The formality of his speech startled Kate, and she stood staring, incapable of a response.
“Has the cat got your tongue?” he asked. “No, never mind. I only jest.”
Although his words were confusing, Kate interpreted the flashing in his blue eyes as teasing, not anger. His gleaming hair was combed straight down over his forehead, accentuating his striking eyes and strong features. He had what Gran would call a noble brow.
“We will ride back together. Are you able to mount?” he asked.
The gray pony had trotted alongside Kate and she automatically lifted herself into the sidesaddle, aware that this knowledge of practice was not—could not—be her own. Somehow in transit, perhaps in connection with that other girl, she had collected information that was now coming in handy.
“Your horse will follow mine, as always,” he said.
She did not respond, her head throbbing wildly with the inflated sense that she was more than one person.
“You have an unusual way of offering surprises,” he called back to her moments later. “I did not expect to see you return just yet.”
“I didn’t—” Kate began, and then another, more formal voice took over in response to the young man’s cadences: “Of course, I did not—” but here she stopped herself. A memory of riding hard through autumn fields snapped into her mind and she couldn’t brush it away. As in the tunnel, when she thought of the black carriage, the shut door, and even in her skill at riding, foreign memories overpowered her.
“Of course you will have to tell me sooner or later, but if you prefer to wait, I must be patient,” he said, gracefully guiding his stallion through the trees. “Although the royal palace is close by, I do have one important errand before I return, and you will accompany me.”
The royal palace? Kate glimpsed a turret in the distance, as well as blue water, and then these images were obscured by branches as the horses moved ahead, her mount following his. What was this place?
Kate sat back as best she could and clutched the saddle, holding on more tightly as they found the path and the horses began to gallop. Her hands grew numb and she tried to relax her grip, but it was impossible under the circumstances. Her position on the horse was comfortable, but her mind was alert to danger, sure at any moment that she’d go tumbling to the ground. Soon they reached a clearing and the horses slowed and came to a halt, the young man sliding from the saddle and then lifting Kate down beside him. He was slightly taller than she, and muscular. He’d lifted her easily. Stepping back, she took full note of what he was wearing—a rich green tunic with brown leggings and narrow leather loafers. It was an odd sort of style that matched his formal way of speaking.
“Just a short stop,” he said, indicating a small thatched cottage encircled by a low hedge. “I’ve got some business here.” He tied the reins of both horses to a branch and then strode purposefully up to the house. Kate looked around. She remembered from class that Greenwich Park was quite large—seventy-four hectares, she thought—and home to a small herd of fallow deer. Hunting must be illegal, though. Was she in any danger because of what she had seen? Could he be afraid she’d turn him in as a poacher? A nasty smell hung about the yard, thick and poisonous, and Kate wrinkled her nose. She hesitated, not knowing where to turn. A puppy playing in the grass caught her attention and she took a few steps in its direction.
“MacQueen,” called the red-haired fellow authoritatively. “Show yourself.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” came a raspy voice, and then a little man, much shorter than either of them, stepped out of the doorway into the yard, kicking aside two other puppies. He had bushy dark brows over bloodshot green eyes and a sneering expression of delight at seeing his visitors. Except for the pipe he held in the corner of his mouth, he strongly resembled the fellow she’d seen standing on the apple crate in the park. Was he one and the same? She couldn’t decide.
She wrinkled her nose. There was a mound of gray skins beside the cottage, ragged and moldy. It looked as though they had been there for years. Behind them, Kate could see a refuse pile, topped with rotten pumpkins and squash, and more skins underneath. No wonder the place smelled rank.
“I’ve been vigilant but have not seen nary a one,” her companion went on. “Shall I let my father the King know that you have completed your task?”
“Indeed, every tenant within the bounds did confirm that the great grays are all gone,” whined MacQueen, shuffling a little as he spoke. He seemed to be one of those people who could never look you straight in the eye and so was always moving during a conversation, sidestepping, shifting about, his head tilting first to one side and then the other. Like a rusty sign, swinging in the wind, thought Kate. The creepy feeling of déjà vu intensified.
To hide her discomfort, she knelt down to stroke the puppy that was now nipping at the hem of her dress, all the while continuing to study the little man. There was something about MacQueen that looked menacing even though he seemed harmless enough. She wouldn’t want to be alone with him.
“And none are left?” asked Kate’s companion. His commanding voice made him seem older than his years, but Kate thought he was about her age or perhaps a little younger.
“I’d not say there was,” the man whined. “I’d best say they’re all gone.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” snapped the young man, lifting his hand as if to strike. “Either they are gone, or they are not!” Kate shivered at his demeanor, the pleasant gallantry of a few minutes ago replaced by fury.
“Well, in the fields and wild places of Scotland, there could be some small plenty of the great grays,” MacQueen snuffled, sidling a few steps toward the cottage. “But here, there are nae ones to assail you. I’ve made sure all are away.” He grinned, and repeated in the same whining tone as before: “All are away.”
Great grays. Could they be talking about wolves? Was this man MacQueen helping to get rid of wolves? A smug feeling washed over Kate. So she really had seen wolves! And this certainly was the man she’d heard ranting in the park!
“You’re hunting wolves,” Kate said dizzily, more as a statement than a question.
Her companion looked at her in horror, and MacQueen cried, “Whisht, besom, hush your blether! It’s an ill thief that speaks sae bold!” He crossed himself and turned to face the young man as if for affirmation.
The puppy suddenly took a great tug at Kate’s hem and she heard fabric ripping.
“Hey, stop that!” she said, trying to release the little teeth but instead gaining a scratch on the hand from the creature’s eager claws.
“By St. George, a noble pup!” said her companion, striding over and carefully releasing the animal’s paw from her skirt. “He is healthy, then?” he asked MacQueen. Kate wondered if he were trying to change the subject on purpose, to mask some kind of blunder on her part. Surely you were allowed to speak of wolves—there couldn’t be a law against that! The world swayed around her and she put out a hand to steady herself.
“The whelps are all fine, your grace, an’s their dam,” said MacQueen, indicating the mother dog who now lay suckling her other pups in a roughly made bed of straw beside the garden shed.
“Ah, this one’s a brave lad, isn’t he,” said the young man, scratching the puppy around its ears. “A fine son you have,” he called out to the mother as he picked up the pup and carried him to be with his siblings. His voice rang out among the trees and echoed back, lifting as if it held an important message. “May you have many strong sons.”
“And for yourself the same,” whined MacQueen.
“I thank you kindly, sir,” replied Kate’s companion.
“What kind of dogs are these?” Kate asked in a high thin voice, her stomach lurching from the sweetish smell of decay.
The two stared at her incredulously. After a moment, MacQueen spoke in a sneering sort of way.
“Ho, they’ll be His Highness’s own wolfhounds, then, Princess Katherine,” he sai
d. He looked over at the young man. “I am glad all is settled.”
“Nothing is settled unless I say it is so,” was the quick reply. Taking a pouch from around his waist, the young man threw it at MacQueen’s feet.
Kate looked from one to the other. MacQueen and the Duke of York, an unlikely pair. Yet Henry’s father asked much of him in affairs of home and state. Being heir to the throne was more than just formality—it took a good deal of training. Kate froze at these thoughts. Where had they come from? MacQueen broke the tension by picking up the pouch and removing one of the items—a dog collar, spiked with silver and gold.
“For the whelps.” He nodded at his own words and then added in an ingratiating manner, obviously intent on Henry’s favor: “Very good, very good. I wish ye much joy of them.” Then he actually bowed before turning and shuffling back inside the cottage. Kate looked again at the skins with the sickening knowledge of their origin. Wolf pelts, oozing in the sun, the flies feasting on the aged, ill-cleaned hides.
Henry, if indeed that was his name, caught up the horses’ reins. As he led the animals toward Kate, he carefully looked her over.
“Are you quite well?” he asked, stopping a few paces away.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she said.
“Very good. Because I wouldn’t want to chance riding with you if the sweating sickness had returned.” He eyed her warily.
“I am quite well,” Kate heard herself saying in this other voice that was remarkably hers and yet not hers, a voice whose accents seemed foreign and strange. Was it possible that she could be herself, and yet someone else, at the same time?
He took her left hand and, turning it over, traced a finger along the palm where Kate’s scar shone white in the sunlight.
“Yes, yes, very good,” Henry said, looking up as she glanced back toward the hut. “Don’t let him bother you,” he went on, helping her to mount the gray horse. “Soon, Princess Katherine, he’ll be returned to Scotland, for his job is nigh done.” Princess Katherine.
“Oh, but I’m not—” She was about to deny the title when her horse stepped forward and she had to put all her effort into balancing and hanging on. She had ridden a few times before, back in the United States when she and her father drove to a stable for a few hours’ ride, but she by no means was an experienced rider, and this saddle required that she sit twisted at the waist, with both legs hanging down on the same side. Yet somehow she adjusted, just as she had done earlier, and in a few minutes her body relaxed, the effort of co-ordinating the ride exchanged for practiced ease. In contrast to her riding stance, her mind burst with discomfort. How could she ride like this? Even without the sidesaddle, she recalled bouncing in all her previous riding attempts, nothing like what she was experiencing today.
I have ridden a great deal, she thought, with the added consciousness of another’s voice inside her head. Practiced the equestrian arts ever since I was a child. With this thought, she felt herself sliding from the saddle, and the next thing she knew, she was lying in the bushes.
“Wake up!” the young man was calling and she stared at him blankly. “My God, Katherine, wake up! Are you hurt?”
“I am quite well,” she said, her voice measured and even. “Please help me to my feet, and we shall finish the journey, but a little slower, if you please. I am weary as I have been traveling a long time this day.”
Seated in the saddle again, her mind increased its energy, flitting like a sparrow from one episode to the next until she felt completely worn out. As they rode, the young man kept turning and eyeing her with concern. Who was this guy? He certainly seemed to know her. Conscious of his attention, Kate thought with a jolt of something he had said earlier: My father the King.
Who am I? she asked herself, probing the memories that continued to surprise her as she guided the pony along the path behind the black horse. The clothes here, the formality of the language, even the trappings of the horses were bewildering and yet somehow commonplace. Questions flooded her mind about every detail, asking what it all meant and where exactly she was. Then, even more urgently, she muttered to herself, And when?
11
William
BRUSHING THE HAIR out of his eyes, William carefully opened the door to the shed and stepped inside. He smiled as he noticed that the bowl he’d filled yesterday was now empty. That was a good sign.
“Good boy!” he said to the cub, and the animal wriggled a little as if it understood that William was pleased. Pouring the jar of bread and milk into the bowl, William prayed the creature would be strong enough to eat this fare, and his prayers were rewarded.
As William rubbed strong-smelling grease onto the wounded front leg, the cub didn’t growl but remained very still until the process was finished. William couldn’t deduce the ingredients, for the vessel was from the stables and he did not know what the servants had used, but he recognized the scent from a similar concoction his mother had mixed for the lambs. He’d helped her make lip balm … and there were some similarities between it and this mixture, although this was definitely more powerful. Nostalgically, he remembered the bottle containing oil of roses his mother always kept in the shadows of the kitchen shelf. Charlotte’s job had been to collect the roses each spring, and he remembered her going out with a little basket and coming in proudly, the task completed.
Therein might be another story for Mary, thought William. The story of Charlotte and the roses. How one day, when their mother was making rose water for gooseberry fool, she asked Charlotte to collect some fresh petals. Instead of gathering the wild roses that grew along the lane, Charlotte, thinking to make her task easier, went into Father’s garden and pillaged all the robust blooms she could find. When Father returned from the fields and noticed the barren beds, he’d been very angry, thinking the wind had done it. As Charlotte watched him eat his third helping of dessert, heartily giving into his sweet tooth, she’d started to cry, and then finally confessed the whole story.
“What a great hearty hog I am,” their father had said, “to eat up my very best roses!” Then he and all the rest of them had laughed together until Charlotte had dried her tears. You could always count on Father to turn a dark situation light. William sighed. Was there anything that gave his father laughter now? Or were his days dark and solemn from morn to night?
After giving the wolf cub’s fur a good brushing to prevent the fleas from settling in, William sat back and contemplated the weak little animal. It had eaten well, and that was a good thing. It also seemed to trust him, which would simplify its care. How long until the leg was well, William could not say, but the salve would help. Perhaps in a few days, the creature might be well enough to go back to the woods. Except for the problem of its singular state. Wolves, he knew, live in packs, with the senior animals hunting for the younger ones. How would this little thing fare, all on its own?
William put aside his worries of the future. It would do no good to think too far ahead. If the infection in the leg worsened, going back to the woods wouldn’t be a problem, for the animal would not be alive to go anywhere. He slapped at a flea that was tickling the hairs on his arm. Blasted pest. Insects did not deserve the space they occupied in nature! I’d rather be tramped by a dozen sheep than left for the fleas to ingest, he thought, and then jumped as the wolf cub’s rough tongue rasped against the back of his hand. He lowered his hand a little further. “Enjoy the salt,” he said, and then offered his other hand as well. The cub licked both hands before falling back onto its resting place.
“You’ll be all right,” William said, standing up and surveying the shed, then turning to the door. “I’ll be back after dark,” he called over his shoulder, feeling the need to communicate something if only through the sound of his voice. Animals had just as much need of reassurance as people did.
Hope coursed through him at the thought of restoring this little animal to health, just as he would restore his father to freedom, if only he could. It was his father who had ta
ught him to respect the natural world, just as his father had shown compassion for all living things, human or not. For Father, who so loved the out of doors, imprisonment would be devastating. Now, William felt new resolve. This afternoon he would speak again to Prince Henry. Perhaps he could finally persuade his friend to bend the ear of the King on the elder Fitzroy’s behalf. His father had not been involved in any kind of treachery, of that William was sure. He was, in fact, a loyal follower of the King, and had only the misfortune of being related by marriage to the nephews of Richard III, poor little lads, who had disappeared from the Tower so many years ago. If there was any plot to locate these nephews and return them to the throne, John Fitzroy was certainly unaware of it.
William quickly stepped out of the garden and then, just as quickly, darted back to retrieve his cloak. As he walked down the path toward the castle, he could hear dogs barking in the distance and shivered, brushing the hair from his eyes. It was the sound of a hunt, and he wondered what the target was this time. Some unlucky animal in the wrong place at the wrong time. As perhaps he himself was, here in court. Everything about courtly life still felt foreign, even though he’d already been here some months. “I’d rather be bowled with giant beets,” he said to himself, absently scratching his neck, “than spend another fortnight in Placentia.” But in truth, he had little choice in the matter and he knew it.
His mother was a second cousin to Prince Henry’s late mother, Elizabeth of York, and so William’s connections to the royal family were clear. Henry’s grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, had called him here to be one of the Duke’s peers in spite of the senior William’s disgrace. It was because of his father’s imprisonment that William had wanted to come, determined to find a way to clear his father’s name. But it felt so hopeless.
Though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they have comforted me, thought William. The words of the psalm didn’t have the same power as they did when Charlotte said them, but they were familiar. And then something his mother often said came back to him, the words slow and comforting in the face of what seemed like an insurmountable task. Things are not always what they seem. He repeated the words to himself now as a kind of promise, and then stopped to listen. The baying of the dogs had stopped.
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