Elizabeth and Cecily went pale. They know—they know now! The two sisters exchanged a look but said nothing. They put down their spoons. Kate was the one who spoke. “I was only four years old and I do not remember those days. I am glad for it. They sound dreadful.”
Catherine nodded. “You are blessed.”
Chapter 11
River of Flames
The next morning, in the queen’s chamber, Catherine detected a tension in the room that had not been there before. The queen and Cecily greeted her with more warmth than usual, but they avoided one another and seemed distracted. Catherine knew—she knew—they had pondered her words. But what had they decided? Would they help Richard? Could they help Richard?
On a stroll through the garden, Catherine found herself alone with Cecily. Spring was in the air; flowers were in full bud; birds swooped and dived around them. Cecily picked a rosebud.
She held it to her face and passed it to Catherine. “Already it has a fragrance.” As Catherine inhaled the perfume, Cecily said softly, “You are much admired by our people. Did you know they call you the Pale Rose of England?”
Catherine glanced up in surprise.
“But—and I pray you not misinterpret my words—”
Catherine nodded.
“You are a princess of the blood. Your beauty is much noted, but they look at you and think that, however wretched their own lives, it could always be worse for them.” She gave Catherine a long look. “I hope you do not mind me asking, but do you ever regret marrying Rich—your husband—instead of the young man you might have wed instead of your sister?”
Catherine knew she was referring to Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, who had been given his choice of either Catherine or her elder sister, Margaret, as his bride. He had chosen Margaret. She decided to answer honestly. “I cannot deny I have thought about that—about how different it would have been for me had I married the Earl of Bothwell. But Meg and Patrick were in love. I did not begrudge them their happiness then, or now. And I cannot regret knowing love myself . . . My time with my husband was brief, but the world had luster then—a beauty you cannot know unless you’ve known love, and the arms of the one you love.” She fell silent, remembering.
Cecily took Catherine’s hand. “You have lost much, Catherine, but I want you to know that you are not friendless.”
“Thank you, Lady Cecily.”
“How strange life is,” Cecily sighed, linking arms with her. “I would have known you as a sister had I come to Scotland and married King James. Now here we are in England, and you are my—”
She broke off, glanced around, bit her lip. Catherine’s heart missed a beat in that moment. Cecily had almost uttered sister.
“Friend,” she said, and gave Catherine’s hand a squeeze.
For Easter the court made a pilgrimage to Canterbury. As the royal procession arrived at the gates, a monk was being led into the cathedral precinct in chains. Henry drew rein.
“What is his crime?” he demanded, addressing himself to the guard.
“Heresy, Sire. He was found in possession of an English-language Bible and he denies the efficacy of relics. He is to burn.”
“My man, ’tis a dread fate that awaits you, both on earth and in the world to come. Let us discourse together. Mayhap I can make you repent the errors of your way.”
Henry took time to speak with him, and after a while, the man, in terror of his fate, renounced his heresy.
“You are now reconciled to God. Here is a blessing.” At a nod from Henry, one of his men gave the monk some coins from his pouch.
The man fell to his knees, sobbing with gratitude.
“It contents me much that I have saved your soul,” Henry said. Turning his horse, he cantered off, leaving the man staring after him.
Catherine looked back and saw her own horror and disbelief reflected on the man’s face. On his open palm glittered the coins that Henry had given him. Of what use were they to him, a man about to be burned at the stake? He had thought to be spared his terrible fate; it was why he had recanted! All he received for denying his beliefs was a few alms that could do him no good.
The queen must have shared her dismay, for she said, “My lord, will you not save him from the fire?”
“I already have,” Henry replied. “He will not burn in Hell.”
“You may have noticed that my royal sister and I are not as close as we would wish,” Cecily announced one morning in mid-April, when they found themselves walking together along an empty corridor. Catherine’s minders were not with her in the morning hours, since Henry believed her to be well guarded by the queen’s ladies.
Catherine didn’t know what to say, so she made no reply.
“The roots of our discord go back to childhood. I act decisively once my mind is made up, whereas she considers every side of a matter. Then she does nothing—except to let matters take their course. God’s will, she says. She seems unable to comprehend that God gave us the ability to think, and if He does that, then He means us to use our intellect to make reasoned choices—”
Catherine opened her mouth to object, but Cecily cut her short. “Nay, hear me out. The matter is of interest, have no doubt.
“My royal sister never takes a stand, perhaps because the one time she did it proved disastrous—” Cecily broke off. That was the most charitable light she could throw on Elizabeth’s decision not to flee Tudor after the battle of Bosworth. The truth was that her sister had sold herself to the tyrant for the price of a throne. Had she fled, all would be different now, but she had remained, waiting to be captured. To unite the White Rose with the Red and save her land from bloodshed, she claimed. But Cecily believed otherwise. It was to be queen that Elizabeth had stayed. Her lips curled in distaste.
She turned her head and met Catherine’s eyes. “My royal nephew Arthur is such a genial boy. The apple of my sister’s eye. She loves him dearly.”
Catherine understood now what Cecily was trying to say. The queen would not help Richard. She had chosen her son over her brother. She had loved King Richard, too, but when he was dead, she’d wed Henry Tudor—he, who had slain the man she loved! What was she made of? Catherine had thought her gentle, but she was as hard as flint. The thought disoriented her, and she stumbled in her steps.
“Let me help you—” Cecily said. “Though there is little anyone can do—against sickness,” she added quickly, touching Catherine’s brow.
Catherine knew she had found an ally, but Cecily’s message filled her with woe. For Cecily believed no one could help Richard. Before she could digest the full import of this new knowledge, a party of the king’s ushers approached in the hall, laughing. Catching sight of Catherine, they swept their hats from their heads and fell to their knees in a pantomime of swooning love, led by the tall, dark-eyed seafarer she had come to dislike. The man was always the instigator of the drama that in the beginning had seemed innocent enough. Lately, however, he had grown overbold. His eyes passed over her with none of the deference she was accustomed to, and when their paths crossed, after giving a little bow, he’d stand with his head held high, a mocking grin on his face, looking at her as if he saw straight through to her undergarments. The nerve of the man! Catherine lifted her chin and passed on without acknowledgment. She heard his mocking laughter follow her down the hall.
“Who is he?” she asked Cecily when they were out of earshot.
“James Strangeways? He has a terrible reputation. He’s a drinker, a gambler, and the biggest rake at court, my dear.”
“Indeed?” said Catherine, her interest piqued.
“No woman can resist him. He’s always getting them with child. Once he got an earl’s daughter enceinte and refused to wed her.” She inclined her head to a group of clerics who greeted them.
“What?” Catherine replied fiercely. “Who does he think he is?”
“He’s naught but a commoner, but you’d never know it the way he carries himself, would you? His family is from Yorkshire a
nd he is related to Lord Giles Daubeney. His father was devoted to Warwick the Kingmaker, and died in his service.”
“A Yorkist?” Catherine’s brows lifted in surprise.
“He was connected with the Staffords—you know, Sir Humphrey Stafford, who led the Lambert Simnell rebellion against Henry after King Richard’s death”—Cecily leaned her head close and whispered—“and was extracted by force from sanctuary?” She straightened and smiled at a group of noble ladies who bobbed curtsies. “Strangeways stood high in my father’s favor. He used to command ships for him, and Papa said he was brave, but reckless, yet he never lost a vessel, or even a cargo. My father always said he was a good Yorkist. Now look at him. In loyal service to—” She broke off, but Catherine knew what she was thinking. Lancaster.
“Why didn’t King Edward make him wed the earl’s daughter?”
“Some say it was because he had little money and was not of noble birth, and the earl didn’t want him in his family. But others claim Strangeways refused the earl point-blank. He that do get a wench with child and marry her afterwards, he said, is as if a man should shit in his hat and then clap it on his head.”
In spite of herself, Catherine burst out laughing.
“The earl sent his daughter into a nunnery, and the child was given away. Since he and his kin were all loyal Yorkists, my father protected Strangeways, and he never paid for his misdeed.”
“So he never wed?”
“Nay, and never will.”
“Then he does womankind a great service,” said Catherine.
The following week dealt another blow. The Scottish ambassador informed Catherine that Maximilian was forced to abandon his efforts to put together a fleet to invade England. There was a lack of money and serious troubles at home. But, Sir Alexander said kindly, Richard should not lose heart. His aunt remained fully committed to doing whatever it took to free him, and a plot was under way to secure his rescue. More would be known soon.
The string of disappointments depressed Catherine’s spirits and made onerous her task of helping the queen prepare for the May Day revels.
“My Lady Cate,” Alice said one morning, breathless with excitement, as Catherine left Elizabeth’s quarters. “You must come with me—at once!”
“What is it?”
“The king has sent you a gift! A large gift—his gentleman usher brought it himself. He awaits in your chamber!”
Catherine was baffled. What could this mean? In April, the king had doubled the pay of her ladies and increased her own draw from seven to ten pounds for the month. Was he having a change of heart toward Richard? She turned the corner into the passageway that led into her chamber.
The king’s man had been standing at the open window in the small vaulted chamber, staring out over the garden as he waited, a tall, powerfully built figure in topaz and fur. At her footsteps, he turned. She saw that it was detestable James Strangeways. Catherine’s eyes went to the large parcel spread out over both his arms. A roguish smile lit his face as he gave her a bow.
“Dear Lady Catherine, the king sends greetings—and a gift—” He held out the mysterious package, his dark eyes dancing.
“You may place it on the bed,” Catherine said, disliking the boldness of his gaze. Keeping her distance, she watched as he draped the long velvet package over the embroidered coverlet. “The king also sends you this note—”
“For our right dear and well-beloved Lady Catherine Gordon,” Henry had written in his own hand, using terms of endearment reserved for lovers.
Alice, who’d been unwrapping the gift, gave a cry and leapt back as if she’d touched a hot iron. A sumptuous gown glimmered in the sunlight, of tawny satin edged with an embroidered hem of black velvet. Catherine gasped. Henry had copied every detail of the sea-gown she’d worn when she’d first come to England! Then, she’d had Richard and their darling child. With his gift, Henry was offering her his love and the riches his kingly power could place at her feet. With his gift, he was pretending that Richard had never been—that he counted for nothing—that Dickon had never been born and had never been stolen from her! He thought he could obliterate all that, and begin anew with her, as if he had never harmed her! Her hands balled themselves into fists.
“The king wishes you to wear it for the Love Day revels,” Strangeways grinned. “There is also a kirtle beneath.” He turned the hem of the lovely gown to reveal a kirtle of black worsted and a selection of ribbons for her girdle. “There is more,” said Strangeways. “See here,” he added when Catherine made no move to draw closer. “A set of hose spun of kersey and lined with soft white gauze—” His mouth lifted in a crooked smile that Catherine knew he considered irresistible to women. His gaze went to her feet, and Catherine read his thoughts. The rogue was imagining how it would feel to draw the hose up her legs himself!
Catherine felt herself redden. She wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. “Take it back.”
Strangeways’s grin vanished. “Back?” he echoed in disbelief.
“You heard me.”
“To the king?”
“Who else?”
He swallowed visibly. “But he has made a matching riding cloak for himself—”
Catherine stared at him.
“M-May I give him a reason?” Strangeways was beginning to realize the seriousness of her words. But who dared spurn a gift from a king? Never had he expected such a reaction. Already he could feel the royal wrath that would fall on his head.
“Tell the king that I thank him for his kindness, but I cannot accept his gift. I expect to be in mourning for the rest of my life.”
“But—”
“Tell him.” Her stomach lurched and bile flowed into her mouth as her fears for Richard mounted. But she saw no other way out of her impossible situation. What would Henry do to Richard in punishment for her refusal? Yet, if she accepted his loathsome gift, would that not hurt Richard more—and worse—give heart to the man she despised?
She spun on her heel and quitted the chamber abruptly, leaving Strangeways standing in the middle of the room. Alice fled after her. When Catherine turned the corner into the passageway, her sight blurred. She lifted a hand to her head and leaned against the wall to still her faint heart.
“My Lady Cate, my dear lady—” Alice said gently.
Catherine fell into Alice’s arms and sobbed.
Despondent and preoccupied with her thoughts, Catherine was reluctant to go to her husband. She sought the garden instead, followed by Henry’s two spies. She had no desire to impart any of her discouraging news to him, and for this reason, she’d commanded Alice and Agatha to remain behind and tend to their duties. Maybe then he would have no chance to ask questions. I’ll mention Aunt Meg’s plot, she thought, and leave out all else.
She threaded her way along the river and had not gone far when suddenly she heard her name called. Cecily was strolling past on a parallel path, arm in arm with the king’s mother, clad in a sumptuous square-necked gown of green velvet and fur. Margaret Beaufort said something to her and Cecily dropped a curtsy. Cutting across the grass, she made her way to Catherine.
Catherine smiled. There was something attractive about Cecily, who seemed to have no fear of anything, not even of speaking her mind.
“Why aren’t you with Richard?” Cecily demanded, dropping her voice to a bare whisper on his name. This was the time of day when Catherine was normally in his company.
Catherine bit her lip. Cecily turned to Henry’s spies and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. They understood, and fell back.
“You haven’t quarreled, have you?”
“No, nothing like that.” Catherine decided to be frank. “I am the bearer of tidings I have no wish to give him.”
Cecily linked her arm through Catherine’s so that they walked closely together, as she had done a moment before with Margaret Beaufort.
“You count the king’s mother as a good friend,” Catherine said, by way of conversation. “You have courage. Ev
eryone else is terrified of her.”
Into Cecily’s mind flashed the memory of her planned offensive against the king’s mother that had rendered such handsome dividends. Flattery had been the tool she’d used to good effect, for Margaret was desperate to be admired. “I wish I had paid more attention to my studies, Lady Margaret,” she had told her. “Like you, I would be able to read Latin now, and know things that most women have not the intellect to understand.” She was pleased to find that her words were working. Like all vain and pompous people, Margaret Beaufort was exceptionally susceptible to flattery.
“I shall let you in on a confidence,” Margaret Beaufort had replied. “I wish I had studied the ancient Greek more avidly for the same reason. I converse with the most learned men in the kingdom, and they respect me highly, but they know not how I yearn to translate the works of the great masters, which they can do, if they so choose, and I cannot.”
“My Lady Margaret, it seems but a small regret. If you were translating the ancient scholars from their original tongue, who would have advised the king? You are the one most instrumental in securing the crown for Lancaster. Without you, the wars might never have ended.”
“You evidence a wisdom far beyond your years, my dear,” Margaret Beaufort had replied. “Clearly, God ordained it so. He wished me to be there to guide my son and the kingdom along His righteous path.”
Cecily tried not to let her feelings show. The older woman barely came up to her chest, and the plunging V-collar of her gaudy, bejeweled crimson satin gown was scarcely becoming to her age. She made Cecily think of a thistle pretending to be a rose, and she felt sorry for her. She cast around for something generous to say. “When I look at you,” she had replied, “your piety beckons me to prayer, for you remind us all that we are an instrument of His plan. God Himself has chosen you to preside over us, and I am blessed to know you, and to learn from you. Will you come with me to chapel, dear Lady Margaret, and guide me in my words to God? For you know the way that best pleases Him.”
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