“I remember,” Richard murmured.
“Minted for you by Aunt Meg.”
Catherine put the coin away. They sat quietly for a while. Catherine broke the silence. “In your confession, you gave your father’s name as Wezbecque. Did no one notice?”
Richard grinned. “That it means ‘orphan,’ you mean? No, no one did. It was my private jest. My uncle, King Richard, gave me the name of my foster family on the eve of Bosworth. Odd, isn’t it, that their name can be made to read ‘orphan’ by changing a single letter? It’s so apt. I keep thinking about my uncle, Catryn. If he’d won, all would be different now.”
“Aye, my love. Right to the wrang did yield on that heartless day.’Tis from a Scottish poem.” After a pause, she said, “Why does good keep losing to evil? Why do many die that should have lived?”
“We cannot fathom God’s will.”
Another silence.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll be able to remember who I am by the time Henry is through with me, Catryn.”
“Look at me Richard—I have no doubt who you are. You are the son of your father, Edward IV and the true king of England. Never forget that. As I never will.” Catherine realized that waiting for Henry’s decision on Maximilian’s offer weighed heavily on Richard. She searched for a way to get his mind off his worry. “Tell me about your first marriage,” she said, keeping her voice to a bare whisper, as always.
Richard gave a little laugh. “If you can call it that, my Celtic princess . . . I was four years old, and my little bride, Anne Mowbray, Duchess of Norfolk, was eight and the richest heiress in England. I remember sitting with her under a canopy of shining silk at our wedding jousts. My bridegroom’s crown pressed down hard on my brow and I was most uncomfortable—” He grinned, then his smile faded. “She died in 1481, when she was eight years old, poor child.”
They listened to the gentle lapping of the water and watched the swans glide past. Occasional bursts of laughter came from their minders nearby. On the river, a barge passed, in defiance of the weather, its oars splashing and the men aboard singing a merry tune, making welcome noise. Otherwise few people were out this day. Everyone was preparing for the observance that would begin with the morrow. Catherine had no guests to receive, and no new gown to supervise, for she would wear one of the two black ones she owned, and Richard would don the outfit that had been tailored for his appearance at the ambassadors’ reception.
Catherine threw a glance behind her. Through the floating mist she saw that there were only two minders now; one of hers, and one of Richard’s. The others must have gone for a stroll of their own. The two who remained watched them from the side of a small building where they had found shelter. She relaxed. They were too far away to hear what was said.
“Richard, would it help if I spoke to Elizabeth about you?”
“I doubt it. Sometimes I see her looking at me across the room as if she is trying to decide if I am her brother, but she has never cared enough to try to ascertain for herself by speaking to me. Aunt Meg hates her. She says Elizabeth sold her soul to the devil for a throne.”
“Nay, this much I know. She thought you dead, and wished to bring peace to her land by uniting York and Lancaster. I despise her, too, for she is a little mouse before Henry’s will, yet she is not completely to blame. Henry does not wish there to be contact between the two of you, and she obeys his will in this and everything else, because she knows he can do away with her and her sisters, as easily as he has done with others who have displeased him—” She broke off. Her train of thought was too terrible to dwell on. “But if she knew for certain that you are who you are, it has to change things.”
“How can I prove my identity to her? Anything I know is known to others as well. We were never alone.”
“You had to be, at least once in your life. Talk to me about your memories, Richard—tell me anything. It doesn’t have to do with Elizabeth.”
“That is not difficult, Catryn. I live in my memories these days . . . I remember the names of our favorite hounds and the horses we used to ride, but that scarcely helps, for others know them, too. With my brother Edward I was not close, since he was kept in Wales and we were raised apart. I remember little except for the time we spent together in the Tower—” Richard shuddered visibly. “It was always cold and damp in those chambers. We looked forward to playing in the garden, shooting arrows and cavorting with one another. Then, one day, someone came to tell us we would not be allowed outside, for it was raining. This had never happened before, and we were sad. We loved the outdoors. After that day, come rain or shine, we were not let out to play.”
Catherine tightened her hold of his hand.
“Edward began to mope. His toothache grew worse, and he cried out more in his sleep. I tried to cheer him, for I truly believed all would be well in the end, but he remained unconvinced. I spent my days looking out the window and watching people pass, hoping to catch sight of someone I knew. It was good to smell the grass and feel the breeze on my face—” He paused; Catherine waited for him to resume. “Then Edward caught a fever. I wasn’t allowed near the window anymore. They said it was too dangerous for me to be seen at all.”
“How could King Richard have been so wicked?” she said angrily.
“It seemed that way to me at the time, but looking back, I realize he was protecting us. Tudor was trying to kill us even then, and he succeeded with my brother, Edward.”
Richard fell into reverie. Behind them, their minders chatted about the forthcoming feast, wondering what would be served. A few people walked along the riverbank, throwing them glances.
“One night, a man came to us—a noble, judging by his dress,” Richard resumed softly. “He didn’t give his name. Our guard was sent away, and he sat and chatted with us for a spell. Edward was feverish, so he didn’t say much. The man seemed kind. I liked him. While he was with us, there was a knock at the door, and a pageboy was let in. The noble took him by the hand and introduced him to Edward. Then the noble said I had to leave with him and the pageboy would stay in my place, but that he hoped we would return soon and see Edward again—”
Richard froze, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were back in that moment again; that terrible moment in the Tower when he looked on his brother’s face for the last time.
“I gave Edward an embrace, and we left.”
“Where did you go?”
“To a castle somewhere in the north. I think it was Barnard.” He exhaled audibly, giving Catherine a sense of what it had taken for him to relate these memories to her. “That was it. Until the time I was taken back to London to see my mother again.”
“Your mother—” she cried, and then hastily lowered her voice. “You saw your mother again?”
“Only one time. They gave me a pail, grimed me up with stains on my cheek, and told me I was a stonemason’s helper and took me to sanctuary. King Richard was in the room with Mother when I entered.”
“Why didn’t you tell the council any of this?”
“I did mention it. You have forgotten. What difference does it make?”
“What time of year was it?” Catherine asked, pondering an idea.
“I’m not sure. March perhaps, for there was snow on the ground when we left the north, and spring flowers were breaking through the frozen ground when we reached London.”
She tensed. It was only with great effort that she kept her voice to a murmur. “March? Then all this makes perfect sense!” She met his eyes. “It was in March that your mother accepted King Richard’s offer of pardon and moved from sanctuary into a country home. It was in March that she wrote her son Dorset that all was well and to escape Tudor and return to England. It was in March that she allowed your sister Elizabeth to join King Richard’s court, and gave up plotting to wed her to Tudor.”
Richard stared at Catherine. “That last time I saw her, she gave me a password.” He spoke quickly, excitedly. “She told me that when the time came, I should send her a marguer
ite, and she would know that I lived. She said no one would suspect a Yorkist with a marguerite, for that was the emblem of the Lancastrian queen, Marguerite d’Anjou. She said she would wait for me forever.” He dropped his head.
“If only your lady mother were alive,” Catherine said, brushing a tear from his lashes, “she would know it was you, and all the land would rise up for you.”
“She died as I was preparing to come to England. The timing was most convenient for Tudor.”
Too convenient, Catherine thought, averting her eyes. Knowing the Tudors now, she could believe that they had poisoned Richard’s mother over a period of months to make it look as if she had died of a slow illness. She had no wish to speak the thought aloud, preferring to bring up a matter of hope, not pain. “Richard, might your mother have given the password to Elizabeth?”
Richard looked at her, hope forming in his eyes.
“Who else was present when you last saw your mother?” she whispered, stealing a glance over Richard’s shoulder at their minders. The other two had returned, and all four were both standing in the shelter of a nearby oak tree now, shivering together, but too distant to hear their words. “Surely you were not alone?”
“There was the man who took me to Westminster from the north, but I do not know his name. All others are dead who were there—King Richard, my mother, Lord Howard. My sisters are too young to remember . . . except for Elizabeth and Cecily.”
“Elizabeth,” Catherine echoed. “It keeps coming down to Elizabeth . . . She could verify this. She is kept a virtual prisoner, but if she knew—if she knew . . .”
As was his custom every evening before dinner, Henry closeted himself in his privy chamber to go over the account books his treasurer left him. Carefully, he scrutinized purchases and questioned those that seemed excessive. But on this cold March night, his mind kept straying to Catherine.
On the chair beside him, his monkey gulped wine from a cup, spilling more than he swallowed.
“No, Prince,” Henry said, slapping his wrinkled hand as he reached for Henry’s quill. “I do important work here, and you cannot eat my pen. Avoiding needless spending, you see, is the primary responsibility of a king . . . Not that you would understand.”
The monkey jumped up and down on his chair beside Henry, as if objecting to an insult.
“Now, now, Prince, no need for that. You are a good fellow, and I am fond of you. Here . . . have some more wine—” He refilled his cup and watched him drink. Then he scratched his ear. The monkey tilted his head with a sigh of pleasure. “Aye, we all need love, don’t we?” Henry said, his tone wistful. Forcing his attention back to his account book, he signed the page and flipped to the next.
His mother and Morton had advised him to reject Maximilian’s offer, tempting as it was. Even more might be wrung out of the Holy Roman Emperor in exchange for the safe delivery of the one who called himself Plantagenet, but the effect of returning the prince to Burgundy—even defanged this way—would be to stamp him as legitimate in the eyes of the English people. That would not do. Conspiracies were bound to form around him, with or without his consent, undermining Henry and the dynasty he hoped to establish. Soon he would have to inform “Juno,” Margaret of Burgundy, of his decision—but not just yet. It gave him satisfaction to know he had her dangling in the wind. He bent his head back to his ledger and moved down the column, checking each expense.
“Two shillings for a man who scared away crows around Shene, is that not excessive, Prince?” he demanded. The monkey snickered and banged his hand on the table. “You’re drunk, my friend,” Henry said with a smile. He put a question mark beside the charge and turned the page.
But he wouldn’t have sent the Pretender back, even if they had recommended he do so. If the Pretender returned to Burgundy, Catherine would go with him, and he couldn’t bear that. As hard as it was to see her, knowing she cared nothing for him, it would be harder not to see her at all. She had to stay here, in England.
He put a hand to his brow and turned to gaze out the window at the snowy scene below. He didn’t understand this thing called love. There was his queen, Elizabeth, of course. He supposed he loved her, but not in this way. She was beautiful, so much so that he’d been taken aback when he first saw her. In an arrangement with her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, who wished to prove that her daughter was a virgin and worthy to be queen, he’d bedded her a few weeks before they were married. In truth, he’d been reluctant to marry the girl because of the rumors that she’d loved his predecessor, Richard III, and had slept with him. Certainly he hadn’t expected to enjoy their encounter as much as he had, but Elizabeth had turned out to be a virgin and a good match in every way. She had sweet breath, and was fruitful in bearing children, and—unlike her dreadful mother—gentle, and pleasantly submissive to his will. The people loved her. She had united York and Lancaster, and legitimatized his throne. She had served her purpose well, and he had to admit, he did enjoy his evenings in her private solar, for she had a gift for music and song. Like her brother—
The thought vanished even as it came, for Catherine’s image immediately rose up before his eyes, banishing the Pretender.
There had been that girl in France who’d borne him a child, but she’d been dark-eyed and olive-complected and nothing whatsoever like Catherine. He had been young then—too young to know his mind—and desire had been easily aroused. The passion of his youth had been but a pale imitation of his need for Catherine. Even the child born of that liaison had not touched him unduly. But this—
He gave a sigh and passed a hand over his face. The monkey copied him. Henry looked up. “Have you ever been in love, Prince?”
The monkey beat his chest.
“Aye, you are right . . . It hurts.” He fell silent for a moment. “What do you monkeys do to woo the one you love? Bring her bananas?” His mouth quirked into a smile. The monkey grinned, showing his teeth.
“Aye, I follow your meaning,” Henry smiled. Then he gave a sigh. “She wants her son back, Prince. She says he’s no threat to me, since I claim his father is base-born. But, Prince, you know my maternal ancestors, the Beauforts, were only half-royal, don’t you? And illegitimate when they were born. They were barred from the throne by an act of Henry IV’s parliament. Then there’s my father. He was only half-royal, and he was also illegitimate. Yet here I am. King of England. If I return her son to Scotland, as she pleads with me to do, who is to say he will not take my throne one day?”
Prince shook his head. Henry put down his pen and closed his ledger; it was hopeless. He couldn’t concentrate tonight. “Did you know you are my only true friend, Prince? The only one with whom I can discuss the affairs of the heart?”
The animal threw his apple core into the fire and grinned at Henry, bearing his teeth. “More to eat? Another treat, is that what you want?” Removing a small bundle from his breast pocket, Henry unfolded the handkerchief gently to reveal a square of marchpane. “I brought this especially for you.” The monkey gave an excited yell when he saw what it was. Henry watched him pop it into his mouth, chew joyfully, and wipe his hands on his velvet jacket. Leaning forward in his chair, Henry dusted the marks he left. “Prince, I’ve told you before, you should take better care of your clothes. They cost me a hefty sum.”
He turned to stare into the fire, drumming his fingers on the table. Morton’s words echoed in his mind: Water does not pardon fire, nor the predator his prey. He looked over at the monkey. “I’ll wager you didn’t know that Ovid said love is a form of warfare, did you, Prince? That is because love’s searing arrows wound as painfully as real ones, and in the end one side must vanquish the other and have them surrender . . . What would you do if you had a rival for the hand of the damsel you loved—what would you do?”
The monkey turned his attention to an itch. He scratched himself, caught the offending gnat, and ate it.
“I see.” Henry gave him a small, tentative smile. With a sigh, he took out his black memorandum book in whi
ch he wrote his innermost thoughts and most important memoranda, such as the names of those who needed to be watched, and who stood in line for execution. He flipped through his notes until he came to a few loose leaflets inserted carefully midway. He withdrew the pages. Here, he could step into his dream, for it related the capture of Perkin—not as it had played out, but as he wished it had played out. It was written for him according to his instructions by his blind poet, Bernard Andre, and he always read it when he was at his lowest ebb, as now. For the man’s labor, he, Henry, in a burst of generosity, had pressed a gold noble into his hand. At the time, Henry had thought he’d been too liberal, but now he knew he had been given full value for his money. Bernard Andre had written:Perkin had confessed. King Henry, with great clemency and forbearance, merely chastised him. The two were alone, Perkin limp and dazzled with the king’s mercy, when the door opened and Perkin’s lady, with a modest and graceful look, and singularly beautiful, was brought into the king’s presence in an untouched state, blushing and tearful. To her, this kind king offered his sympathy.
“Most noble lady, it pains me that you have been deceived by this lying scoundrel here. For the nobility of your blood, the excellence of your manners, your great beauty and dignity cry out for a man of far greater superiority. But take comfort. A new life lies ahead of you. No longer need you concern yourself with this idle liar that was your husband, for you will cast him off soon enough.”
As the king spoke, Catherine lay on the ground, weeping and soaked through with a fountain of tears. Because she could not move for grief, Henry had to command her, though gently, to stand. When she had done so, Henry ordered her husband to repeat to her the same things he had said to the king.
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