“I leave next week on my own ship, the Matthew Cradock. I have been given charge of the Lord Chamberlain’s retinue of a hundred soldiers and a hundred mariners.”
James slammed his knife so viciously into the wheat bread that Catherine jumped.
“So you will be at sea during the entire campaign?” Good, James thought. It meant Cradock wouldn’t be back for a long while.
“I shall come and go, for I will be ferrying munitions and supplies from London to Calais.”
James stuffed his mouth with bread and chewed hard, but a sudden pain in his groin sent him clutching at his belly. He pushed away from the table with an oath. Doubling over, he stumbled out of the room as hastily as his bad leg would permit.
Poor Catherine, Matthew thought. It can’t be easy living with a difficult and ailing husband. Beneath his sharp gaze, Catherine colored and looked away.
Catherine had gone to great expense to ensure that the villagers enjoyed their feast day. As it turned out, thanks to Matthew’s presence at the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul in that year of 1513, the day became for her a dreamy haze of sunlight and pleasure, real life at its most charming, a world where nothing was sinister or dark. As she passed through the throng of peasants and town-folk, exchanging greetings and pleasant words, and performing her duties as lady of the manor, she was aware of Matthew Cradock with every breath she took. She had just admired a little girl with a garland in her hair when a voice came in her ear.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Catherine?” It was Cradock. He held out his hand.
She blushed furiously. “I cannot, Master Cradock—I have not danced in so long, I have forgotten how. It has been years—many years.” The last time she had danced was with her brother-in-law, Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, at Margaret Tudor’s proxy wedding, and he had died soon afterward. The time before that, with Richard, at court, on the eve of his escape from the Tower. Then there was Philip the Handsome, with whom she’d danced in Calais. All dead now. She blinked to banish her memories.
“I must refuse, Master Cradock. Disaster seems to befall those I dance with.”
He laughed. “My dear lady, then ’tis high time you danced, if only to prove yourself wrong. Come, life is short, and we must snatch our happiness where we may.”
Catherine looked at the bright blue eyes in the bronzed face that gazed at her so earnestly. He drew her into the crowd of merrymakers and she went as if in a trance, for she had no power over her own body and her will seemed compelled by some force beyond herself. Together they clapped their hands and moved to the beat of the music, stepping to one side, then to the other; stepping behind one another, and back to back; stepping in front, and face to face. All the while she was aware only of his presence, his eyes, the touch of his hand on hers, and the brush of his shoulder against her sleeve. She felt the dance as a natural thing between them, as if they had danced together all their lives.
When the music ended, Catherine came back to the present with a jolt. The ground no longer seemed solid beneath her feet and her breath was uneven. A trifle dizzy, she hung on Matthew’s arm with both hands and leaned into him as they left the rowdy crowd of merrymakers. As she turned her head, her eye fell on James, seated directly ahead, in the line of sight, beneath a fig tree. The laughter died on her lips. His face was stormy and a vein throbbed at his temple. She knew then that if he had been alone with her, he would have beaten her until life left her. Standing amid the throng of oblivious and happy villagers, her cheeks flaming with guilt, she dropped her hold of Matthew’s arm. James pushed out of his chair and glared at her. Then he turned and went off with Sholson at his heels.
Too soon the sun was setting and it was time for vespers. Torches were lit and passed out to the villagers. Catherine and Matthew led the procession as it trooped across the meadow and past her manor house to St. Nicholas Church for prayers. Each time their gaze met, Catherine’s heart turned over in response and a sadness came over her, for Matthew would leave immediately after the service. He had over an hour’s ride to Oxford ahead of him in darkness, and she dreaded his departure. He made her feel safe, and as long as he was there, she feared no harm from James. But he couldn’t stay forever.
Night had fallen when they quitted the church. The crowd dispersed, and their voices grew faint. The countryside quietened, and there was only chirping of night creatures to break the silence as they walked back to the manor. James had not shown up for vespers, but when he was in the grip of the bloody flux, he had to stay close to the privy pit. He was still nowhere in sight when the horses were brought out of the stables by torchlight, but Sholson came to convey his message to Matthew. “My master bids thee farewell and safe journey. He regrets that his malady has grown worse and that it confines him to his rooms.”
“Pray give my thanks to Master Strangeways for his hospitality,” said Matthew.
Sholson withdrew with a bow, and Matthew turned to Catherine. In a low voice, he said, “My lady, ’tis with utmost reluctance that I leave you, but I pray you know that I will be back as soon as I can. There is the matter of the regrant of the manor to you, and I shall see that it is done without delay. There are also other matters of even greater import that you know I cannot entrust to hands other than mine—”
Aye, thought Catherine gratefully. My Dickon.
“Meanwhile, I am leaving my man Piers here to attend you. Should you have urgent need of me, dispatch him to London. He will know how to find me. Even if I am at sea, I shall come to you.” Beckoning to Piers, he placed a hand on his shoulder and led him aside for a few private words before turning back to her.
Catherine lifted her eyes to his, and the tumult and chaos that had claimed her being ebbed away. She marveled that her heart, so filled with fear only a short time ago, should now be pervaded with such hope. “I understand.”
From the upstairs window, James observed them: the hand that was kept too long; the glance that was held too long. He ground his teeth, and balling his hand into a fist, he smashed it into the wall.
Matthew lashed his horse as he rode furiously to Fyfield in the drizzle of the September afternoon.
Over the few months of the summer of 1513, he had managed to visit Fyfield twice more. Both times James had been drunk and causing problems for Catherine, but Matthew had brought good news that cheered her. Once he came to give Catherine the documents of the regrant of the manor and to inform her that Sir Charles Somerset had been created Earl of Worcester in February 1513. On that occasion, he had also presented her with the additional parcel of sixty acres of meadow in the parish of North More in Oxfordshire that he had obtained for her, so her cattle would have ample space to roam. As he galloped to Fyfield now, he remembered how she had looked at him then, her black-fringed azure eyes shining with a gratitude that melted his reserve.
On the second occasion, he had brought her news of the search for Dickon, which had narrowed to a stonemason who might have had him briefly.
But this third time was different.
Only the night before, he had been with the king in Calais, resupplying the army with munitions, when the tidings had come. He’d lost not a minute returning to London on the Matthew Cradock, giving as excuse for his abrupt departure from Calais the necessity of delivering posthaste the canons he’d left behind for lack of space. Fortunately, there was a fair wind and the voyage went smoothly. While the guns were being loaded onto the ship, he took a few men with him and rode to Fyfield. His only concern now was to get to Catherine before she heard the news from some itinerant seeking harborage for the night. He prayed he was in time.
Church bells were ringing for nones as he galloped through the manor gate and up the drive with his men. From her upstairs chamber, where she had been going over the books with the steward, Catherine heard the pounding hoofbeats on the gravel. Looking out the window, she saw her visitor approach. She rushed downstairs, ran through the great hall, and flew out the door, heedless of the rain. She watched him pull up to the
house, but the smile that lit her face vanished when she saw his expression.
“Matthew—” she exclaimed anxiously, for some time over the course of his visits this summer, they had fallen into given names. “What is it? What has happened?”
“Catherine,” he said urgently, taking both her hands into his, “where is James?”
“He’s upstairs, sleeping; why?”
“Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”
“The solar.” She turned to lead the way inside and glanced back when he didn’t follow.
“You may go in,” he told his men. He drew Catherine back from the house. “Nay, outside. Somewhere we can be alone.”
“What is it, Matthew?”
He took her by the elbow and led her to the garden. She stumbled along unevenly as he hurried her into the yew-tree walk. Don’t you see, ’ tis drizzling, she wanted to say. “Matthew, what is it? You’re frightening me—”
They had reached the hedge. Matthew turned her to face him.
“Catherine, you know that King James issued King Henry an ultimatum in August demanding that he be recognized as Henry’s heir in England if Henry died childless?”
“Aye.” She looked in puzzlement at his hands for he held her tightly by both her arms.
He rushed on. “And you know James crossed the border and took Norham and some other English castles when he refused?”
What urgency in this? “Aye, but—”
Matthew cut her off. “And you know the Earl of Surrey marched north to give battle?”
Catherine had heard something about Surrey leaving Pontefract for Newcastle, but there were always border troubles. She didn’t understand what made this any different from the usual skirmishes.
“Five days ago there was a battle at Flodden. The Scots suffered an appalling defeat—” Suddenly Matthew fell silent, at a loss for words.
A cold knot formed in Catherine’s stomach. “James—”
Matthew nodded.
“James—no, no! Oh no, not James—tell me not James!”
“And, Catherine—Catherine—James, and others—”
“Others?” Her stomach was still clenched tight and now an icy fear began to creep around her heart.
“Catherine, your brother, Alexander, Earl of Huntly, is the only noble to survive the battle.”
“What do you mean?” She stared at him in bafflement.
“Your brothers—and William—they were all slain—”
Panic exploded in her. “All—slain—William—” His name was almost a scream on her lips. Her beloved, favorite brother—her laughing brother—gone, out of the blue, in the flicker of an eyelash. She looked at Matthew mutely, unable to speak for the constriction in her throat. It couldn’t be true. It had to be some mistake!
“Catherine, your cousin, William Hay, Earl of Erroll, is dead. There is more.”
“More?” Catherine whispered hoarsely. She shook her head, backed away. “No! No, no, no—no more—”
Matthew tightened his grip on her arms. “A third of all Scots nobility perished in the Battle of Flodden.”
Catherine stared at him, frozen with horror, disbelief, and bewilderment, unable to comprehend. “A third?”
“Your nephew, Adam Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell—”
“Stop it!” Catherine screamed, sobbing and twisting her head from side to side to escape the agony that gripped her. “Stop! Stop—” Not Patrick’s son; not her sister Meg’s child, that redheaded little one running in the wind with his ribbon banner blowing behind him at Huntly Castle. Not him! Not Adam. Oh, Adam! The tears she had held back for all the years in England found her then and poured out of her heart in a flood. All that kept her upright was Matthew. She collapsed against his broad chest and he wrapped his powerful arms around her, and she clung to him, and wept. There had been so many black days in her life, but this—this—
This was too much.
Chapter 23
Abide with Me
1513
Catherine fell into a melancholy for months after Flodden. Ten thousand Scots had died there. Among them she numbered many cousins and extended kin from the Gordons, Setons, Stewarts, Hays, Crightons, and Keiths. They had grown up together, and as children they had played and laughed and chased one another around the castle halls. All had danced at her wedding to Richard. In those long past halcyon days of their youth, they had toasted life, confident of victory in every battle, certain there was no obstacle they could not vanquish. Some had waved farewell to her at Ayr, and she saw them still in her mind’s eye, standing on the dock as she sailed away to her destiny, leaving them to await theirs at Flodden. “Farewell, King Richard of England, farewell! Farewell, fair Catherine!” they had called. And James had smiled; James, who had blessed her marriage to the one she loved; who had espoused Richard’s noble cause with all his heart. James, brave king; kind heart; beloved cousin.
James was gone.
His mutilated body had been taken to Berwick to be embalmed. From there it was brought south, to the Carthusian monastery at Shene. How strange that of all the monasteries in England, it should be there. Catherine laid down her pen and closed her ledger. She rubbed her eyes. Pushing away from the desk, she went to the window. Through the ice on the window panes, the winter landscape stretched to the horizon, as dreary as her spirit. The Carthusian monastery, where Richard had sought refuge after fleeing the Tower. For one night he’d dreamt of hope, if not freedom, before leaving the monastery for the most dreadful fate any man could ever face. Now those same four walls enclosed his friend, James. In his chivalry, James had had Richard’s body brought to Scotland to be placed in the royal vault, thinking to lie beside his friend when the time came. But Fate, as always, had other plans. Now, Richard lay in Scotland, and James was here, an alien in an alien land.
She didn’t know what she would have done in these months without Matthew. Despite the war, he’d managed to make a trip to Fyfield twice a month after Flodden. When King Harry finally abandoned his dreams of continental conquest and returned home to England, Matthew divided his time between his duties in Wales and royal business at court, coming often to Fyfield. Meanwhile, his man, Piers, never let her out of his sight until she went into her bedchamber at night and locked the door behind her.
Strangely, James had given her little trouble after the feast day. It was almost as if he were resigned to matters the way they were, or perhaps he was merely too drunk, or too ill, to care anymore.
With Fyfield, James left everything in her hands. For much of the year during his illness, there was naught but toil as linens fouled by vomit and offal were washed daily, and chamber pots emptied. Incense was burned to rid the house of odor, and when summer came, Catherine filled the rooms with garden flowers, boiled mint, and fragrant herbs, and opened every window. Still, James’s spirits continued their decline, and constant pain kept him confined to bed.
At least Catherine had come to an arrangement with each of James’s debtors regarding repayment of the money he owed them. She paid them monthly, without fail, and though the amounts were small, they knew they would receive their money in full someday. Reassured, the debtors no longer came to Fyfield in person, and the confrontations ceased. For the management of the estate in matters where the steward needed help, she turned to Matthew. Once the word went out that her protection came from the highest echelon of state, all those who might have thought to wheedle more money out of her for repairs or harass her in other ways abandoned their efforts. She found there was little to trouble Matthew about.
“You mean I am not needed?” he would demand, quirking an eyebrow.
“’Tis because of you that all is well, Matthew. If you fled the scene, I fear they would all rise up against me.”
“Flee the scene indeed. The very thought strikes fear into my belly.”
“Aye,” she’d laugh. “And I see how you tremble.”
He would smile and place an arm around her shoulders, and thus would they sta
nd and watch the sunset together.
It was Matthew who took her to visit King James at the Carthusian monastery, where he lay unburied; it was Matthew who held her up when she visited the cell where Richard had spent his last night outside the Tower walls; and it was Matthew who stood at the back of the church as she prayed for them both. Through all the heavy days and months of her grief and difficulties, it was Matthew who was there beside her, who brought her news of the search for Dickon, who eased her worries, and paved her life with hope. And if Catherine had any doubts before that she loved him, she had none now. She did love Matthew. Loved him with all her heart.
By summer of 1515, James was bedridden. The bloody flux had caused him much grief but Catherine suspected he was suffering from other ailments, too. The excesses of his youth had taken a toll on his general well-being and his ability to fight disease. Through his protracted illness, she matched Sholson’s devotion in tending to his needs, and in these days she helped to lift the wine cup to his lips, for drinking soothed his pain.
“How are you this morn?” Catherine would ask.
“I hurt,” James would reply.
And she would try to lighten his spirits. “That is very good, James. After a certain age, if you don’t wake up aching in every joint, you are probably dead.”
And James would smile.
Still, his condition worsened. Though Catherine sought remedies for his belly cramps, his yellowed complexion, and his bloodshot eyes, it was all to no avail. On the eleventh day of November, 1516, he made out his will.
In his London town house in Southwark, Catherine bid the lawyer and the witness farewell at the door, and treading lightly, returned to James’s bedchamber. Snow was falling and the day was dismal, but candles burned on the bedside table, somewhat alleviating the wintry gloom. She had expected to find him asleep, exhausted by the effort of making out his last testament, but he lay awake, his head turned to the window. When the door opened, he shifted his gaze to her.
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