B004H0M8IQ EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  Catherine gave him a small smile. “It has been my pleasure to instruct the Princess Margaret, my lord. May James love her to distraction.”

  His eyes left her face. “Aye,” he said in a voice that seemed almost downcast. “Aye.”

  All at once, in spite of herself, Catherine felt a tide of pity for him. She wanted to ease his grief and bring a smile to his face. “My lord, perhaps I should amend my wish. Love her, but not to distraction.”

  Henry lifted his questioning gaze to her face.

  “I once heard of a man who loved his wife to distraction. He was always jealous, and so he beat her often. One day he followed her, and found that his wife went to confession. When the priest was about to lead her behind the altar to be disciplined, he feared the worst, and cried out to him, “Hear ye, Master Parson, I pray you let me be beaten for her!” His wife, on hearing her husband’s words, knelt down before the priest. “I pray you,” said the wife, “strike him hard, for I am a great sinner.”

  Henry threw his head back and roared with laughter as Catherine smiled.

  Catherine lay in her bed, staring up at the dark sky, and pondering Henry. Few stars were out, and hard as she tried, she couldn’t find Richard’s star in Orion. In spite of herself, she realized Henry’s confession had changed her opinion of him. His crown was won by the sword and kept by the sword, but somehow, between the time he’d murdered Richard and last night, he had become human to her. He was selfish and ruthless, yes, but he was also a man—one who loved, and feared, who had a conscience, scruples, and something that could pass for compassion. He could not kill a child, even to secure his crown. On that, she realized, she had come to rely.

  But it did not mean she approved of him, or that she could forgive him for what he had done to her. Still, she knew her own survival and that of her child depended on her dissembling that hatred and overcoming the fear, and so she did. She made him laugh, and found smiles to bestow, and kind words to soothe him when he invited her into the solar to dine and play cards with the family and friends, and to listen to music and poetry readings, as he had done often in these weeks since his queen’s death. He was a good father, she realized, patient with his children and indulgent with flighty Margaret, whom he loved to spoil with jewels, for she could never have enough of them. But someday when I am safe and he can no longer hurt me, I’ll tell him what I really think of him. She would rest her cheek on Dickon’s little coif, and savor the faint scent of him that still lingered there. What pleasure that would give if that day came. Until then, she had to mask her true feelings, for Dickon’s sake. If that made her a hypocrite, so be it. At least she wasn’t a fool.

  On the first day of March, Catherine awoke before daybreak, unable to sleep for excitement. Cecily was arriving! She had gone home to the Isle of Wight after Margaret’s proxy betrothal in January, but had returned three weeks later when Elizabeth died. She had left with her three sisters immediately after the funeral for Framingham Castle, the Howard family residence of her sister, Anne, Duchess of Norfolk, to mourn in private. Cecily had invited Catherine to come with her, but she’d declined, not wishing to intrude on their grief. Now that Cecily was back, she’d have her all to herself, to speak of things that she wouldn’t dare broach except in total privacy. Yet she knew, even as this thought came to her, that she would not tell Cecily how Henry had bared his soul to her.

  “Dearest Cecily!” Catherine cried. The two women embraced and twirled one another around like two maidens instead of old princesses of royal blood. “You look wonderful! Peach becomes you—and I like the tight sleeves—how elegant.”

  Cecily cast a quick look around and swept off her headband. She shook her ringlets loose around her. “I can’t stand these things any more!”

  “But Cecily, you cannot wear your hair loose,” exclaimed Catherine, eyes wide with shock.

  “Fiddle-faddle. At home I run around in a kirtle and wear my hair unbound every day—you cannot know how liberating it is not to have to coif and braid and wear headbands. Why, I’ve even done laundry with the servants!” Linking her arm in Catherine’s, she marched her off to a secluded corner of the royal garden.

  Catherine finally found her voice. “Laundry? With the servants, truly? No—”

  “Indeed I have! I leave the heavy work to them, naturally, but’tis so good to be out on the riverbank, standing in water to your ankles, with the wind blowing through your hair, the river birds screeching in your ears, and the fresh clean smell of soap in your nostrils!”

  “Cecily, you make laundry sound better than a feast. How I have missed you.”

  “And you, what have you been doing since—since—what have you been doing?” The unspoken words hung in the air: since Elizabeth died. The laughter went out of her, and Catherine frowned. “Not much. Preparing Margaret for Scotland, mostly.”

  “And Henry? Has he . . .?” She gave her a look full of scrutiny, leaving the thought unspoken.

  Catherine knew what she meant. Has he made overtures? She dropped her gaze. “He has been grieving deeply for Elizabeth. It has been hard for him. ’Tis strange, but sometimes he touches my heart.”

  “Be careful,” Cecily whispered. “He covets you.”

  “I can take care of myself. I have done so all this time.”

  “But he is king. I fear for you, Catherine. Do you have feelings for him?”

  “Feelings? What is it they say—first you hate the sinner and the sin. Then you pity the sinner and hate the sin.” Pity, aye; but forgive, never, she thought. Not after all he had done. She thought of sweet Kate, his wife’s favorite sister, his latest victim. Kate had served as chief mourner at Elizabeth’s funeral, and Elizabeth’s death, coming as it did a mere seven months after that of Kate’s five-year-old son, had struck Kate hard. Then Henry threw her husband into the Tower. Now there was talk of an attainder to seize Courtenay’s inheritance. That would leave Kate and her two children destitute.

  “How is Kate faring?” Catherine inquired.

  “Not well. She worries about William in the Tower, with the rats, and the cold, and the diseases so rampant there. Many die from—” Her voice trailed off.

  Catherine reached for Cecily’s hand. “He’s young. He’s strong. He will survive. Never give up hope.”

  “Elizabeth arranged their marriage, you know. It was a love match. They were so young when they wed in ’95—she was sixteen and he was twenty—and they had such a short time together.” Realization washed over Cecily. Here was one whose monumental suffering and loss exceeded even Kate’s. “How you do it, I know not, Catherine. You are so brave, and so strong. Everyone admires you. I pray Kate can find the strength—”

  “I remember William at the jousting for Margaret’s betrothal tournament in 1502,” Catherine said quickly to lift the melancholy. “He and Kate were so happy. I can still hear them laughing. There was such feasting and dancing, and so many bonfires.” Catherine smiled quickly and bit down to banish the memories. She had always known it would come to this. Each would regret in turn that they hadn’t helped Richard, all those nobles who had failed him then, but she hadn’t bargained on coming to care for them. There would probably never be an end to the murders, as long as a Tudor held the throne, for the shadow of usurpation and bastardy tainted their title. I hate Henry! she thought. He cares nothing for anyone’s happiness. I hate what he does, and I pity him, but I hate him, too!

  Aloud, she said, “What about Katharine of Aragon? She is unhappy in England, and there is nothing here for her any longer. De Puebla says Henry won’t allow her to leave England. Why does he not send the girl back to her family?”

  Cecily grinned suddenly. “She has too much gold. I am so glad I have none!”

  Catherine’s brows arched with surprise. “Who would ever have thought that poverty could be a blessing?”

  And they both covered their hands as they burst into childish giggles, laughing till they cried.

  In April 1503, Catherine heard from Cecily that she
gave birth to a beautiful girl-child and that the king had granted her some lands for her lifetime use, alleviating for Catherine some of the melancholy that had settled over the castle following the death of the queen. In the weeks that followed, Strangeways was always at her side when Catherine needed him. She knew that he complied with Henry’s orders to make certain that she was well cared for, and this he did with meticulous care. He brought her posies and little gifts from town: silk thread for embroidery, ribbons for her hair and other brica-brac, but the most important service he rendered was to accompany her to Richard’s resting place at the Austin Friars. She had just returned from a visit there and had gone to her room to freshen up when a knock came at her chamber door. She was annoyed; Richard was still on her mind and she wished to be alone with her thoughts for a while. She cracked the door open.

  It was Strangeways. “My lady, the king needs to see you most urgently.”

  “Now?” She would see him at supper, and Henry normally issued an invitation to the solar after the meal was concluded. Catherine found it curious that Strangeways wore such a downcast expression, and that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He escorted her to the royal chamber in silence, and she realized that she missed his light banter. What can it be? she wondered, stealing anxious glances at him as they walked together.

  Clad in his favorite crimson and gold, Henry stood at the window, awaiting her arrival. The door closed behind her.

  “Catryn,” he said.

  She was jarred into stunned, frozen silence. The name swept back the years and returned Richard to her side, and again they were stepping in one another’s footsteps in the sand, drunk on joy.

  Back in the present, she saw Henry moving toward her, his eyes alight with love. He was about to take her into his arms when she found her voice, and cried out in panic, “Sire, I am Catherine.”

  He halted abruptly, the smile gone from his face. He wanted to take Richard’s place and she had just told him he could not. His features tightened in fury. Again, she thought of the snake in the meadow of flowers. Even as a child she’d understood that one wrong move, one little sound, and the snake would strike. Her father had diverted that serpent, but there was no one to divert this one; no one to slay it with his sword, and save her. She was alone and had to rely on herself.

  “But perhaps you may call me Cat,” she said. It was the nickname she had hated all her life and it seemed somehow fitting that she should allow him use of it.

  His face lightened and he resumed his approach. “Cat. ’Tis a pretty nomer. It shall be mine alone for you.”

  She had saved herself from the snake and would always be reminded of it. So relieved was she that she scarcely noticed him take her hand in his.

  “Pray, let us sit together, Cat.”

  His rough skin and the bony feel of his hand were unpleasant, and she dared not breathe for his sour breath fanned her face as he placed his arm around her shoulders and led her to the settle. She sat where he indicated, and he took a seat beside her. He seemed nervous, and suddenly she was overcome with apprehension. She took her time smoothing her skirts, hoping to delay whatever he was preparing to say to her. When she looked up, he was watching her with a strange expression, and his breathing was labored. Abruptly he rose from the settle and went to the table, and she had the feeling that he, too, was stalling for time to compose himself. He poured two goblets of wine and brought one to her, but he did not sit again, nor did he drink. Keeping her eyes averted, she accepted the cup, her unease growing.

  “I have considered sending you home to Scotland, Cat, but I cannot. What would I do without you?”

  Catherine took the cup to her lips, a sick disappointment gripping her stomach. You’d do without me in a minute if you knew what I really thought of you.

  “A prophecy foretold that you would be queen, Catherine. One word from you, and you can be queen. My queen. Queen of England.”

  Shock slackened her grip on the cup she held and it dropped from her hands, spilling wine on her skirts as it fell to the floor and clattered across the marble. She leapt to her feet as a vision of the wise-woman’s brown, wrinkled face rose before her. The words she’d uttered resounded in her ears, “You have a destiny unlike anything I have ever seen,” the old woman had said, examining her palm. “You will be loved by a king . . . I can make out nothing more. Except that you will be loved by a king.” In her happiness with Richard, Catherine had remembered the prophecy incorrectly; she had thought it said that she would be queen, and that meant her husband would be a king. Only much later, when it was too late, did she realize her error. Her misplaced confidence in the prophecy, like a jest of Fate, had guided Richard to his doom.

  She lifted her eyes to Henry’s face. “No, my lord, you are mistaken. The prophecy was not that I should be queen, but that I would be loved by a king.”

  “A detail.”

  A detail indeed. One that had ripped her life to shreds. Henry was speaking again. She forced herself to concentrate.

  “Think of it, Catherine—queen at my side. To have anything your heart desires.”

  “Anything?” she heard herself say.

  “Anything.”

  Trembling, she moved to the window. She clasped her hands together tightly, as if by so doing, she could brace herself with a steel girder.

  She turned to face him. “My son?” she demanded through parched lips.

  Henry blanched and the bright look went out of his eyes. “’Tis the only thing you cannot have.”

  A silence.

  Fate is mocking me, Catherine thought. One word, and the crown of England would be hers. If the Devil himself stood there with his horns and tail, he wouldn’t frighten her as much as this man with a smile on his face. He was a king proposing to the woman he loved, as nervous and fearful of rejection as any man in his place would be. Yet despite his royal robes, his air of command and assurance, all he inspired in her was dread and fear, chastened by a touch of pity. If Henry had Richard’s gallantry and ardor, or even Strangeways’s endearing impudence, she might be able to force herself to endure him for Dickon’s sake, but he shared so little with the one who lived in her heart. Even without his throne, Richard had been every inch a prince born to rule, and though Henry had once been a hunted animal like Richard, and had known terror and loneliness like him, his eyes were as hard as flint now, and behind his royal regalia he was simply a bastard who had the good fortune to win himself a throne and the ruthlessness to keep it. The thought of wedding such a physically and morally decrepit man swept her with a repugnance she was careful to hide beneath averted eyes. He couldn’t help how he looked, but she must never forget how dangerous and duplicitous he was, and what evil lurked in him. That evil could be turned against her son, just as it had been turned against her husband.

  “Cat—” Henry grabbed her, held her close.

  She averted her face; she did not move. She could scarcely breathe.

  “Tell me you care for me—” he murmured into her hair.

  When she did not reply, he released her. “Do you not wish to be queen, Catherine?”

  She swallowed hard. “I thought I did, once, but I cannot live in your world. The things that must be done to survive, I am not fitted to it.”

  Henry began to pace, his hands behind his back. How to explain, that was the question, he thought. How to make her understand why he had done the thing he’d done. He had pardoned many of those who had betrayed him, only to kill them in the end. Creatures of habit, they would not mend their ways. To protect himself, he had learned to anticipate betrayals, and end them before they had the chance to begin. As he had with William Courtenay.

  He paused, looked up. “’Tis simple, Cat. We all make mistakes, but if we are wise, we learn not to make the same one twice.”

  “Indeed, Sire, experience is a wonderful thing. It enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.” Catherine smiled at him.

  Henry grinned, then grew serious and Catherine realized that
she had failed to divert his thoughts.

  “Cat, sit quietly, and listen for a change without interrupting.” He paused to gather his rampaging thoughts. “If I can make you understand why I do what I do, and teach you to do the same, would you change your mind?” He gazed at her with desperate, pleading eyes. When she didn’t reply, he slammed his fist on the table. “The truth is simpler than that, is it not? Richard maybe dead, but his shadow will always lie between us!”

  Catherine gave a start. His mood had changed again. Icy black fear swept her. Dickon. Think, think! she told herself. You must not anger him—serpents strike when angry—you must buy time to think! “Nay, my lord—’tis not the reason!” she cried, but she couldn’t think of an explanation, for he had hit on the truth. In desperation, she flung herself on the settle, and covering her face, burst into tears. When Henry said nothing, she wailed louder, and when she dared, she stole a sly peep at him. He stood helplessly, an anguished expression on his face. Finally he stepped forward and offered her a handkerchief. She dried her tears and blew her nose hard, for effect.

  He spoke again, and this time his voice was gentle and held entreaty. “Power is the only protection against fresh calamities, Cat. I am offering you the certainty of a life without fear. Take it, my dear. Take me.”

  She looked up at him with moist eyes and pushed to her feet. “Sire, I beg for time to consider the great honor you have done me.”

  He smiled. She thought, There is a coldness about him even when he smiles. She forced into her mind the image of Richard on Loch Lomond and her lips softened tenderly as she rested her eyes on Henry.