B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  They returned to Wales briefly in April, and Catherine gave herself one more chance to improve her relationship with Margaret. On a journey from Cardiff Castle to join Matthew in Hereford, she stopped at Ewyas with Alice and two servants. She arrived late in the afternoon to find the household in turmoil, for Margaret had chastised the servants in such an angry and humiliating manner that they could barely manage a curtsy without breaking into tears as they fled. Catherine had planned to spend the night with Margaret, hoping to find a chink in the armor of malice that surrounded her, but it was not to be.

  “’Tis our custom to eat dinner at six of the clock. It is five now. Will you be staying?” Catherine was about to accept when Margaret added, “However, servants eat at five. Alice, you may join them now.”

  “But Alice is not a servant!” Catherine protested. “She is kin.”

  “No kin of mine,” Margaret replied. “If she receives wages from you for her humble service, she is a servant.”

  Catherine made her regrets, mounted her horse, and they left for Hereford with only a brief stop to eat at an abbey, for there was no room for them there for the night. They arrived in Hereford disheveled and weary from nearly seven hours in the saddle, three of them after dark when it was most dangerous to be out. Matthew was furious. “This is the end. No more! From now on, the earl is their family, not I!”

  “I’m sorry, Matthew,” Catherine said, dropping wearily into a chair and removing her bonnet. “I wish it could be different.”

  “But it can’t. Let it go. I command you to stop trying to win her over. Margaret has gone mad. She cannot be reached.”

  Late on the night that they arrived home at New Place, Catherine and Matthew were awakened before cock’s crow by a messenger who had ridden without pause to bring them news. Matthew’s mother-in-law, an old and gracious lady in her eighties, had been found murdered in her bed. The assailant was unknown, so the messenger said, but young George Herbert was suspected. The last time he’d left her house, he’d been overheard to say that he would see her dead soon, for she had lived too long already.

  The old lady was found lying on bloody sheets, her body riddled with stab wounds, a dagger left in her back. Catherine gave a cry, and held up her hand over her eyes to blot out the image of the hound writhing in agony, pierced with arrows, a sword embedded in his back. The two deaths bore too much similarity. She sank down on the bed. “Matthew . . . if it is George, what will you do?”

  “I must protect him,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I cannot let him hang.” He looked at Catherine with stricken eyes.

  “Matthew, it may not have been him,” she soothed, although she couldn’t convince even herself. “It could have been anyone.”

  “No one else would have dared. George has a fearsome temper and is gaining a bad reputation for violence. He is reckless and greedy. He coveted her goods. He is accustomed to having his way, and he knew he would get away with it.”

  Catherine laid her hand over his. “Oh, Matthew, my dear love, I am so sorry.”

  He held her hand between both of his and took it to his lips. He met her eyes. “I have you, Catherine, my lovely girl. You are my good fortune.”

  “And you, beloved, are mine.”

  Thanks to Matthew’s influence, the investigation into the murder of his mother-in-law was soon dropped. Before he sailed to France, he obtained the verdict of death by assailant, or assailants, unknown. From then on, Catherine and Matthew celebrated every Yuletide with Thomas and Maggie on the Isle of Wight, or at Fyfield. Often, Matthew’s three sisters and their children made the trip to be with them, filling Catherine’s heart and her home with joy. She was happy not only for Matthew, but for herself. His sisters, unlike his daughter, had all welcomed her into the Cradock family, and she had grown fonder of them with every year that passed.

  By May, 1520, Catherine and Matthew had been wed three years, and each year that passed brimmed with days of sunshine, love, and laughter. She had forgotten how happy life could be. At night when she fell asleep in Matthew’s arms, she gave thanks for the blessings that had been hers that day. Matthew was shelter from the wind and protection from the elements. He was a place to run to when fleeing the hounds. In his arms, she felt safe—as safe as she had felt as a little girl in her father’s arms. “Oh, Matthew, never leave me,” she would sigh, drawing his arms tight across her breast, feeling his warmth pass through her body as the wind howled and rattled the windows. “I’ll never leave you, my lovely girl,” he would reply, and Catherine would close her eyes and fall asleep to dream.

  In early May, he’d been home barely four days after his return from France when he had to make a trip to take care of business for Somerset. He came galloping back the next afternoon, calling for her urgently. She ran downstairs, her heart beating wildly, expecting some grief, for life had taught her that nothing was more fickle than good fortune. Instead, Matthew was smiling broadly and his sapphire eyes held a dancing light. He put a finger to his lips, and extended his hand to her.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Not here,” he replied under his breath. “Outside in the orchard, where no one can hear!”

  Catherine half expected to find a magnificent steed or some great luxury of that nature awaiting her there, but there was nothing but the apples and cherries ripening on the trees.

  Matthew took her by the shoulders. Reminded of that day at Fyfield in the yew-tree walk when he’d told her about Flodden, her smile faded. But Matthew’s held steady. Her heart took up a beat of anticipation.

  “Catherine, what is your heart’s desire—think—think! If you could have one wish granted to you now, in all your life, ever, what would it be?”

  Catherine stared at him in bafflement. “You—to have you with me always.”

  “But you already have me, my lovely girl. What would you wish for that you don’t have? That you desire more than anything else in the world.”

  She seized him by the collar, afraid to speak, afraid to think, in case it was not that for which she yearned. “Dickon?” She had not said it, not clearly, and no eavesdropper would have understood the half-formed sigh that came from her lips. Her eyes widened as she stared at him and she saw his smile break out across his face. Her hand tightened its grip on his collar.

  “I’ve found the family that raised him.”

  It seemed to Catherine that her heart stopped its beating.

  “They live in Reynoldston. A town near Swansea.”

  “Is he—” Alive, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. What if she were dreaming? The dream might vanish if she reached out to it.

  “Catherine—” She felt Matthew tighten his hold on her, as he had in the yew-walk. But this time was different—oh, so different! She gazed into his shining face.

  “Catherine, he lives in Rhossili-Gellis. I am taking you to him.”

  On a sparkling day in May, they rode to the village of Rhossili-Gellis at the tip of the Gower peninsula, accompanied by a few men of Matthew’s retinue. Peasants walking in the road scattered before them, and wagons pulled over to the side, allowing them to pass. From the orchards of flowering apple and plum came the laughter of children playing and the barking of their hounds as they gave chase. Trotting over hills covered with yellow gorse, purple heather, and thistle, the small party clattered over wooden bridges. Fields opened into forests, and closer to the ocean, as they neared Rhossili, the forests gave way to farmland where sheep grazed peacefully on the grassy green slopes. But Catherine barely noticed the beauty that normally delighted her, not the babbling brooks they crossed, nor the delicate loveliness of the lime green growth in the dappled forest. Wearing Richard’s locket, his love letter, and coin token around her neck, with Dickon’s little coif laid safely against her breast, her heart was laden with memory. They had named her son Richard Perkin . . .

  Richard . . . Perkin . . .

  Matthew rode silently at her side, secretly blessing the tall hedgerows that lined t
he roads and shielded them from the sea-borne wind, for he was cold even in his fur-trimmed cloak and beaver hat. But then, he was growing old. He was a fulsome sixty years old now, and what time he had left was short. He wished he could spend more of his days with Catherine, but then she would learn of his aches and pains and the various ailments he had kept from her. She would worry, and he didn’t wish to burden her. He was simply gladdened that he had been able to find her son for her before it was too late. Behind him, his men talked boisterously and joked among themselves, and now and again they burst into laughter. Ah, yes, he smiled to himself as he stole a glance at Catherine. Life was good. There was much to celebrate.

  They arrived at the cliff-top Church of St. Mary the Virgin. Bordered by a low stone wall, the small church dated from the sixth century. Bells were chiming for nones, for it was three in the afternoon. Jolted out of her memories, Catherine dismounted and gave her trembling hand to Matthew. Here, in this little church that belonged to the medieval Order of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John, her babe awaited. Little Dickon, who had been ripped from her arms before his first birthday and was now a grown man of twenty-five. Little Dickon, her babe with the wide blue eyes and white-gold hair who, as an infant, had borne such strong resemblance to Richard. Catherine was suddenly frightened. She froze in her steps and dug her fingernails into Matthew’s hand to feel his flesh. Would her child know her? Would she know him? Or would they be strangers with naught to say to one another? She had dreamt of this moment for so long, had feared it would never come to pass, and here, a few short steps away, her past, present, and future mingled together, waiting to meet her. She turned wide eyes on her husband.

  “Have no fear, Catherine. ’Tis the deepest wish of your heart . . . Come, my dear.”

  He led her forward and she moved to follow, leaning on his arm, her legs a leaden weight. As she went, her eyes touched on the tombstones that lined the path to the church, some decorated with white roses. How apt, for death and white roses had lined her life, just so, and pointed her forward to this moment. Matthew pushed open the stout carved door. They passed through the Norman archway marked by dog-tooth moldings, a chevron, and battered carved heads, and stepped into the nave. Matthew let the door close quietly behind them.

  The little church was dark and smelled musty, for only a few half-melted candles still burned in the sconces, and there was no incense. Catherine stood still while her eyes adjusted to the low light. Then her gaze caught and held on a figure kneeling before the altar rail. His golden head was bowed and so absorbed was he in prayer that he had failed to notice their entrance. On him shone a ruby light from above the sanctuary, and she thought of a knight at vigil before the day’s trial. She thought of Richard, his father. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her hand tightened on Matthew’s arm and she turned to look at him mutely. Matthew smiled, and gently, very gently, pried her fingers loose from his arm. As if releasing a dove to the sky, he turned her toward the young man.

  She moved forward in the stillness. As she did, in her heart there rose the faint echo of an old beloved melody from long ago. The memory moved forward to meet her, engulfing her in tenderness, and there unfolded before her two young lovers by a campfire on the sandy shore of a Scottish lake. Barely realizing that she moved, she edged forward. Forward to that old, forgotten melody. The young man turned and looked at her, and a radiant smile spread across his handsome face. He rose from his knees. The fire danced over his features with a rose glow, throwing light and shadow across his bright eyes and dimpled mouth. She had thought it was long ago, but now she knew it was only yesterday. Tears stung her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks. Oh, Richard, you have come back to me—’tis you, my love! A sob threatened as she put out her hands to the memory, and the memory came to her, enfolding her with warmth. She looked up, and stared into the deep blue eyes she remembered. She lifted her hand in wonder and touched his cheek, his hair, his brow. “’Tis you. ’Tis really . . . you, my love . . . my dearest, dearest love . . .”

  “ ’Tis me, Mother. ’Tis me,” he echoed, laying his golden head against her hair and drawing her into the circle of his arms.

  Chapter 25

  Field of Gold

  1520

  While Matthew went to the village to meet with tradesmen, Catherine and Dickon took the stony track that led down behind the church to a footpath along the ridge. Despite the lovely May weather, few fishing vessels were out, and the bay was deserted except for a group of men on the beach below, repairing nets. Catherine smiled up at her son as they stood together at the edge of the windy cliff. Matthew had alerted Dickon to his true identity a few days earlier on a separate trip, but for mother and son there was much to learn about one another, much to share. They had only a week’s time, for soon Catherine and Matthew would sail to France for King Harry’s meeting with King Francis on the Field of Gold.

  “I have always loved the sea. It has such power, such freedom,” Catherine said, taking in the wheeling sea birds and the fishing boats that appeared as black specks on the glittering water. “And your father loved it, too, Dickon. He was nine years old when he left England. By the time he was twenty-three, he had sailed many seas and visited many lands. He saw Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, Scotland, and Ireland before he returned to England to—” She broke off, forcing back the unwelcome images that came to her. “What about you?”

  “The sea must be in my blood, for I feel the same. I am a sailor, Mother.”

  “A sailor?” The thought pleased her. “Matthew is a sailor. He owns several ships. Years ago, when he was your age, he gave the Yorkist King Richard III devoted service as a pirate on the high seas. He even dabbled in piracy for King Harry in the first invasion of France—very successfully, I might add.”

  “Are you happy, Mother?” Dickon demanded abruptly.

  Catherine gazed at his handsome face, so like his father’s, even down to the cleft in his chin. “I am, Dickon—happier than I ever thought to be after I lost your father. At first I turned away from happiness, but then I realized it was a way to honor him. What about you? Matthew tells me you remain unmarried at twenty-five.”

  “I am not ready to wed, Mother. I want to make something of myself first. I want to see the world . . . Perhaps I take after my father?” He gave Catherine a shy smile, his eyes lit with dreams.

  “Aye, you are like your father. He, too, had great plans . . . great things he wished to accomplish with his life.” And gambling all, he had lost all, she thought sadly. “But know the risks, dear son. Do nothing heedlessly. The world is a dangerous place.”

  A silence.

  Catherine said, “You met your father briefly when you were three years old. Do you have any memory of him?”

  “I am not sure. I remember being taken to a strange, dark place where a man with bright hair held me in his arms, but I don’t remember what he looked like, or what he said.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. Richard’s last moment of earthly happiness was taking shape before her.

  “Sir Matthew is a good man,” Dickon said.

  “Matthew is your father’s gift to me,” Catherine said softly. “When he left for battle, he made me promise to leave my heart open to love. I didn’t wish to make a promise I couldn’t keep, but he insisted. He said he wanted to look down from Heaven and see me smiling, not weeping. He said he couldn’t bear to see my tears—” She realized suddenly why she had found it so difficult to cry all these years.

  “Your father and I, we were young, Dickon. Youth is a wonderful thing, but it can be costly. We were blind to everything we didn’t wish to see—anything that didn’t fit in with our plans.” The dock at Ayr rose up before Catherine’s eyes and she winced. “We made careless decisions, and as a result, we had one another for less than two years.” She pushed back the memories that kept slipping through her mind. “I was older and knew something of life by the time I met Matthew, so it is different now, yet no less wonderful in its own way. He helped me through
the burdens that were mine at the time I met him. I know not what I would have done without him.” Turning her eyes to her son’s face, she traced the line of nose and mouth with her fingertip, lingering on the cleft in his chin. “Matthew is my great blessing, Dickon—as you are—as was your father—” Her voice trembled with gathering emotion, and she dropped her hand.

  “’Tis beautiful here,” Catherine said, when she had regained her composure. The arc of beach shone gold in the dimming light and the water had turned from dark blue to pewter. “One day I should like you to visit St. Michael’s Mount. I loved it there. Your father was so filled with hope there. It was on the beach at Marazion that I took last leave of him. Naught was the same after we met again, for he was Henry’s captive when next I saw him . . .”

  Catherine related a brief account of their lives together, ending with Richard’s death but omitting the last eighteen months after he was delivered to the Tower. For there were things too evil to speak of and thoughts too wicked to entertain. “And you, my son—” she said, savoring the sound of the word. “What about you?”

  “There is not much to tell. I have been raised by good people. I never suspected I had royal blood in my veins until Sir Matthew told me.”