Much good had flowed from that beginning. Beautiful gowns, rich furs and gifts, a place of honor at court, young men to dance and laugh with, and what her heart desired above all else: the annulment of her first marriage to Ralph Scrope. Margaret Beaufort opened many doors for her. Unfortunately, one of them was to the viscountcy of Welles.
Following her own rules, she had flirted with Margaret Beaufort’s maternal half-brother, John, Viscount Welles, as she did with every old man—not much, but enough to tickle their vanity and make them feel devilish and young. Experience had taught her that the old farts would then become her friends and do her favors, should she ever need one. But John, Viscount Welles, had taken her seriously and fallen in love with her. Next thing she knew, the good times were over, and she was wed to the old lecher—proving her sister Elizabeth right for one of the few times in her life. Cecily had always blamed Elizabeth for getting her married off to bumbling Scrope, and one day, she’d had it out with her. “It was your own fault!” Elizabeth had declared. “If you hadn’t flirted with him and given him hope, you might not have had to marry him when his friend became king!” Cecily had forgotten Elizabeth’s words and learned too late that it was risky to play around with the powerful, or those connected to the very powerful. She had, however, amended her rules. But that was like watering a plant after it was dead.
Now she glanced at Catherine, who was still waiting for a reaction to her observation. “Oh, that’s not courage. Margaret is easy to get along with if you give her what she wants.” Cecily threw a glance over her shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, “Approval and flattery.” She put one foot gaily in front and added, “Everyone desires that, but I’ve never known anyone who needs it more desperately than she does. Despite her power—or maybe because of it—she is at heart a lonely old woman.”
Like her son, thought Catherine. Two lonely, utterly miserable, and desperate people making everyone else pay for their emptiness. “Richard is probably wondering if I am coming today,” she said sadly.
Cecily gave her hand a squeeze, and unlinked her arm.
At Westminster, Henry waited for his mother and Morton in the small private chamber that connected his lodgings to hers. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, he looked forlornly at the Thames. Catherine had spurned his gift. The implication was as clear to him as if she had screamed the words aloud for all the world to hear. She would have none other than the captive who was her husband, though a king sought her heart. For seven months he’d wooed her with kindness; for seven months he’d shown her husband mercy, thinking it would sway her feelings. Each time, he’d met with rebuff. Again, in his mind’s eye, he saw Strangeways bringing back his gift of the gown, and his misery gave vent to cold fury. He slammed a fist on the stone sill. No more—no more kindness! There would be no more mercy! Things would change now. How they would change—
A hand pressed his shoulder lovingly. “Mother—” He gave her a small smile and laid his hand over hers in gentle acknowledgment. She took a seat. A man-at-arms opened the door to let Morton enter. Henry’s smile widened at the sight of the familiar figure in black cassock, red cap, and sash. “Ah—here is good Morton. I thank thee for making the journey, my friend. I know you have been ailing.”
Henry clasped his hands behind his back again and looked at the river in order to compose his thoughts. A silence fell, broken by the cawing of ravens and the tolling of church bells across the Thames. He turned around to find Morton settling into a gilt chair. Linking his ringed fingers across his ample girth, Morton gave him his full attention.
“I find myself in an untenable situation,” Henry began. “The feigned boy is a thorn in my side that festers bitterly. Plot after plot is hatched to free him, and putting the plotters to the rack has no effect on infernal Margaret of Burgundy. She merely hatches another—” He strode to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and waved it at them. “’Tis time to lance this boil. My question to you—how best can it be done?”
“There is always poison,” said Margaret Beaufort with a thin smile.
“A secret death would give rise to rumors and not solve the problem, Mother.”
She pondered this thought. “You are right, my son. The people do not expect a king’s heir to the throne to be put to death in a public execution, for that would be regicide and a sin against God. Therefore, a public execution is exactly what is needed.”
“Aye, Mother, but our hand must not be suspected in his death, except with the weight of the law behind us. I cannot be seen to be afraid to kill him. Yet my hands are tied by the agreement at Beaulieu, and my promise to him of life and honorable captivity. How I wish I could rescind that.”
Margaret Beaufort looked lovingly at her son. She had been twelve when she’d given birth to him, and though she had wed four times, she had been unable to bear any more children. He was everything to her and she loathed with passion those who caused him a moment’s distress. “Perhaps we should poison Margaret of Burgundy,” she said. “That should not be difficult to arrange.”
“No, Mother. It would bring Maximilian down on us with a vengeance. Remember Ramsey’s response when I inquired about murdering the boy in Scotland?” he demanded, referring to one of his high-ranking Scottish spies, Sir John Ramsey. “He said it would enrage James, who would use it as a pretext to wage war between our two nations. We must find another way. We don’t want Maximilian and his allies to invade us. We cannot afford the cost of war, nor to put weapons in the hands of our enemies and give them the chance to rise up against us.” Henry regarded Morton thoughtfully. “You are quiet, my friend, but if I guess rightly, you have a solution, do you not?”
“Aye, my Leige. A good one, if I say so myself. Your problem is that you gave the boy your royal word. But if he were allowed to escape and were caught again—then the original agreement would be rendered null and void, would it not?”
“I have considered that, but there is a measure of risk in allowing a plot to go to fruition, however.”
“Not if it is your plot,” replied Morton.
“Control the plot?” said Henry. “Ah, good Morton, I see. We merely need the nectar to lure the butterfly into an escape—”
Margaret Beaufort rose excitedly and began to pace. “Do you remember how we moved to the Tower for Yuletide in ’95 when we discovered Stanley’s plot? It was most convenient. We moved the conspirators directly from the feasting hall into the Tower prison, and from there to the place of execution. We can do the same now.” She halted in her steps and looked at Henry and Morton.
“Take the young prince back to the Tower. Back into his very nightmare—very clever, Lady Margaret . . . very clever indeed. That may be the only impetus he needs—short of an unlocked door, of course. But may I advise caution?”
“Speak, Morton,” said Henry.
“His escape must be arranged carefully. Few can know. People must see it as the Hand of God—or the Devil—but no one should see your hand in it, Sire.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully. “I knew that if I could gather the three of us in one place, we would arrive at a solution. I hope you find yourself in better health soon, Morton. I know not what I’d do without you, my friend.”
Following the revels of May Day in the year 1498, court moved downriver to the Tower and Richard found himself back where he had been imprisoned with his brother as a nine-year-old boy. There, in that damp, hemmed-in place, the dread memories of his childhood awakened in the shadows on the walls and the darkness in the stairwells. By what quirk of fortune had Fate allowed him to escape, only to deliver him back into his old nightmare? He had escaped Hell, found Heaven in Catherine’s arms, and now he was back in the Hell he had fled.
Richard slept more fitfully than ever in the Tower. Pursued by evil dreams, he bolted upright drenched in sweat and crying out in terror, but this time Catherine was not there to soothe him with loving words. His minders cursed him for their lost sleep and threatened to knock him unconscious the next t
ime he roused them from slumber.
Catherine, too, hated the Tower. Richard shrank into himself in this place that harbored such frightening memories for him, and he drank more heavily. His breath reeked of wine these days, even before breakfast. To soothe herself, she pursued her needlework with feverish intensity. Each morning before daybreak, she secured the silken panel beneath her skirts where no one would find it. After four months of application, the embroidery was emerging as vividly as her evil dream. Now she had a lower strip completed, showing the gasses of Hell pouring forth from the cracked earth. One day she thought, she would reach the part where Death stood before Paradise, and she could embroider her mother in a field as lush and green as emeralds. Until then, she had to labor through the dread landscape. She was not sure why she felt compelled to resurrect her evil dream, but doing so brought release from the turmoil of her nights.
Since the joyless Festival of Love, however, her hands shook as she stitched her silken tableau, for reality had grown nigh impossible. Henry had asked her again to divorce Richard, and again, she had refused, unless he returned Dickon to Scotland. Sometimes she felt as if Fate had horns and that she and Richard were impaled on them, unable to move or to flee. Skelton had performed yet another of his vitriolic mummeries, showering the drunken court’s ridicule on Richard’s golden head, and Prince Harry and his friends tormented Richard with increasing frequency. Even the palace servants pelted him with rotted food as he passed along the passageways.
And worse than this, Richard had informed her that he wanted no more efforts made to free him.
So this was to be their life forever. Dear God, it was too terrible! How would Richard bear it? He was losing strength as he was losing hope, and no wonder. At least she had Alice and Agatha. He had no one; none to show him kindness; none to confide in when she wasn’t with him. What would become of them?
And what of Dickon? Where was he? Did he still live?
Her breath caught in her throat. Taking Dickon’s little coif that Alice had saved for her, she brushed it tenderly against her cheek and inhaled the baby smell that still clung to his little hat. Oh, Dickon, my child! One day I will find you, my sweeting! Whatever it takes, I will find you, and I will see you again, and I will kiss your dear face. O my beloved little one . . .
The delicate green leaflets of springtime gave way to the dense green of summer but the merry month of May lacked joy, for court remained at the Tower, where the raucous cawing of ugly ravens drowned out the notes of the songbirds. There were no surrounding parklands to disport in or verdant gardens to stroll in, only a small tuft of green, and the views were of walls and stone buildings. Where flowers had perfumed the walks of Windsor, the stench of privies and clogged drains poisoned the air here. From below the ground, like a growling from Hell, came the roar of lions penned up in their cages, but from the cages of suffering men there was only silence, for the thick stone walls of the dungeons muffled their cries.
Trailed by Henry’s two spies, Catherine passed the Beaufort Tower. A chill always went down her spine as she neared the place. There was only one window, and like a malevolent eye, it looked on the scaffold set in the green tuft of lawn in the inner court. Edward, Earl of Warwick, had been imprisoned at the Beaufort Tower since he was eleven, and now he was twenty-three. This poor lad, also a nephew of King Richard III by his older brother, the Duke of Clarence, had been orphaned as a child, and abandoned by his guardian. He was said to have a slow mind that couldn’t tell a goose from a capon. King Richard had adopted him, and for two years the child had enjoyed a normal childhood with his aunt and uncle. Then came Bosworth, and Henry Tudor. And everything changed.
She took the muddy path that dead-ended into Traitor’s Gate and forced the poor young man from her mind. The skies of London were covered this day with heavy, dark clouds, and a steady drizzle fell. The ravens she had come to loathe were everywhere, reminding her of Death and depressing her spirits further. She dropped her gaze to her feet so she wouldn’t have to look at them, these monstrous birds that fed on human flesh. When she looked up again, Patch the Dwarf ’s colorful green-and-orange-clad figure was making its way to her.
Patch threw her an elaborate bow, and pulled a needle from her nose. “Ah, still at your embroidery, I see—” He handed it to her with a flourish.
A smile curved her mouth as she took it from him. God had given him precious little, yet he was always cheerful. “How do you do it, Patch?”
“The needle?”
“No, your good humor.”
“Laughter is the best potion for illness of body and soul, my lady.” After a pause he added, “We all need something.”
Her gaze went to the church. “Do you pray much?”
“I pray.”
“Does God answer your prayers?”
“Not that I recall.” He grinned.
His reply confirmed what she had come to believe. God only answered the prayers of His favorites. He was deaf to all others. “I fear Heaven is too comfortable,” she said. “And God sleeps too much.”
Patch laughed.
“Have you seen my lord husband, by any chance?” She had searched everywhere and not found Richard. His mood all month had been depressed, but she had encouragement to offer. Henry disliked the Tower and wished to return to Westminster as soon as possible.
“I think he may be there, by the Salt Tower, m’lady.”
She nodded her thanks and made her way up to the wall walk that overlooked the river. Richard stood gazing at the River Thames, the wind stirring his bright hair. A short distance away, his two guards leaned against the wall.
“Richard!” Catherine called, running to him. He turned and gazed at her, but there was no answering smile. “Dearest,” she murmured, giving him a kiss. “Are you not happy to see me?”
“You are the sun and the stars to me, my Celtic princess.” He fell silent.
“But?”
But—
He had a beautiful wife he could neither embrace nor provide for. He couldn’t be a father to his son, nor protect his child as a father should. For as long as he lived, no matter how courageously he bore his fate, this accursed Tudor court would proclaim him a coward for what had happened at Taunton, while forgetting that Henry ran away from Bosworth. For Richard was the vanquished, and Henry the victor.
He had been born a prince, and now he was ridiculed as the son of a boatman of Tournai and spat on by the children of bastards. The low one had risen, and the high one had fallen, and no one, it seemed, had noticed the aberration in the order of things, or cared enough to right it.
“But I’ve been wrestling with a decision.” He lowered his voice and glanced behind him to his guards, and to her ladies who had gone over to join them. “And now I’ve made it.” He embraced her tenderly.
“What decision?”
He held her tight and kissed her ear. “Escape.”
Catherine willed herself not to move lest the horror of his words attract the attention of their guards. Her gaze fixed on the rotted heads of traitors on London Bridge in the distance and the ravens that flocked around them. “But I thought you had abandoned the idea—” She kissed his mouth.
“Not the escape . . . only the help.”
She looked at him aghast. “Are you mad? You must not give up hope of rescue. We have”—Catherine lowered her voice—“friends.”
“Who cannot help us,” Richard said. “Is that not so?”
Catherine raised her eyes to his face. So he knew. Somehow he had found out. “One failure is not the end. There can be other—” She glanced around. Their guards were busy chattering. “Efforts,” she whispered.
“No,” he said firmly. “I will not have any more men die for me.”
“But—”
“No more. ’Tis finished.”
“The dream doesn’t die with the dreamer,” Catherine whispered desperately. “If not today, then tomorrow. If not this year, then next—” Urgently, desperately, she tightened her han
d around the back of his neck, and drew him close. “There is nothing you can do, not a move you can make, not a thought you can have that he doesn’t know about!” she cried against his ear. “You can’t do it alone!”
“No more men will die for me,” he said between kisses. “I do this alone . . . because I must . . . if only to prove to myself . . . that I can succeed at something.”
She hugged him tightly to her and kissed first one ear, then the other. “Listen to me . . . do not risk it . . . we are leaving soon for Windsor—”
He pulled Catherine away and held her from him. She stared at him in bewilderment. She had never seen him with such a look. His eyes were glazed, his jaw set with determination, and his breath stank of wine. “Then there’s no time to be lost!”
“Nay!” she breathed. “I beg you—if you love me—do not do this!”
“This is my decision, and mine alone.” There was no emotion in his voice. He dropped his hands.
“You have not considered what you stand to lose.”
“Only a life not worth living.”
“But we have each other!”
“We do not have each other.”
“I will not help you destroy yourself.”
“Then you will not help me save myself.”
“If they catch you, it will be the Tower—” The river tilted around her. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her head.
Richard watched her tremble but he did not take her into his arms. He wanted nothing and no one to dissuade him from his course. All he knew was that he could no longer live this way. “I have always done as you wished. But not this time.”
That Richard had not drawn her back into his arms cut through Catherine like a blade. Whatever the fates brought them, they’d meet it together. Or so she had thought.
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