B004H0M8IQ EBOK Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PART I - September 7th, 1495- November 23rd, 1499

  Chapter 1 - Twilight on the Mount

  Chapter 2 - Mist on the Mount

  Chapter 3 - Darkness on the Mount

  Chapter 4 - Eye of the Storm

  Chapter 5 - Quo Es Tu, Deus?

  Chapter 6 - Red Rose, White Rose

  Chapter 7 - In the Dragon’s Court

  Chapter 8 - This World, My Prison

  Chapter 9 - The Horns of Fate

  Chapter 10 - Perilous Shadows

  Chapter 11 - River of Flames

  Chapter 12 - Fortune’s Dance

  Chapter 13 - Winds of Winter

  Chapter 14 - Tower of Hell

  Chapter 15 - Season of Death

  PART II - 1502-1526 A Rose for All Seasons

  Chapter 16 - Mirror of the Mind

  Chapter 17 - A Rose in Winter

  Chapter 18 - A Leaf of Hope

  Chapter 19 - Stars of Fate

  Chapter 20 - A Rose in Bloom

  Chapter 21 - A Song in the Night

  Chapter 22 - Raindrops and Rainbows

  Chapter 23 - Abide with Me

  Chapter 24 - In a Summer Garden

  Chapter 25 - Field of Gold

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Select Bibliography

  “It is hard to say how much I loved this novel within the space of a short blurb. Fascinating . . . The world of violent storms on rocky coasts, monasteries, gardens, and the court is so real you can touch it, as are the people from monarchs to serving maids.”

  —Stephanie Cowell, author of Claude & Camille

  “Out of the shadows of history, Sandra Worth has crafted a fascinating, vivid tale of a woman whose courageous love for her husband plunged her into the tumult and deception of early Tudor England.”

  —C. W. Gortner, author of The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

  PRAISE FOR

  The King’s Daughter

  Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award

  for Best Historical Biography of the Year

  “Meticulously researched, exquisitely written; here is a rich, magnificent novel of the Tudor court evoking a once forgotten queen, now impossible to forget.”

  —Michelle Moran, author of Nefertiti

  “A sumptuously detailed picture of royal life.”

  —Knoxville News Sentinel

  “Worth vividly brings one of England’s lesser-known queens to life in this luminous portrait of ‘Elizabeth the Good’ . . . An impressive feat.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A banquet of simply luscious and delicious history.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  PRAISE FOR

  Lady of the Roses

  Romance Reviews Today Reviewer’s Choice Award

  for Best Historical Fiction of the Year

  “Sandra Worth’s passion for her period and her characters shines through on every page.”

  —Anne Easter Smith, author of The King’s Grace

  “Rich descriptions, realistic dialogue, and fascinating people thrust her story forward. Worth proves that history is as powerful as fiction.”

  —Romantic Times, 4 stars

  “Her hallmarks of meticulous research and excellent character development continue in this new story that predates the trilogy. This book kept me up late, and I hated for it to end . . . A perfect ten.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “A poignant tale. The romance that shines between Isobel and John is breathtakingly told . . . I was glued to my seat from beginning to end . . . This story shouldn’t be missed. It is like a treasure one holds to always.”

  —The Romance Studio

  BERKLEY TITLES BY SANDRA WORTH

  Lady of the Roses

  The King’s Daughter

  Pale Rose of England

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by Sandra Worth.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Worth, Sandra.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47856-1

  1. Warbeck, Perkin, 1474-1499—Fiction. 2. Gordon, Catherine, Lady, d. 1537—Fiction. 3. Henry VIII, King of England, 1491—1547—Fiction. 4. Pretenders to the throne—Fiction. 5. Impostors and imposture—Fiction. 6. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 7. Great Britain—History—Henry VII, 1485—1509—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.O775P35 2011

  813ʹ.6—dc22

  2010038252

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Bridget and Alexander

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank medievalist Jean Truax, Ph.D., for her invaluable comments, guidance, and support throughout the writing of this book and for contributing freely of her time not only to read the full manuscript, but to provide generous assistance with research, all while under deadline for an academic book of her own. My thanks also go to the owners of Lady Catherine Gordon’s manor house, who very kindly permitted me to view their lovely private estate. At their own request, they remain anonymous. To Kay Chandler, owner of the historic White Hart Pub in Fyfield that was in Lady Catherine’s time the chantry referred to in this novel, I extend my sincere appreciation for her instrumental role in providing access to St. Nicholas Church, where Lady Catherine is buried. No acknowledgment would be complete without mention of the contribution of my good friend Mary Tilley, who accompanied me on my research trip to Cornwall, and helped get me back to the United States when I broke my ankle in Southampton. To scholar Wendy Moorhen, I owe a special indebtedness. Not only did Ms. Moorhen arrange my visit to Lady Catherine’s house and pick me up and drop me off at Heathrow, making a
twenty-four-hour turnaround in a tight schedule possible, but it is on her research that I relied in main. Previous to Anne Wroe’s book on Lady Catherine’s husband, the so-called “Perkin Warbeck,” Ms. Moorhen’s four in-depth articles on Lady Catherine’s life constituted the sole comprehensive study available on this fascinating medieval princess. Her affection for Lady Catherine was contagious, and in her knowledge I found inspiration.

  At dusk the hunter took his prey,

  The lark his freedom never.

  All birds and men are sure to die

  But songs may live forever.

  —KEN FOLLETT, THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH

  THE ROYAL HOUSES OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND

  (Broken lines denote missing generations. For simplification Catherine is shown as firstborn and Edward IV’s children are not in birth order.)

  Prologue

  CORNWALL, ENGLAND, SEPTEMBER 25, 1497

  Pain washed over Catherine in waves of unrelenting agony. She heard herself moan. Where was she, and where was she going, she wanted to ask, but only dull cries issued from her lips. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt like stones.

  “Bury—” voices whispered. “Bury—make haste to bury—make haste—”

  Was she dead? Would they bury her while she still breathed, or did she merely imagine that she lived? Help me—save me—Almighty Lord of Heaven! Forgive me my transgressions—

  Muffled sobbing came to her, then faded away. She grew aware of the soft chanting of monks. Their song lent her solace, for she knew that wherever she was, it could not be Hell.

  “She is full of beauty, even now, even like this,” someone said.

  “She has the beauty o’ an angel, though her hair be black as raven’s feathers.” Another voice. “God have mercy on her.”

  “Of late, ’tis of a pale rose that she makes me think,” a man said sadly. “A pale rose, in a bitter winter’s wind . . .”

  The murmurs died away, and the chanting grew louder. Catherine felt raindrops caress her brow. The spasms in her belly faded. Blissful oblivion engulfed her, and she drifted away into the darkness.

  When she opened her eyes, a blur of shadows, flames, and arches filled her vision. Church bells chimed the quarter hour, and somewhere a shutter creaked on a hinge as it banged in the wind. A sudden pain made her cry out. She tried to rise and fell back on a rough mattress. A gentle hand settled on her shoulder.

  “Nay, child, do not exert yourself,” a voice said. “You are very weak. What you need is rest.” A white wimple framed the wrinkled face, and a large wooden crucifix hung across her black robes.

  A nun, thought Catherine. “Where am I?” she whispered. Words required effort, and the nun had to lean close to hear.

  “St. Buryan Church, my child. You are safe, for it has the privilege of sanctuary that the Mount does not.”

  “Sanctuary?” Catherine managed. Why did she need sanctuary? She grasped the nun’s hand when another spasm seized her, and tried to lift her head.

  “You must not strain yourself. ’Tis too early for the babe to come.”

  The babe. How could she have forgotten? She dropped back heavily. Church bells began to toll for compline, stirring a vague memory. All at once her mind cleared. “Where is my son?” she cried in a panic, clutching the nun’s sleeve. “Where is my bairn—my Dickon—”

  “Fret not, he is safe. Your ladies keep watch over him.”

  “I want to see him—I need to see him!”

  “He shall be brought to you.”

  “What of my lord husband? Has he sent tidings?”

  The nun averted her gaze. “All in good time, my child.” She smoothed the girl’s hair back from her brow.

  “Is he—did he—” She couldn’t finish the dread thought.

  “We know nothing. Nothing for sure. Yet.”

  “Why am I here, Sister?” Catherine gasped.

  “Your lord husband requested that you—” The nun broke off. “He requested that you be transferred here from St. Michael’s Mount—” Again that hesitation. Softly, she added, “In case matters do not go as hoped.”

  Even in her condition, Catherine knew that she was not hearing the full truth. She turned her mind back to St. Michael’s Mount.

  St. Michael’s Mount.

  She closed her eyes.

  PART I

  September 7th, 1495- November 23rd, 1499

  Chapter 1

  Twilight on the Mount

  “St. Michael’s Mount,” Richard said in awe, his arm around Catherine’s shoulders as they stood together on the deck of his ship, the Cuckoo, huddled beneath his cloak. The wind blew in their faces, whipping his golden curls and her black hair. Above their heads, the banner of the White Rose of York beat wildly.

  Catherine followed his gaze to the silhouette of the monastery-fortress rising up from the silvery sea, dark against a narrow crack of gold left by the setting sun. Behind the rocky outcrop curved a strip of land, as if in a protective embrace. The salt taste of the ocean on her lips seemed like wine to her, for Richard’s joy at returning to his fatherland banished her unease. She looked up at her husband’s shining face and laid her hand over his as it rested on her shoulder. Across the distance, the faint chime of abbey bells reached her ears.

  “St. Michael’s Mount is a-bidding us welcome,” she said in the lilting Scottish brogue of her native land.

  Richard brushed her brow with his lips.

  She threw him a loving glance, nestling in his warmth. “Our babe shall be born here. In England. Your land. The land of your fathers.”

  The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and St. Michael’s Mount was bathed in shades of purple when they drew into the harbor. The families that lived at the foot of the hill had gathered to give them warm welcome with cheering and applause. As soon as they dropped anchor, the men leapt to help them disembark. Richard assisted Catherine from the ship while his men-at-arms sorted out their weapons on the dock and her ladies supervised the arrangement of their belongings on the mules. A groom brought a donkey, and Richard gently helped Catherine onto its back. Catherine’s kinswoman and lady-in-waiting, Alice Hay, took their babe and walked beside them. Little Dickon had already been fed his supper and, thickly swaddled against the wind, had fallen into a sound sleep in his nurse’s arms. Catherine’s lips lifted tenderly as her gaze touched on her child’s sweet form.

  Ponderously, by torchlight, they ascended the hundreds of steps hewn into the rock that led to the fortress on the Mount, Richard on foot leading Catherine’s mule. Behind them trudged their men, their breastplates and pikes glinting in the fading light of day. They had arrived at vespers and the chant of monks floated down from above, bathing them with comfort in the gathering gloom. Massive stones and uneven rocks made the steep climb long and arduous, and the higher they moved, the more ferocious the wind became, but Catherine was oblivious to the hardship. Her gaze was riveted on the view of the sea that unfurled around them, reminding her of an expanse of beautiful silver taffeta waving in welcome. Slowly, she became aware that the monk-song had died away and silence had descended over the fortress. The summit was within reach.

  With his silver crucifix gleaming on his chest, the prior waited to receive them by the church steps, much joy in his heart. Beside him stood his little group of four black-clad Benedictines, for the Mount had suffered many setbacks under the House of Lancaster and these few were all it could support. But the abbot was not thinking of his troubles with the Lancastrian King Henry VII now, or even of God; he was thinking that never in his life had he beheld two such beautiful young people with such grace of deportment, one golden as the fields of wheat in summertime; the other with hair that shone like moonlight around large, black-fringed azure eyes.

  Richard lifted Catherine from her mount, and they came before him. “In the name of Christ our Lord, we welcome Your Grace, Catherine, Duchess of York, and Your Grace, Richard, Duke of York, true King of England . . .”

  The young couple b
owed their heads to receive his blessing, and he made the sign of the cross over them. Accompanied by a novice, he led them across the courtyard, up the steps past the Lady Chapel, and through an arched entry into a distant wing of the abbey where stone steps led down again. The novice pulled open a heavy nail-studded door and they passed through a vestibule into a curved tower. Three lovely chambers fanned out before them. Each was crowned with wood beams on the ceiling and had windows to the darkening sea with seats carved into the walls for viewing. Coffers serving as bedside tables were set with ewers and basins, and candles that flickered in welcome.

  “These will be your quarters while you are our guests,” the prior said, unable to take his eyes from Catherine’s face. Wondrous fair with chiseled features, milky smooth skin, and a rose blush along the cheekbones, she had a beautiful smile and teeth as perfect as a set of lustrous pearls. He forced himself to look away. “Your men are lodged farther down the hill, my lord, but there is room here for the royal princeling and the duchess’s attendants, Your Grace.” He turned to Catherine again, welcoming the chance to gaze at her once more.

  “Thank you, Prior John,” Catherine replied. “After the cramped quarters aboard ship, this space is most welcome.”