B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  A sudden chill came over Catherine and she gave a shiver. Dickon adjusted her cloak and drew her close. “The secret of your birth is something you must forget now, my son. Never allow yourself to think of it. Never, ever speak of it—not to anyone. Not to your wife when you marry, not to your children, not to a single person—for if one person knows, you are never safe. Do you understand?”

  “But think how impressed the girls would be.” Dickon grinned. “Surely, after a time—”

  “Never!” Catherine clutched his arm and did not return his smile. “Not in your lifetime. If you don’t want a secret to get out, you must not tell a single soul.” Catherine took a moment to compose herself, for the horrors Richard had endured flashed into her mind. The fate of the father must not be the fate of the son! She had to make him understand. “You have heard no doubt of the executions of Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, and his brother, William?”

  “No. I cannot say I have.”

  “My son, you have led a sheltered life. You know nothing of court or the terrors that await a man born wrong, as you are, but even you in faraway Wales will have your fill of such deaths with the passage of time. For the Tudors are of bastard lineage and fear those born better than they. They will not rest until they are all dead.” She lifted her gaze to him. “Two days ago, Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, went to the block. You may not have heard of his execution, but surely you know of him?”

  “Indeed, for he owns Brecon Castle, and spent much time in Wales. What was his treason?”

  “He had more royal blood in his veins than the king who sits the throne. So it shall be as long as Tudors rule England.”

  “Very well, Mother. I will keep the secret of my birth, but must it die with me? If I have a son, can he not know of you and my father—not know his noble heritage and the sacrifices made for him by his grandfather?”

  “You may whisper to your son on your death bed, if you can make him understand what danger lies in the truth. If they are careful, the Perkins of Rhossili-Gellis will know the ancient blood of England and of Scotland runs in their veins, and perhaps one day they may even be able to speak openly of their proud forebears—” The castle courtyard at Stirling flashed into her memory and she heard the steward barking orders, “Make haste for the arrival of Prince Richard of England, make haste, I tell ye!” Someone exclaimed, “Gawd! What is that?” and the steward replied, “Naught but the king’s lion, laddie!”

  She saw James make a sudden entrance, dragged from around the corner by the lion he tethered with a golden chain, and heard the echo of her laughter as the steward hastily added, “And the king!”

  She inhaled sharply at the memory of James, whose body lay at Shene, still unburied in all these years after Flodden. Sometimes the fate of kings was a thing to dread. “Tell me, my son, did you ever suspect the secret of your birth?”

  Dickon gave her a smile, and in his smile Catherine saw Richard and felt the sun touch her face, banishing the chill.

  “Every changeling hopes to be of noble blood. I was no different. I had those dreams.”

  Catherine leaned against her handsome boy. Twilight was falling and the fishing boats were gone from sight. The beach at Rhossili was deserted now except for two men far below in rough coats and boots, picking cockles on the tidal sandbanks. The wind blew, thick with the salty smell of the sea, bending low the tall grasses that grew along the dunes. Catherine closed her eyes and listened to the rhythmic pounding of the surf on the shore and the call of the birds. Time shifted and present moved into the past, and she saw Richard’s face again: the bright, twinkling blue eyes she had loved, the curving mouth, the golden hair. Her blood soared with memory and she knew again the scent of him and recalled the smoldering passion that had thrilled her at his touch. She heard once more the thud of boots as men came by the hundreds to climb to the fortress on the mount and swear fealty to the cause of York. For a fleeting instant, she felt the hopes that had lit Richard’s breast. Then it was Marazion, and she was bidding him farewell as the wind whipped them, and birds mewed, and the ocean roared.

  The faint bleating of sheep startled her and her eyes flew open; there were no sheep on the Mount! The past vanished; the present took its place, and Dickon smiled down at her. No, I am not there with Richard, but all is right with the world; all is as it should be. Here in this little Welsh village by the sea had ended the long road that began for her at Stirling Castle; what must be borne had been borne, and she had survived to see her beloved son. He was safe, and at her side, and he would be a sailor and sail to faraway places on Matthew’s ships without fear of the shadow of death at his shoulder.

  It was dark now; the birds had gone to sleep, and the stars were coming out. She touched Dickon’s cheek. “I always told myself that the day I found you, I would find peace. And I have, Dickon. This day has brought back to me a life much loved and bitterly lost, but also a life that is found anew. My husband here on earth, and my husband there in Heaven, have together worked a miracle. That miracle is you. Your father did not die in vain, and knowing that gives me rest. What more is there, when promises are kept, and dreams come true? Whatever the future brings, it could not be greater than this.”

  Dickon pressed a kiss to her brow. The bells of the little church began to toll for vespers. She turned behind her and looked up. Matthew had returned from the village and stood gazing down on them, his lone figure in relief against the sky, his thick silvery hair shining in the gloom, his dark cloak whipping about him. ’Tis over, Matthew, she thought. I have found my rainbow, and it is you and Dickon. She could not see his face in the gathering dark, yet she knew he smiled. Just as she knew Richard smiled, high up there somewhere in that vast magnificence above. She raised a hand to her lips and blew Matthew a kiss. Then she raised it higher, and released it also to Richard.

  Two days after the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V left England, the twenty miles of sea between Dover and Calais were crowded with ships carrying King Henry VIII and Queen Katherine and their entourage to Calais, emptying England of its nobility, hierarchy, courtiers, noble ladies, and treasure. The massive flotilla made Catherine think of a giant military expedition, but instead of fighting, for the first time in history these ships were taking men to joust and tilt, to feast and dance with their enemies. Catherine found that quite remarkable.

  Standing with Matthew on the crowded deck of the Matthew Cradock, she felt again the exhilaration that always came to her at sea, heightened now by Dickon’s presence. Her eyes went to him at the prow inspecting cordage that he had ordered repaired. When she had returned to New Place from her week-long stay at a cottage on the sea at Rhossili-Gellis with Dickon, Matthew had prepared a wondrous surprise for her. He had appointed Dickon boatswain on his ship so he could accompany them to France. Afterward he unfolded his plans for his stepson. “I intend for him to be first mate. Then I shall make him captain, and when he is ready, I plan to give him his own ship.”

  Catherine’s cup had overflowed many times in recent years, but the memory proved too much joy for her heart at this moment, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She was on the sea she loved; with the man she loved; with her beloved son, once lost and now restored to her. Matthew followed the direction of her gaze, and smiling, kissed her tear away.

  “I love you,” she whispered, finding an answering light in his eyes.

  When Catherine arrived at Guisnes, she was stunned at the sight that met her. A land of faery splendor lay sparkling in the noonday sun. The castle at Guisnes in the border town of Calais was decorated with Tudor roses and dragons and surrounded by a glittering array of hundreds of great silken pavilions studded with gems and cloth of gold. Here were the accommodations for the nobles, and behind these stretched thousands more tents for the rest of the English company. On the other side, in French Ardres, stood the French camp, equally lavish. In the center of these two magnificent encampments sat the empty field of Val d’Or, where the two kings would meet.

  Wit
h their jewels flashing in the sun, gorgeously clad ladies and knights in sumptuous costumes of silks and velvets paraded through the grassy paths between the tents, nibbling sweetmeats and cakes laden with strawberry jam, and pausing to dip silver goblets into fountains flowing with fine malmsey and claret. As strolling minstrels played lilting tunes, and mummers, jongleurs, and men on stilts entertained, they laughed, danced, and made merry.

  Since Catherine was royalty and Matthew was closely attached to Somerset, she found herself housed in one of the jeweled tents close to Harry’s spectacular crystal pavilion. Not to be outdone, Francis I was based in a golden tent on the French side embellished with diamonds in the design of fleur-de-lis. Each day the English and French courts vied with one another in offering splendid entertainments and there followed much dining, good cheer, dancing, and tilting. Then, on the fifth of June, days after their arrival, King Harry and King Francis set out to meet one another.

  The two kings halted at the edge of the field of gold and sat in silence facing one another, their men around them in battle array. Catherine caught her breath. There had been rumors of treachery and a French ambush, and for a moment it seemed that these were true and the two sides would charge one another. Then trumpets sounded. Both kings spurred their horses and galloped forward to the center of the field where a spear marked their meeting place. As they dismounted and embraced, the people of their two nations cheered madly. Laughing, they strode into a pavilion, followed by their lords. Now the celebrations began in earnest.

  Catherine cherished the moments with her son. Matthew found frequent cause to summon Dickon on pretext of ship’s business so she could see him every day. Dickon was with her at one of the masked balls, and Matthew even managed to get him a good seat at the tournament where Queen Katherine sat beneath a canopy of estate entirely lined with pearls to watch her husband joust against King Francis. He was present at several feasts, and afterward, mother and son had stood together watching the fireworks in the night sky. Matthew slipped Dickon into the royal pavilion for the wrestling match between the two kings, and though Catherine and Dickon could not be seated together, as that would draw unwelcome attention, Dickon stood in Catherine’s line of sight and they exchanged many a smile across the distance. There was a moment of tension when Francis threw Harry to the floor, to Harry’s great displeasure, but he rose, laughing. Catherine heard the Venetian ambassador murmur, “These sovereigns are not at peace. They hate each other cordially.” A snicker met this remark and was quickly stifled.

  Lavish entertainments followed daily as each king tried to outshine the other, and so much cloth of gold was in evidence that the site of the meeting, Val d’Or, the Field of Gold, came to be called the Field of Cloth of Gold.

  After two weeks of pleasure and amazing pageantry, Catherine returned to England with a renewed sense of awe for her husband and those who had helped Cardinal Wolsey and Somerset shape this meeting. The ceremony would live in her heart always for it was coupled in memory with Dickon, and Matthew. But no alliance came of it, and the expedition was deemed a wasteful extravagance. A failure. Catherine didn’t agree. Old enemies had mingled and tasted of friendship; they had partaken in a solemn act of reconciliation. She saw this as a new beginning for the world.

  As she boarded the Matthew Cradock for England with her husband and her son, Catherine’s heart could not have been fuller. Standing alone at the prow of the vessel, her eyes sought her silver-haired husband and her golden-haired son, who stood together at the stern, watching the sailors assemble on deck. Matthew nodded his head, and Dickon blew his boatswain’s whistle, conveying his orders to the ship’s crew.

  Catherine smiled. Life with Matthew was always a whirlwind of activity, for he served a demanding and energetic king, but with few exceptions, the days of her marriage had been wrapped in glitter. “Field of Cloth of Gold” might be the nomer of the place where kings had met, but it was also what Catherine would call her time with Matthew. He had banished the dark past and shed light over the present. With soft eyes, she watched him come to her across the deck, and it seemed to her that the future was spread before her like a field of cloth of gold.

  For Catherine and Matthew and Dickon, the years after the Field of Cloth of Gold passed peacefully, bringing many blessings. In 1526, however, Matthew found his energies depleted by his duties and officially resigned his responsibilities.

  “I shall miss you sorely, Matthew,” said Charles Somerset, Earl of Worcester, “but I understand. We are the same age and my heart is not what it used to be either.” He gave Matthew a wan smile. “This court with its young king belongs to those whose hair is not as gray as ours, and no doubt ’tis time to let hale and hardier men take our place.”

  Matthew gave him a smile as he picked up his gloves. “We have seen much in our time, my lord of Worcester, and are blessed to have lived as long as we have.”

  “Speaking of which—” Somerset lowered his voice so that it was barely audible. “Did that matter I put into your hands ever resolve itself?”

  “It did, my lord. Most splendidly.” He exchanged a long look with Somerset. “My wife is ever grateful to you.”

  “’Tis good—very good. Give your beautiful wife my fond regards, Matthew. She is quite a woman. I daresay you know that better than anyone. ’Tis not for nothing she is called the Pale Rose of England, and indeed she is. A rare and most splendid rose . . . A rose for all seasons.”

  Matthew’s eyes grew moist as he bent to kiss Somerset’s hand, but Somerset restrained him, and instead, drew him close in an embrace.

  “We know not when we shall meet again, Matthew, or whether it be here, or there—” He threw a glance at the sky. “So I shall bid thee a fond adieu. It has been an honor knowing thee.”

  Matthew nodded mutely, unwilling to trust himself to speech.

  The journey home to Wales took longer than normal, for Matthew’s heart beat more erratically than usual and he tired after only a few hours’ ride. Nor did it help that he worried about Catherine. She was twice a widow and might manage well enough the third time, except that she had no kin to help protect her and was getting old herself. Fifty now. No one would know it to look at her—though her skin was not as firm as once it was, she still had all her teeth, and walked in beauty. A pale rose, still, that had fought many a fire and emerged unscorched.

  When he arrived back at New Place, Catherine rushed to give him welcome. Leading him to the solar, she made him stretch out on the settle beneath a fur blanket by the fire that roared in the hearth, and poured him a goblet of warm, spiced wine.

  “Somerset sends you greetings, my lovely girl,” Matthew said.

  Catherine smiled her radiant smile. “I will be fifty-one in November, dearest. Scarcely a girl.”

  “If you were a hundred, you’d still be my lovely girl,” replied Matthew. He let his gaze rest on her for a long moment, then he put out his hand to her. “Come, I have something to tell you.”

  Catherine drew a cushion beside him and sat down. Taking his hand into both her own, she waited.

  “The time has come to build my tomb,” he said.

  A cry escaped Catherine’s lips. She tightened her grip of his hand and bit down hard to hold back the emotion that flooded her.

  “You must be strong, dear heart.”

  “I am so afraid,” she breathed on a sigh.

  “You have been afraid many times before, and always—always—hope has trumped your fear. This time will be no different, Catherine.”

  “Oh, Matthew—why can we not live together forever? Why must it end? I am not ready for it to end.”

  “Now, now, my dear. We’ve had nearly ten years together, longer than most people I know. God willing, we may have more time yet, but I need to be ready. You understand?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “Catherine, I would like you to stay here at New Place and be laid to rest beside me when your time comes. It gives me much comfort to think you will be near, and that w
e shall be reunited in this world, as well as in the next. May I have your permission to design the tomb for us both?”

  Catherine didn’t dare look at him, but she nodded her head vigorously, stifling the tears that threatened. He pressed a kiss to her brow and the tide of panic that had engulfed her began to recede. She lifted her hand and touched his beloved face.

  On the fifteenth day of April, 1526, only weeks after Matthew had bid Somerset farewell, came the tidings of Somerset’s death at the age of sixty-six. While on a visit to the Chapel of St. Anne in Swansea Church to check the progress of their effigies, Catherine and Matthew lit a hundred candles for him so that the church blazed like the bursts of fireworks that had lit their nights in France. Catherine murmured silent thanks to him anew for the son he had helped her find.

  Standing at the foot of the tomb Matthew had commissioned, Catherine gazed at their effigies. They were so lifelike—and yet so dead, so empty. She and Matthew lay recumbent; he in armor, his head resting on a helmet with a boar on the crest, and she in her gown, her head on a pillow supported by angels. Two boars were at their feet, and one held a portion of her train in his mouth.

  “It is lovely, Matthew,” she said, deeply affected by the knowledge of their mortality.

  With the effigies vivid in her mind, Catherine never took a single day of her time with Matthew for granted. She relished having him home with her and cherished the fact that he no longer had to ride to court or across Wales each week to tend to his duties. His declining health coupled with Somerset’s death stressed to her the urgency of savoring what time they had left. They made another trip to the Isle of Wight in the spring, and went for long walks together over the hills and dales that dazzled with wildflowers. They rode to the seaside and picnicked on the beach, and ambled through woods where delicate fern-lined paths were sprinkled with sunlight. They paused to rest by brooks with water so clear, they could see the pebbles at the bottom, and on their return to New Place, they strolled arm in arm through the orchards, where boughs bent low with blossoms shed petals over them like blessings. Sometimes Catherine picked posies and fashioned the flowers into wreaths with which to crown Matthew’s silver head, declaring as she did so, “Hail Poseidon, King of the Sea!” And always, wherever she was, she would be gazing about her, dwelling on the details of the moment so she could capture their memory forever.