B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  They celebrated Matthew’s sixty-seventh birthday in September, and with great anticipation, Catherine prepared for Yuletide. As was customary for them since that disastrous Yule with Matthew’s daughter, they would spend the sacred season with Maggie and Thomas on the Isle of Wight, and Dickon would take them there, his expert hand guiding the Matthew Cradock as she and Matthew sat and watched. When winter arrived, they lingered by the fire, reading poetry or chatting about nothing in particular, and marveling at the great doings at court, which now seemed so distant and irrelevant to them. Sometimes Dickon would come to visit, and these were the best times of all. Her joy in showing him his room the first time he’d come to Fyfield was a memory that would live forever in her heart.

  In the four years since they had found Dickon, Matthew had taught his stepson everything he himself knew about trade, and Dickon had proved himself an apt pupil. He still didn’t marry, however, though he could well afford a wife.

  “Later, Mother. I am having too much fun,” he would laugh when she teased him about his single state. Catherine always smiled, thinking of his father, who must have broken hearts by the cartloads as he roamed Europe as a young man. Matthew, meanwhile, continued to make secret provision for Dickon. There was always the danger that his daughter might learn of the monies he had given his stepson, and discover Dickon’s dangerous connection to Richard of York. To protect him, Matthew hid Dickon’s ownership of the ship he had given him by setting it up as a Genoese vessel under a code known only to them.

  By December 1526, the talk at New Place, Fyfield, and the Isle of Wight had invariably turned to a different secret, one that had come to be called “The King’s Secret Matter.” But it was no secret at all, for naught in the realm was more widely discussed than Henry’s desire to disown his queen, Katherine of Aragon. He had fallen in love with another woman named Anne Boleyn.

  “She is beautiful, intelligent, and much younger than his queen,” reported Matthew as they sat in the solar at New Place on a cold wintry night. “A headstrong and ambitious woman who refuses to be the king’s mistress. It reminds me of someone I know.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.

  Catherine lay down the thick black velvet cloak she was embroidering as a Yuletide gift for Thomas. “You do me an injustice, sir,” she bristled. “I refused to marry the king. There is a difference, you know.”

  “Indeed, you did, my dear girl. I don’t believe another woman in history can lay claim to refusing a king. I always knew you were exceptional and without peer.”

  “Exactly,” said Catherine, only partly mollified. “And I wasn’t ambitious either. At least, it depended on the king.” She grinned suddenly. “Henry wasn’t worth the taking.”

  Matthew laughed.

  “Nevertheless,” Catherine resumed, “Anne Boleyn has my sympathy. All marriages are happy—it’s the living together afterwards that causes all the problems.”

  “I hope you’re not speaking of us?” Matthew said anxiously.

  “No, merely thinking of dear James.” Catherine smiled. She fell silent as she took another few stitches with her load of turquoise silk thread, and laid the cloak down again. “I’ve walked in Anne Boleyn’s shoes. I know what it takes to tread those hot coals at court. These Tudor kings have a way of burying their queens. I survived only through sheer guile. I do not envy her, nor do I believe she has any idea what she is getting herself into. Harry is a whited sepulcher, beautiful on the outside, rotten on the in-. I know him. At least Henry had scruples. I fear Harry has none. Anne Boleyn had better watch her step.”

  “She has many enemies, and they are powerful ones. I’ve heard her called every epithet there is, but Henry is a man besotted. He claims divorce is diplomatically expedient, dynastically urgent, and theologically necessary. He says his queen is barren because his marriage to Katherine was never lawful. According to Henry, the two books of Leviticus forbade the very marriage he had entered with his brother’s wife. He sees it as his duty to his people and to God to cast aside Katherine and marry the woman he loves. But Wolsey is sluggish in pushing the divorce forward, and in this he stands to incur the king’s mighty wrath.”

  “How can she be called barren when she has birthed her daughter, Mary?”

  “She has given the king no son, and is past childbearing age. As far as Henry is concerned, that makes her barren. He has a fear of dynastic failure. He’s sent to Rome for an annulment.”

  “I remember Katherine’s wedding to Arthur—” Catherine paused, her needle in the air, her mind burning with memory. “What do you think Henry will do if the pope does not grant him the annulment he seeks?”

  Matthew sighed heavily. “Henry is nothing if not determined. He will have his way, whatever the pope decides. I have no doubt he will wed Anne Boleyn without the pope’s blessing, if he must. If that happens—God forfend—there could well be civil war.”

  “Katherine once said that her marriage was made in blood.” Aye, drenched in Richard’s blood, and Warwick’s. She blinked to banish the dark memories that leapt in the shadows of her mind.

  “Well, my lovely girl, ’tis no use to dwell on things we cannot change.” Matthew poured two goblets of wine and handed her one. “Here, let’s drink to us—and to those we love—be they with us, or up there.”

  He lifted the silver goblet she had given him as a birthday gift, and she followed his example. They sipped the sweet malmsey thoughtfully.

  “Dickon is twenty-nine now, and I am thinking he should marry soon,” Catherine said. “And Maggie has not yet wed.” She smiled at Matthew over the rim of her cup.

  He gave a roar of laughter. “What are you plotting, my lovely girl?”

  “A marriage made in Heaven,” smiled Catherine. “Speaking of those up there, Matthew, and those down here, it would please me, and Thomas, I am sure—and no doubt Richard and Cecily—if such a match could be arranged between Dickon and Maggie. Cecily believed in Richard, that he was her brother, you know.”

  “As did many others,” Matthew replied softly.

  “Do I have your blessing, Matthew?”

  He reached out and took her hand. “You have my blessing, my lovely girl,” he chuckled.

  “Thank you.” She rose and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “And now I daresay ’tis past your bedtime.”

  Outside the wind banged the shutters while Catherine basked in the warmth of Matthew’s body. “Oh, Matthew, never leave me,” she sighed aloud, drawing his arm tightly across her breast, as was her wont.

  “Never,” he mumbled sleepily.

  Catherine snuggled close. Soon it would be Yuletide, and Yuletide was always wonderful. They would sail away to the Isle of Wight. Dickon and Maggie would be with them. What a blessing if they wed . . . They would need a papal dispensation since they were cousins, but that shouldn’t be a problem . . . How marvelous to think that she, and Cecily, and Richard, and Thomas would be united that way for all time—

  “Will . . . you . . . speak to . . . Dickon, Matthew?” she murmured drowsily.

  “Hmmm . . .”

  “About . . . the . . . marriage . . .” Her lids were growing heavier with each word.

  There was no response; his breathing had changed. Matthew must have fallen asleep. She made a mental note to ask him in the morning. She pushed up closer against him, feeling warm, and so very blessed. Her lids grew heavier still and she felt herself fading away into sleep. Thank God for Matthew, she thought, drifting off.

  Thank God for dreams . . .

  Thank God for hope.

  Epilogue

  WESTMINSTER, 1532

  The year since Matthew’s death was fraught with sorrow and difficulties, and his loss plunged Catherine into a depth of loneliness she had not known since Richard had died. Though she was grateful to have had five years more with him after he built his tomb, she missed him sorely. Alone she labored beneath the weight of the administration of her estate, and alone she walked in the woods where Matthew’s gentle companionship
had brought solace and brightened her life.

  At first, nature proved healing, but then solitude turned into an enemy. So heavy was the despair unleashed in her that she returned to court, that place where swirling memories, both joyous and bitter, tangled in her heart in a knot as heavy as lead. Better to be alone with strangers than to be alone with nothing but emptiness, or so she had thought. But in the passing days here at court, she had learned that whether alone or with others, all was the same. Nothing helped.

  She made her way along the torch-lit passage to the king’s privy chambers, where the royal festivities were in progress, presided over by Henry and his new queen, Anne Boleyn. Thus had she walked many times since Richard’s capture. At the end of the long road, a king awaited once more, but the familiar face was gone now, and the new one that had taken his place had changed the old ways. Now the walls that encircled her resounded with merriment, instead of dole, yet dole and merriment were the same to her, and at the end of life, there was only memory, nothing more. That much she knew.

  Sudden emotion overwhelmed her. She cut short her steps and turned into an empty alcove. The window stood open to the dark garden, and though she could still hear the voices of the merrymakers, they were fainter here. She lifted her eyes to the moonlit sky. Her mind drifted into memory, and before her eyes she saw herself at Castle Huntly, with her beloved Richard. They were dancing to a tempestuous Highland melody that was charged with energy. She had eyes for no one but him. As she leapt from side to side, pointed her toes, and shook her skirts, the music reached a feverish, almost violent, pitch. Drunk on joy, they followed the dance, clapping their hands, swinging one another around, laughing with wild abandon. Linking arms, never taking their eyes from one another, they moved to the ferocious tempo, drawing close, drawing apart, determined to wring from each note its full measure of ecstasy.

  She came back to the present abruptly. A woman’s voice was raised in a song without words, a poignant, melodious lament that ushered forth a fathomless despair from the depths of her being. She’d not given it much heed as she’d made merry with Richard on that immortal evening forever imprinted in her mind, but those Highland pipes had vibrated with martial fervor, hinting at darkness and war for those who strained to hear. It had been, she realized, a warning of what was to come.

  She closed her eyes against the grief. Richard, I miss you. Matthew, I miss you . . .

  “Lady Catherine,” said a resonant voice from behind her. “Your husband, Sir Matthew, and my father, were good friends.”

  She swung around. She did not know this young man. “Forgive me—have we met?”

  “We have. Clearly you don’t remember, but I have never forgotten.”

  She gazed at him in puzzlement, trying to recall.

  “Christopher Ashton, my lady.” He swept his plumed cap from his fair curls, and gave her a low, elegant bow. “Son of Thomas Ashton. He remembered you from the early days and always spoke of you in most glowing terms.”

  “Ah yes, I remember your father,” she lied. “That was kind of him. How is he these days?”

  “He died three years ago.”

  “I am sorry.”

  A silence.

  “I see you have returned to court. How long will you stay?” he said.

  “I know not. Until I have need to return to my manor at Fyfield, I suppose—or until I tire of court.” She gave him a smile. Time had marked his eyes and mouth, though gently so, she suddenly realized, and he was not as young as she’d first thought. Even at forty, however, he was young to her. “I am alone, as you may know—” She blinked to banish the ghosts who were suddenly all around her. Matthew had left her all his worldly goods, excepting the provisions he had made for the inheritance of his daughter and her sons. He had even granted her New Place for her lifetime use, but Margaret and her sons had challenged his will and threatened her with violence if she stayed. Mindful of the fate of their other grandmother, she had fled Wales, leaving everything behind that had belonged to Matthew. Fyfield had proved a lonely place, empty of memories, except those of James, whom she did not wish to remember.

  “Solitude is a good thing,” she said, “if it is not overly done.” She looked away. She had no desire to say more to this man who was making conversation with her out of pity or curiosity.

  “The minstrels play a delightful melody, Lady Catherine.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at the passageway. It was a love song that did nothing to assuage the ache of loneliness running rampant through her this night. Not trusting herself to speak, she turned her gaze to the open window. The night was somehow tender in its darkness. A roomful of strangers and the laughter she would have to endure with them seemed suddenly most unwelcome. Sleep rarely found her anymore, but perhaps it was time to return to her chamber in case it should decide to visit. She was about to bid Christopher Ashton a fair evening when his voice came again.

  “The stars are unusually bright tonight, are they not? Especially that one—”

  She followed the direction he pointed and astonishment washed over her in a flood of disbelief; he was indicating Richard’s star, shining bright in the heavens. Awestruck, she said softly, almost to herself, “’Tis only when darkness falls that we can see the stars.”

  “Beautiful. Something the poet Thomas Wyatt wrote?”

  She shook her head. “Something someone told me a long time ago.”

  “A very wise soul.”

  Averting her gaze, she struggled for composure, her mind in tumult as she sought to make sense of the coincidence. That, she thought, was no doubt futile. Life was filled with coincidences.

  “King Henry has arranged lavish entertainment this night. I should like to escort you the rest of the way, my lady, if I may? For I would claim a dance.”

  Her head shot up in surprise. “A dance?” She stared at the hand he offered her, but she did not take it. Even at forty, Christopher Ashton was nearly seventeen years younger than her. Pity she would not accept, but what else could there be? “Master Ashton, such a dance may cause gossip that would not reflect well on either of us.”

  “Let them gossip. I care not a whit. I did not think you did either. Am I wrong?”

  She regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. “I do not worry about what people think. For I have found they don’t do it very often.”

  He laughed for a long moment. “’Tis what my father admired most about you. You are a woman of spirit and courage, Lady Gordon.”

  “’Tis not courage, dear sir, ’tis necessity. We do what we must.”

  “We do what we must, indeed. It takes all kinds of courage to get through this world.” He fell silent, and their eyes met. There was far more to this young man, she realized abruptly, than fair curls and an intriguing smile.

  “Let us not dwell on dismal thoughts. Life is brief. Let us dance and make merry, my lady.”

  A faint memory echoed in her mind, and she realized Matthew had spoken similar words on the feast day at Fyfield. She lifted her eyes to him. Something about Christopher Ashton reminded her of Richard. Maybe in the line of the jaw, or maybe in the way he held his head. Remember me in happiness, not in tears; smile for me, Catryn; laugh for me. ’Tis how I want to see you remember me. What was wrong with recapturing a semblance of that happiness, if only fleetingly? He spoke truth, this young man. Life was short, and joy so very precious.

  “Let us dance—” she said. She broke into a smile for the first time since Matthew’s death, and accepted the hand he offered her.

  Author’s Note

  Except for her dazzling beauty, the lifelong passion she inspired in King Henry VII, and the general facts of her life, nothing endures of Lady Catherine: no portrait, no letters, no observations she made or that were made of her. Only ten words that she spoke were recorded for posterity: “It is the man, and not the king, I love.” These words, spoken at a young age, at a point in her life when she was under unimaginable duress, live in tribute not only to her love for her first husba
nd, but also to the remarkable and courageous woman she was. Devised at short notice, it is a reply addressed to both a king and his captive that gives no offense to one, while offering encouragement to the other, and that speaks to both simultaneously, while conveying volumes to each.

  From these ten words, and her refusal of a king’s gift, I derived my portrayal of Lady Catherine Gordon.

  Since the story of Lady Catherine given here omits the time period of January 1502, which includes the betrothal of Princess Margaret to James IV, I plead artistic license for depicting the proxy wedding as taking place in 1503, and for consolidating the Earl of Bothwell’s visits of 1501 and 1502 into one.

  Catherine’s fourth husband, Christopher Ashton, was a much younger man, born around 1500, and a widower with two small children. Of his ancestry little is known, but he may have been related to Sir Ralph Ashton of Yorkshire, who had been a staunch supporter of King Richard III. Several Ashtons died in the Pretender’s cause, and if Ashton was related, he would have harbored strong Yorkist sympathies.

  As noted by Ricardian scholar Wendy Moorhen, Christopher Ashton was a courtier of unknown origins, sufficiently well connected to obtain a post at court as gentleman usher to the king. He supported Queen Anne Boleyn, whom he described as “one of the bountifullest women of her time or since” and was a man of forceful personality who made his mark in local politics, battled with his neighbors in and out of court, fought for his country in Scotland and in France, and finally challenged the rule of Bloody Mary.1