He, not she, was the one who more often called for caution, and that annoyed her. Surely the king had forgotten them? And even if he noticed, why should he care, they being husband and wife in God’s eyes, and he need not fear that they could work any harm to his throne, she an exiled Scots princess and her beloved a self-accused impostor. After what he had openly confessed, no one would be likely to believe again that he was Prince Richard of York. If she asked him, she wondered, the king might even graciously permit them to live openly at his court together. Then there would be no need for them to flee.
But the queen said: “Nay … Nay,” she said. “There is no safety for you here. True, your husband can no longer be dangerous to my husband, but he would grudge even his bouche at court, and he hates him for his likeness to my family … If he dared, he’d have him hanged tomorrow; but since killing my brothers in the Tower, he has discovered, that even the dead, can speak through their wounds. He drove my mother to her death and she was not really dangerous to him, although, mayhap he feared her tongue, for she was never discreet. That was why he sent her to the convent at Bermondsey, taking from her her estates and giving her money every year that people might not say he starved her. Besides, the abbot there, John de Marloe, needed payment … I tell you this to show that he cannot be trusted. To the world he pretended all was well, even carrying on negotiations to marry my mother to your sib and king, James of Scotland; but all the time he had her safe in that abbey. Thus will he treat you and your husband, given the chance. Let him trip you in one hint of treason, and there’s the end.”
“What! when we intend him no harm!”
“Your husband is strangely like my father,” sighed the queen, “save for that poor eye of his which does not sparkle. There have been moments when I’ve seen him suddenly and have caught my breath, thinking he was my uncle Richard. He has not my father’s great height nor his breadth of shoulders, for he was a giant amongst men, and is more like Richard … , Yea, had Dickon not been so loyal a husband to poor Anne, I would suspect … It might have been before they married … Ay! it would have been, of course.”
“You truly think he is your brother or your cousin?”
“I am certain of it,” said the queen. “He is of my blood. There is no mistaking that. But that he is my brother from the Tower I am certain is impossible. That unhappy Dickon with his brother lies dead. Nay, your husband must be some bastard of my father or my uncles. Certes, he has our blood. I’d swear to that.”
There was no disgrace in bastardy when the father was a great man. This King Henry based much of his royal claim on a bastard’s descent from John of Gaunt before Gaunt had married the mother. That Perkin was of Plantagenet descent was sufficient to soothe any qualms in Katherine’s pride of ancestry. When she bore his children they would be FitzEdward’s, or FitzRichard’s, and not Warbeck’s; and that was one reason why they must sail for Burgundy. Safe at the Duchess Margaret’s court, Perkin could repudiate his confession as having been extorted under threats, and declare again that he was in all truth King Edward’s son. King James then would not be able to jeer and say that she was disparaged. The queen must know best who were her own relations; and the king also, apparently, had detected some likeness.
“That is why he must hate your husband,” said the queen. “For all the amiable mask he might wear, the king hates all Plantagenets. He’ll not rest content until none’s left living of my lineage. Your husband’s presence here, his close resemblance to my father, must be to him a taunting ghost about the court. Because he seems quiet and speaks pleasantly, do not believe he has forgotten or forgiven anything. He is merely waiting his chance … That is why I’ll not rest easy until I know you’re both out of England.”
Everything had been arranged. The boat would sail from London on Wednesday — which the astronomers said should be a moonless night — and would wait under the willows scarcely two hundred yards beyond the palace walls; and the queen had contrived to obtain a second key to the garden door.
“I still have some friends left,” said she with a sad smile, giving the key to Katherine to pass to Perkin. “That night I’ll send you off early on some errand; and should you meet the guard, they’ll not hinder you if you slip them a coin. They’d never think of treason to find a pretty woman cloaked abroad at night. They would but be envious and, if too inquisitive, a kiss should stop their mouths. But what of your husband?”
“He swears that he’ll be there,” said Katherine, trembling to think how close was the hour, when they would be together, forever together, again, rowed safely down the Thames.
“He’d be no man to fail so seemlihead a bride,” said the queen wearily, rumpling Katherine’s hair, and staring into her eyes.
Strangely, now that the hour of escape drew close, Katherine began again to distrust her power over Perkin. With diffidence like that of a maid on the threshold of the bridal-chamber, she feared lest she fail him in some fashion, revealing herself to be less than his dream of her. And that was absurd. Always had he shown himself her slave grateful for a peck of affection. Only she wondered whether he had changed as she had changed. Certainly, despair had given him a certain strength and even dignity, while she had become more timid as hopes rose in her. He, the dreamer, had turned inhuman with the loss of his dream; and she who had previously accepted her fate with no real expectation of happiness, now quailed lest her dream be broken. He had withdrawn from love which had hurt him so cruelly while she for the first time was wholly snared by it and was therefore, in her turn, open to hurt. Swiftly had the wheel of fortune spun, reversing everything; and that bewildered and alarmed her who knew so little of the thoughts of men.
“He will be there,” said the queen; but Katherine shivered, afraid to believe good fortune.
Had they found opportunities for more than a hurried kiss and a squeeze, she felt that her doubts might have been quickly resolved. In a true kiss, there can be no cheating and the counterfeit are easily tasted. But she was like a witch deprived of her means for sorcery. Only by gazing at him could she tell Perkin of her love; and looks, like words, are sadly ineffectual compared to touch and taste. Only by the embrace could love be proved; only then could a woman believe with no heart-searchings that she was honestly desired.
“He will be there,” again and again the queen assured her. “How can you question it? He would be mad or a ridgel to fail you.”
That again and again, in the night-time when alone, they returned to this affirmation was proof, they realized, that they were uncertain. If Perkin had made but one attempt to see Katherine alone, their fears would have been assuaged; but he made no such attempt. Still in the same state of gloomy scorn, silently he performed his duties as a royal henchman, acting as messenger in the palace to the king, the cardinal, the chamberlain, the cofferer, the butler, the steward, or to anyone in authority who needed his attendance. Often did the king send him to the queen’s chambers to undertake trivial matters such as the raking up of old rushes or the spreading of new, or to ask the queen’s pleasure for anything she might want. And when he entered these rooms, he walked like a young monk with downcast looks, never once glancing towards Katherine frantically waiting for him to look at her. The women would smile and tease him, ogling him, and watching with delight the despair in Katherine’s eyes; but always he remained respectful, withdrawn, as though he were blind to their beauty.
“He is obedient to his lady,” whispered the queen. “You commanded him to go carefully. He fears to look at you lest he betray himself.”
Words were not enough to bolster her pride and stifle her fears. Thus might they argue together, explaining desperately why he remained tongue-tied and looked so woebegone, but their hearts stayed heavy. Long, long ago had all hope died in the queen who had once been gay and very beautiful Now she had learned to distrust life and she sniffed poison in every gift of fortune. This, girl’s hope of escape to married happiness excited her as though she saw in
her a reflection of herself and, by proxy, could feel something of the fulfilment of being loved. Also, she felt doubly involved in the plot, Perkin’s likeness to her family making him precious to her. That he must be her father’s son she did not question, the resemblance being close, not only in looks, but in voice and gesture that could not have been a foreigner’s. He was her brother or her cousin and therefore must be given his heart’s desire in this tall Scotswoman with the golden hair.
“Be careful of my husband,” she kept repeating. “He knows well how to hide his thoughts and likes to pounce like a cat when you feel most secure. Whenever he smiles on you, tremble, for he means mischief.”
Gracious always was the king, smiling at Katherine like a father, and she was too worried by Perkin’s misanthropy to be afraid of the lean, fish-eyed man with the trap of a mouth and the heavy chin.
“You have no heart, lady,” he said to her, “or else you’d not torment my poor subjects by remaining in this married state of unnatural chastity. Or is it that you eat so many gallants’ hearts for breakfast you have no need to taste the men themselves?”
Always, no matter what he might say, she felt that there was a cutting edge under his voice, a second meaning impossible to interpret. Had he been lecherous, she would have feared he wanted her, there being something amorously playful in the way he spoke and looked; but women, she knew, meant little to him in his web of political intrigue. He would use them to work on others’ weaknesses or to betray their husbands’ or their lovers’ secrets, but he would not desire them for himself. There were no lusts in his dry body, save the lust for gold, and even his fondness for gay garments would most likely have gone unsatisfied had he not had King Richard’s wardrobe to plunder. But expensive garments and jewels were essential to a king that he might impress not only his subjects but foreign envoys and ambassadors. That he should delight in pageantry was natural enough. Not being of pure royal descent, such outward show delighted him.
Not one woman at court could boast of his having chosen her; and, even without the queen’s continual warnings, Katherine realized that his interest was not the normal interest of a man in a pretty lady. Although, now and then, a sudden tenseness in his voice or a glittering of his eyes made her tremble and feel naked. There were lusts in him which he had tightly bound but had not slain. Had he been secure on an inherited throne and unafraid of the people’s hatred, he might have proved himself a different, a gayer, and even a lecherous man.
“I must send you back to your husband,” he said, “if you will marry no other. How would that suit you, lady? Can it be true that you despise him, as you say, and he so spry and young and handsome? I will give you your own chamber together and a key to the door and servants to wait on you, should you crave it. Yet you stay dumb, my girl, unlike most wives.”
“I — I am not a wife any longer, your highness,” she managed to stutter. “I — I am content as I am.”
“Leaving the unhappy man in discontent?” he smiled. “Your poor husband, lady, has so sour a face I fear me he might hang himself in his points or flee my court to escape your displeasure. And I would not like him to leave me … f d understand his reasons for going, of course, but the rest of the world … Ah, they might think he had been ill-treated and try to use him again for their own ambitions against me. Be a good wife to the poor lad, my dilling: teach him that I am his friend as I am yours.”
His words frightened her. In that garden when they had plotted escape, they might have been overheard. That yeoman had stood close to them. Yet if they had been overheard they would surely not have been left free like this to continue plotting? Fool, she told herself, to fret over what might never be. Think only of escape, and of love, and forget terror. Yet terror grew as the hour of escape approached. One day, one night, a second day, and then … She shuddered, wishing she had a witch’s power to overleap the waiting. All had been arranged, the queen kept on assuring her, frightening her: the boat would be under the trees, their refuge in London was prepared and they could hide there until the hunt was over and shipping would be free again to carry them to Burgundy … but the slowly passing minutes were torture and, when the hours tolled, she feared she would swoon, so overwrought was she and racked by. alternate hopes and fears.
“Tonight,” smiled the queen.
Tonight. It would be a dark night, the astronomers had agreed. And there was no way of reminding Perkin that this was to be the time. She dared not seek him with the women watching and waiting to betray her. Imprisoned within her dark gown — she had chosen a purple gown that was almost black, as though she were in mourning — she sat, white-faced, pretending to read a book of hours, while counting her own heartbeats.
Slowly, steadily, her heart beat on; and seconds, and then minutes passed. O, it was anguish to pretend indifference, to seem impassive when her fingers trembled so that she dared not lift the little book from her lap. Sunset, twilight. Then darkness; and no moon, no stars, she hoped. The moon, it was said, would rise very late and by then they would have no need to fear its brilliance.
Under the candlelight, amongst the weary ladies, she sat, and she could feel the queen watching her. After this night, there could be no returning; the step being taken, she must continue always as Perkin’s wife and her family might well renounce her; and she half-prayed that the queen would not give the signal for her to retire.
“Lady Katherine,” said the queen in over-casual tones, “I would have you run to the nurse. Tonight I have strange fears about the babe and would have you sleep in her chamber for me.”
Trying desperately to appear at ease under the surprised looks of the ladies at such an unusual request, Katherine stood slowly to her feet, wondering whether her legs would support her when she moved. Then briefly she curtsied and walked towards the door.
Almost were her fingers on the latch when the door swung open and nearly struck her; and the king strode in, and stood, smiling at her, in the golden light.
“Hey!” said he, “you were going out, lady, at this goblin-hour? Nay, nay, that betokeneth sin, it smells of the pit, does it not, a lady abroad alone at night? …”
Back on to her chair sank the queen and closed her eyes, while Katherine almost fell as she drooped into a curtsey.
“I … I …” stammered the queen; then suddenly in a stronger voice, she said: “The Lady Katherine was leaving at my command, sire. I wished to make certain that the Princess Mary was well.”
“Very well,” said the king, “she is very well, your grace. Both the Princess Margaret and the Princess Mary are in excellent health. I have just left them.”
“I … I … A mother’s fantasy, your grace. The Princess Mary seemed feverish when last I saw her. I feared the sweating sickness and I must be certain of her health before All Night.” With sudden strength, she glared at the king; then she nodded at Katherine. “Go, child,” she said. “Your mistress commands you.”
“Nay,” said the king, hand out to delay Katherine, “your king forbids it. I’ll not have my royal word doubted even by my queen, madam. I have told you that both princesses are in health, and the guards there have my orders to permit no one into their apartment. I have heard rumours of traitors about in the dark. No one must leave this palace tonight.”
Seeing how limp his queen had become and how Katherine swayed in her curtsey, the king smiled.
“We have had long hours with our council,” he said; and when housed the royal “we”, the queen and her ladies knew that he was in one of his dangerously merry or malicious moods; “and we’ve grown weary of old men’s talk. If there be traitors abroad, they’ll not run far … Why! you look pale, lady! Come, sing to me. I like that Scottish tongue of yours and the lilt of your ballads. Sing me … ay, sing me a love-ballad. I am in that humour. Ay, ay, some melancholy mopish ballad about some Highland lass lamenting her laddie, or her husband, mayhap, and fate’s cruelty that he should be slain so young … Tonight we are merry
! We say Fie! to the tricks of traitors; but our hearts are open to pity and other miserable things. Therefore, lady, we command you: sing.”
He knew. That yeoman must have overheard their talk. He knew and he had come to torment her and the queen by showing his knowledge while not speaking of it. When Katherine tried to sing, he smiled with closed lips: and when she faltered over words or her voice broke on anger or sorrow, he did not attempt to hide his merriment. Like a kindly king, deep in wise thoughts, he sat, nodding his head in time to the gittern’s music; and all the while he looked at Katherine, and now and then he chuckled at some unspoken jest.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MIDNIGHT AND AFTER
THE moon had long since risen and the rowers, leaning on their oars, murmured together. It was time they were off, said the man by the tiller; and Perkin no longer pleaded with him to wait. Hope had abandoned him and he was weary of crying against destiny, it being evident that he was marked for no happiness, the stars his enemies. Hour after hour had he stood in his cloak, now and then tiptoeing to the door in the palace garden-wall to make certain that no one stood on guard there. And Katherine had not come. That she might have been delayed had been his first hope; then he had lapsed into that fatalism which had made him no longer regret even the loss of liberty, and he became certain that he had been made a zany of and that she had no intention of leaving England. Probably she had sickened of his hangdog countenance and wished to have him far away that she might romp with other men; therefore had she tricked him into this fool’s assignation with the moon. That sudden alteration in her feelings towards him had been false, a woman’s pretence, as he had feared. The cold goddess he had married, that quiet woman with the sullen eyes and her withdrawal of spirit in the embrace, could not have changed so suddenly: that would have been impossible, unnatural, fool that he was!
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