“Catherine,” he whispered, his voice weak.
She went to his side and smiled down at him as she smoothed his thin hair. He was an old man now, with hollowed cheeks and a shrunken frame. Pity swept her.
“Catherine . . . I didn’t marry you only for your money—”
“Hush, James—hush . . .” She took a seat on the edge of his bed.
“No, there is not much time . . . We must speak of it . . . You must know.”
“There is no need. ’Tis all in the past now.”
“But the past matters . . . you know it does.”
Her eyes grew moist as she looked at him, and she didn’t attempt any more denials. He was right. The past mattered.
“I want you to know that . . . I loved you . . . and I love you still.”
She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.
“Will you forgive me, Catherine . . . for what I did . . . the manor, I mean—”
“I forgive you, James.”
“I have been selfish . . . You deserved better, Catherine.”
“No, James, say not these things. You were a comfort to me. When Richard died, I had no one and you were always there when I needed you.”
It must have heartened him to hear this for his expression lightened.
“We had some good times, didn’t we, Catherine?”
She took his hand into hers. “Many . . . good times,” she managed. “I was so alone. I couldn’t have made it through those days without you, James.”
“I have led an evil life, with no regard for anyone but myself . . . but I am glad I did some good.”
“Oh, James, you did—you did. I relied on you for everything in those early days after Richard . . . and with the manor, in the beginning. But it was always more than that for me. I did love you.” For there are many kinds of love, she had come to learn.
“I threw away your love, Catherine. I can’t forgive myself for that—no, deny it not—I have many regrets . . . especially about us.”
Her mouth worked with emotion. “You enjoyed your life, James. You loved life. That is good. That is a good thing—”
A silence fell. They smiled at one another; she, tearfully; he, peacefully.
“Catherine . . . I want to be buried before the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary at St. Mary’s Overy . . . behind the high altar. I always felt at one with God there.”
She nodded.
“I know I leave you nothing but debts, Catherine . . . but Sholson has been good to me . . . I would like to make him a bequest, if you have no objection?”
Blinking back tears, she shook her head.
“Would you see to it that he does not want? He’s getting old, too.”
A suffocating sensation tightened her throat. She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss against the withered skin. “I will . . . make sure, James—” Her heart ached for him, and for all the years that had been wasted. Years that might have been so different.
She laid her cheek against the back of his hand and closed her eyes. He gave a sigh, and when she looked at him again, he was asleep. Quietly, she rose, and tiptoed from the room.
Catherine had not expected to miss James as much as she did. The house seemed suddenly silent and very empty after his death on November twenty-third, but there was much to do for the funeral and that occupied her mind. Sir Charles Somerset and Matthew attended the ceremony at St. Mary’s, as did many of those who had known James from court. Even King Harry made an appearance, sparkling from head to toe with jewels and rich damasks as he smiled and waved to the throng at Southwark that had gathered for a glimpse of their handsome monarch. In the evening when the mourners had left, Matthew remained behind to comfort her.
“You look tired, Catherine,” he said.
“I am, Matthew. Yet I know I won’t sleep this night.”
“I hope you’re not feeling guilty?”
“A little, perhaps, but mainly it’s the memories. Richard died on November twenty-third, and James, too. Even Richard’s Aunt Margaret died on November twenty-third in the year 1503. I thought it strange then that she should die on the same day . . . Now, with James, it is even more curious. Both my husbands, the same day, in the same place, and Richard’s aunt who was so dear to me. I can make no sense of it.”
“’Tis futile to try, Catherine. God moves in mysterious ways.”
Catherine gave a sigh. “Perhaps there is nothing significant in these coincidences, but my life seems to have taken on a pattern, and’tis not a good one. James pressed me to wed in January. Had I done so, it would have been exactly like my first marriage. Marry in January, die in November, weep at Yuletide.”
“Catherine, you are too morose. You did not wed James in January, and I will not let you weep in December. You are going to make a sea voyage with me on the Matthew Cradock. I shall bear you away to the Isle of Wight, and there you shall be given cause to celebrate life.”
Catherine’s heart soared. “Maggie? Thomas? I shall see them again! A sea voyage—oh, Matthew, I love the sea! I have missed the sea!” She seized his hand. “Thank you, Matthew.”
Catherine stood on the forecastle, hanging on to a rope as the Matthew Cradock sailed the choppy seas in December 1516. She inhaled deep of the salty air, savoring the freedom she remembered when she’d sailed away with Richard on the Cuckoo. The wind blew her hair wildly around her and beat the king’s banner that hung on the mast, sending it flapping noisily above her head. It was a cold but glorious December day, glittering with sunshine, and the sea was a deep blue. Birds followed them, squawking with excitement. She lifted a hand and pulled her hair back from her eyes to look up at them. How beautiful and carefree they were, these creatures soaring above! What joy it was to be here with them, out on the sea again!
“You make a lovely bowsprit, Catherine.” Matthew’s voice. He appeared beside her and put a hand on the rigging. He looked out over her head and she saw his profile in sharp relief against the blue sky. He seemed so natural, so at ease on the sea. “And you make a fine captain, Matthew. I would have no fear with you any where.”
“You seem very comfortable aboard ship yourself.”
“I have always loved the sea. If I were a man, I would have been a pirate like you.”
He gave a chuckle and looked at her.
“I know it sounds strange, but the year I spent nursing Cecily on the Isle of Wight was my happiest in England,” Catherine said. “After she died, I remember thinking I wished I could go to sea and never, ever touch land again.”
“The sea is not always so welcoming, Catherine. There is nowhere to hide in a storm.”
“But the storms on land are far more deadly, though they may not claim your life.” Memory pushed Richard and Dickon forward and she saw their faces. The storm in the Irish Sea had changed her and taught her fear, not because it had threatened her life, but because it had threatened theirs. When they’d reached land, she had thought them safe, but it was in a storm over London that Richard had died, and in a storm over Buryan that Dickon had been rent from her arms, never to be seen again. She turned her eyes on Matthew, her smile gone. “At least ’tis how it seems to me.”
“We will find him, Catherine. We are close now. Very close.”
She never had to explain to him, she thought. He always understood. He knew her heart and her hopes and fears; he knew what drove her, and always spoke the words she needed to hear. A tear touched the back of her eye. She gave him a smile. “How wonderful it is to be with you, Matthew, to feel so light, and to have such hope. Anything and everything seems possible with you. I have not felt so protected since I left home and bonnie Scotland.”
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “When we are married, I shall make you feel you have come home, my lovely girl.”
Catherine’s heart warmed. This was the first time he had spoken of marriage, but it came as no surprise to her. She had always known, just as he had known, that the
y would be wed. She turned her head and looked up at him. “It cannot be soon enough for me, Matthew.”
“Nor for me, my love.”
“I am so pleased you will meet my kin, Matthew. You will like Thomas. His daughter, Maggie, is eleven now. . . She was already a little beauty like her mother the last time I saw her three years ago.”
To this, Matthew made no reply. He had only one child, a daughter, also named Margaret, but to mention her now would be to spoil the moment. He pushed away the memory of her letter to him in which she’d called Catherine a Jezebel.
“There!” Matthew said. “The white cliffs of Dover. ’Tis the last sight of England for those who leave, and the first sight that greets them on their return.” In the distance, the gleaming white cliffs of chalk that ran the length of the island drew into view, glistening in the sunshine.
“Beautiful,” murmured Catherine. “I have seen the north, and I have seen the south, and now this. England has such beauty, and everywhere is different from everywhere else.”
“And soon you will see my beloved Gower.”
She gave him a loving smile.
They docked at Newport quay. Thomas and Maggie were awaiting them, Maggie’s fair hair shining in the sun, her bright green eyes sparkling with excitement. She flew to Catherine and threw her arms tight around her. “Auntie—oh, Auntie—it’s been so long! I thought you’d never come!” She looked up at Catherine, and it was Cecily that Catherine saw as she looked down at her niece’s sweet young face. “My dear heart,” she said, holding Maggie out at arm’s length to admire her. “Why, how lovely you are—and how you have grown!”
“I am almost twelve,” said Maggie proudly.
Catherine hugged her again and held her for a long moment. With her arm around Maggie’s shoulders, she walked across the uneven ground to the cart that Thomas had brought for them.
“I fear I have only one extra horse,” he explained, “and that is reserved for Master Cradock.”
They spent a happy Yuletide together, laughing and playing games by the fire, as they had done while Cecily still lived. Many times during those weeks, Catherine went to visit Cecily at Quarr Abbey with Maggie. Afterward they always strolled on the windy beach, where Catherine told Maggie stories about her mother and what she had been like. Maggie never tired of hearing them.
“Your mother was betrothed to my cousin, King James of Scotland, but she fell in love with your father, and finally she ran away to marry him—against the king’s wishes. And it mattered not that your father was no king, nor royal, nor even born noble. It mattered not that he had no riches but only a farm. Love was all that mattered to your mother. Your beautiful mother . . .”
“And to you, Auntie.”
Catherine smiled. “I have married twice for love.”
“Do you love Master Cradock?”
Catherine’s smile widened. “Yes, my sweeting. Very much.”
“Will you marry him?”
Catherine laughed, thinking, From the mouths of innocents—
“You are fortunate to live here,” Catherine said, changing the subject, for she and Matthew had decided to make their announcement at dinner. “Even in the heart of winter, there is something magical about this isle in the sea.” She looked around in wonder. Nothing but water and frothy waves whipped by the wind, and behind her the steep ridge of white chalk cliffs running to Alum Bay. Sea birds screeched as they circled for fish. How magnificent nature is! she thought. It had a raw power and never failed to touch her at some deep level that filled her with awe.
“I wish you could stay here with us forever, and wed my father, and never leave me.”
So that was what was on the child’s mind. “When you are grown, you will see that it is not as simple as that. Your father still loves your mother, and she lives in his heart. There is no room for anyone else but you, because you were her most precious gift to him.”
“I want to marry for love when I grow up. It sounds like fun!”
Catherine chuckled. “As long as you marry someone of good character like your father, Maggie. If you wed the wrong person, it can ruin your life.” Her own life would be in shambles now, but for Matthew. She shuddered to think how different it would have been for her had she not met him. Her eye went to Alice, and a new joy flooded her. How different it would have been for Alice had she not met Thomas Smyth! She had wed him just before James’s death, shedding light and a moment’s bright laughter into the gloom of those days.
For the Twelve Days of Christmas, Matthew took them all to splendid Cradistbrooke Castle to enjoy the lavish festivities and mummery at court, and Maggie was enthralled.
“Master Cradock has a daughter named Margaret also,” Catherine said, in an effort to engage her interest.
“Is she nice?” whispered Maggie.
“I haven’t met her yet, but if she’s anything like her father, she is very nice.” Catherine smiled.
During the celebrations, Catherine told Thomas and Maggie of her engagement. “Then you shall go to live in Wales?” asked Thomas.
“Aye . . . Wales,” Catherine murmured.
Knowing what Wales meant to her, Thomas squeezed her hand under the table while Maggie exclaimed, “But Wales is far away and we’ll never see you then!”
“Nay, my sweeting. All things are possible now. We shall come often to visit in Master Cradock’s ship, and we shall take you to Wales by sea to visit the king’s castles. Would you like that?”
Maggie covered her mouth with her hands to stifle her joy, and nodded vigorously, eyes wide.
Catherine’s own eyes grew moist as she gazed at her niece. She lifted her goblet. “To life . . . to love . . . to hope,” she toasted.
“To life. To love. To hope,” they echoed.
Once the tidings of their betrothal reached court in January 1516, King Henry conferred a knighthood on Matthew in honor of his marriage to royalty. Catherine knew she had Sir Charles Somerset to thank for it and was pleased when he accepted the invitation to her wedding at Fyfield on May Day.
May Day, thought Catherine, when all the world was expectant, joyous, and gay, and celebrating the Feast of Love! Matthew had informed her that she did not need to concern herself with the wedding expenses or the arrangements, and that he had tended to every detail. She knew it would be a perfect day, and she felt as if she walked on a cloud as she prepared for her wedding. Only once did Catherine wonder why Matthew’s daughter, Margaret, did not attend, but she did not allow herself long to ponder it. She would soon meet her.
In the morning, while it was still dark, Maggie came running into her bedchamber, delirious with excitement. In her hand she held a cup of morning dew that she had collected from the garden. Into this she had crushed the fragrant lavender that she had brought from their farm on the Isle of Wight.
“The perfume is ready!” she cried.
Catherine laughed, but she bent over the basin and held back her hair, as Maggie wished. The child had reminded her on the previous day that washing in dawn dew on May Day had to be observed, for it helped a girl wed the man of her choice. “Even when my wish is already coming true?” Catherine had asked. “Of course—you are not yet wed and ’tis best not to take chances with such things!” Maggie had replied. Now she carefully bathed Catherine’s face in the lavender dew. Taking what was left of the precious mixture, she splashed it on herself. “There! Now I, too, will marry the man of my choice one day, but maybe not three like you, Auntie. One husband shall be enough for me, I daresay.” She stood with her face dripping wet and her eyes closed as she groped blindly for a towel. Catherine laughed and put one into her hands.
“We must dress your hair,” said Alice, picking up the brush, but Maggie grabbed it from her. “May I do it? I love Auntie’s hair. ’Tis so soft, and thick.” Catherine exchanged a smile with Alice and patted the hand Maggie rested on her shoulder.
Maggie brushed Catherine’s rich black tresses until they gleamed and helped Alice dress her in her new bla
ck velvet gown, which Alice had sewn with tiny silver spangles. As Catherine stood patiently, they pinned the sleeves and collar with roses and ribbons of the palest pink hue.
“Now for your jewels, and the wreath for your hair, Auntie—”
“Not yet, Maggie,” Catherine said. “First I need a moment alone.”
Maggie looked at her in surprise, but Alice understood. She led Maggie out and shut the door. The room went silent, except for the song of the birds that poured in through the open window. Kneeling at her prie-dieu, Catherine murmured a prayer for James’s soul, and one for Richard. Moving to the small jewelry coffer by the window, she unclasped the golden heart set with diamonds in a fleur-de-lis that Richard had placed around her neck on their wedding day and that she had worn since the day she’d learned of James’s betrayal. With a kiss, she laid it gently to rest in the secret compartment and closed the drawer. She fixed her gaze on the golden dawn that streaked the sky. Richard, my love, thank you for your blessing that you gave me on the beach at St. Michael’s Mount, and for giving me permission to love again. I did not know then what a gift you were handing me, my beloved husband. Though I shall be wedded once more, think not that there is no place for you in my heart. Never will I forget you. Always you are with me. Take this kiss until we meet again— And she blew to Heaven the kiss she pressed to her fingertips.
“Are you ready yet?” called Maggie from behind the door.
Catherine wiped her eyes. “I am ready.”
As she stepped into the full sunshine of May Day, she was met by the bright and lilting tune of a piper leaping and dancing through the gate. A bevy of maidens with garlands around their shoulders, and leaves and flowers in their hair, skipped along behind him, waving ribbons. She gasped. All at once she was at Stirling, hanging expectantly over the parapet as minstrels played, pipers leapt, girls danced, and ribbons waved in the sunshine. She half expected Richard to follow through the gate on his white horse, but he did not come. She blinked. It was perhaps a coincidence; perhaps merely the May Day ritual, but she believed with all her heart that Richard had sent her a smile from Heaven. Lifting her eyes to the wide blue sky, she returned his smile. The merry group came singing up to the house, for it was the custom to beg favors on May Day. By this time, the entire household had gathered to watch them. Catherine nodded to Thomas Smyth, who carried the cup of coins, and he distributed them among the young people, giving one to each child, and double to the piper. Thus rewarded, the piper led Catherine and her procession to the village green, where a towering Maypole stood in front of St. Nicholas Church, made of the trunk of a birch tree and decorated with ribbons and bright flowers from the fields.
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