her husband’s request. He tricked her, that scoundrel.”
“Daubeney never had any use for Strangeways, and he was kin. I am sorry for Lady Catherine . . . Two husbands, and both of them a disappointment. She deserved better.”
“Welladay, you never know,” Cradock said. “She is still young.”
Chapter 22
Raindrops and Rainbows
As Catherine traveled back to Fyfield, her emotions were in turmoil. She was consumed by disgust for James, and flooded with memories of Richard. There had been so much to survive—and just when she thought her struggles were behind her, Fate emerged with a malicious laugh. Now she was alone again, with no one to rely on but herself, and the dull, dreary days spread out before her like a limitless gray sea.
Nay—not alone, she thought, remembering the night at the river. You are there, Richard; I know you are. She turned her face up to the sky. I may not see you, but I feel you near. The thought brought her comfort, but when the manor came into view behind the church, James’s face rose up before her and she was swept with despair. Her marriage was a disaster. If she lost the manor, she would be destitute. What then? Where would she turn? She had no family and knew no one in a position to help. Thomas would take her in, of course, but he and Maggie had little to live on now that Cecily was gone. And what of Alice and all the others who depended on her? Dear God, she had been such a fool!
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