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  “Lady Catherine Gordon, I am here to inform you of the events that have transpired in these two weeks since Taunton. No doubt you know much of what has happened, do you not?”

  “I have been apprised of events at Exeter, Lord Daubeney, but nothing more. I know not the outcome of the battle at Taunton. I pray you to impart it to me now.”

  So it fell to him to deliver the sorry tidings. Daubeney inhaled a long breath. “My lady, there was no battle at Taunton.”

  “No battle?” Catherine echoed in stunned amazement. “I don’t understand—”

  “We did not fight, my lady. When I arrived, the battlefield was empty. Your husband, the one who calls himself Richard, Duke of York, son of King Edward IV, deserted his troops in the night and fled to Beaulieu Abbey to seek sanctuary with a small band of followers.”

  An audible gasp resounded from the abbot, who had not known this detail, and Catherine’s ladies cried out in shock. But Catherine took no breath, for the air seemed to have gone out of the room. She stared at Daubeney, not knowing what to think, casting about in her mind to make sense of the jumble of words she had just heard. Desertion of his troops? Flight in the middle of the night? She could not believe such a thing—it was too dreadful—it was not possible! They could tell her whatever they pleased now, and she would not know what was true, and what was false, but of one thing she was sure—Richard would never abandon his troops this way. Never. She found her voice. “You are a liar, sir!”

  “I regret deeply, my lady, that I speak truth. Your husband deserted his men in the dead of night. They waited for him to return, but he did not. Many of them remained steadfastly loyal and did not leave until I was almost upon them. In the end, sorely disheartened, they were forced to abandon his cause and take flight themselves.”

  Catherine felt the pang of doubt, for Daubeney’s grave expression suggested that he did not prevaricate, nor did he relish the tidings he brought her. But she refused to believe such an appalling thing. She tightened her hold of her babe and lifted her chin. “Where is my lord husband now? Is he at Beaulieu?”

  “He has left sanctuary and is on his way to meet King Henry at Taunton.”

  “Left?” Catherine echoed in horror. “Left—” She felt her blood drain to her feet. Dear God—the room was tilting around her. A burning pain ripped through her body and she closed her eyes to steady herself. No—no—Richard, Richard— All knew how this usurper violated the laws of sanctuary! He had sent sixty men to snatch Sir Humphrey Stafford, and a hundred and twenty to take Sir Robert Chamberlain. He did not fret about his soul when his crown stood in jeopardy. She braced herself to ask what she had to know. “Left—or extracted by force?” She had no idea where her courage came from, but the Scots were never supple at the knees, and the adversity of climate, geography, and history had made them fiercely independent. The Gordon Highlanders were made of even sterner stuff, her father had always told her, and it seemed she was her father’s daughter, as defiant as the rest of them, even in the face of doom.

  “He left of his own accord, by arrangement with King Henry,” Daubeney replied. “He has confessed to being Perkin Warbeck, a boatman’s son, and has written his mother in Flanders asking for money to buy luxuries that might ease his imprisonment.”

  “That is absurd! I am well aware how confessions are obtained—and the Tower stands to remind those who forget. If he wrote such a letter, he wrote it under duress. I know him. He is Richard, second son of King Edward IV, and a prince of England—”

  Daubeney made no reply, but he looked at her with compassion. Gently, he said, “My lady, my instructions are to take you to King Henry.”

  “I am in sanctuary, in case you have not noticed. Would you extract a helpless woman by force, as you extracted my husband?”

  “My lady, I assure you he left of his own free will. In any case, he is now in the king’s custody, and I urge you to consider how much more harshly matters will go for him if you do not comply with King Henry’s request.”

  Full realization dawned. A shudder tingled along Catherine’s spine. No doubt they had used her and Dickon against Richard, and he had complied for their sake, as she would comply for his. For a moment, it seemed to her that she stood outside herself, looking down on this dread scene from somewhere high above, that it was not real, not happening to her but to someone else. She blinked. She was indeed here, and Daubeney awaited her answer.

  “Very well,” she said softly, her strength ebbing away. “We shall be ready for you in the morning. Pray excuse us now. My son needs his rest—”

  Hastily, Daubeney cut in, “Your ladies may come with you, if you so choose.” He hesitated again. He had no wish to deliver the rest of his message, but Henry VII was watching him, carefully assessing his performance, and this involved his own survival, and that of his family. He braced himself and rushed on, “But not your son.”

  Clutching her child tightly to her, Catherine backed away in horror. “Not—my—son?”

  “King Henry has other plans for the babe.”

  “What—other—plans—” Her voice trembled violently.

  “I am not at liberty to say, my lady,” Lord Daubeney replied through ashen lips. “But the child has no need of sanctuary and must be taken now.” He turned and nodded to Courtenay to seize the babe, but Courtenay made no move. The young man stood staring at him as if he were rooted to the ground, his eyes full of desolate entreaty. Do not ask this of me, they pleaded. I cannot do it.

  Daubeney swung on the lord chamberlain, and the older man knew that if he valued his life, liberty, or goods, he must obey. Daubeney would not be gainsaid twice before his men. His heels clicking on the tile, the doddery old Earl of Shrewsbury approached the dais and mounted the steps. As he did so, in Catherine’s consciousness, each step he took struck the solid stone of the walls and pillars, resounded against the vaulted ceiling, and was cast down with the force of a thousand shards of glass exploding to earth. She felt her blood surging through her body as she turned to flee with her child wailing in her arms, but her legs were leaden and she had no power of movement. She doubled up in agony; her grip loosened on her child. And from far behind her, deep in the darkness, a faint, distant voice sang a lament that she heard but dimly, for the voice was falling away; fading along echoing passageways, as if into deepest night. “Dic-kon-on-on-on—” it whispered and, like a wind, was gone.

  Chapter 5

  Quo Es Tu, Deus?

  Disembodied voices mumbled around her. Catherine strained to make out what they said, but she could not. It was a gloomy place where she stood, dimmed by floating vapors. When the vapors cleared, she saw that the place was a cemetery, one choked with weeds and crowded with crooked tombstones. Backing away, she lost her footing and fell to ground of burned earth, broken by fissures that emitted foul sulphurous fumes. She struggled to her feet. Men on horses galloped to and fro, bearing pale banners that fluttered vaguely above their heads like torn veils. I know this place, she thought. ’Tis the kingdom of the shadowy dead.

  She continued forward on the grim terrain. A hissing came to her and she looked up. The wind was making an arc above her head. Caught in its circling currents were vile black things with birdlike forms resembling dragons. They had scaly wings and coiled tails, and one, more hideous than the rest, bore the face of a man. The creature gnawed on the carcass of a child he carried by his tail as he whirled about in the dark wind. Terror found her then, and she screamed for Richard. All at once he beamed at her and she forgot about the birds. She smiled at him, so handsome in his white damask robe and short furred cape of taffeta, his wedding crown on his golden hair. “Dance, my Celtic princess, dance—” he said, not moving his lips. She took his hand. Music played, a ferocious Highland melody. Its wild pace kept quickening, forcing them to leap and twirl ever faster, but who was that crowned figure who watched them? She turned to ask Richard but he was gone and there was naught but silence now; a silence more dreadful than the shattering music that wen
t before.

  She kept walking, and looking, but the landscape was strange and she saw no one she knew. All at once there appeared a hemisphere of light ahead that lit the darkness. Someone stood against the light, and she saw it was the crowned figure that had watched her dance with Richard. I want to go there, she thought, and she was there, and she saw that the figure, tall and stately, was neither male nor female. It was stained with blood and crowned with a horned serpent, its waist bound in cords of spotted snakes. Behind the dread figure, in the radiant light, a beautiful hillside sloped down gently, covered with exquisite lilies and horses grazing, and a creek, and she saw her mother sewing a silken embroidery in a field.

  “I want to come to you,” Catherine said to the figure, recognizing it as Death.

  “You may not enter here. It is not your time,” said Death.

  As Catherine watched, a soft mist floated across the idyllic scene and closed it off from view, and Death vanished into its floating whiteness, leaving her friendless again in the hellish landscape. “Father, help me!” she cried, and instantly her father stood before her, laughing, and merry with wine. He toasted her with a golden goblet while her younger brother William looked on. She was at Huntly Castle on the banks of the River Deveron, a child skipping with other children around the ancient circle of stones in the village. She moved past the circle of stones and halted. The terrain had changed back to burned earth beneath her feet, and the fearsome birds had returned. They formed a black cloud over her head and emitted a cacophony of evil sounds. She turned to flee, but each marker in the ancient stone circle that she had passed now leapt up before her to block her way and they were all spotted, writhing serpents. She screamed, and awoke to find herself in a creaking wagon, lying on a pallet.

  “M’lady, my Lady Cate—” Alice’s eyes were moist as she gazed at her and mopped her brow with a damp cloth. “What ails ye? Do ye have pain?”

  “Nightmare,” she managed. “Where are we?”

  “We are passing the Merry Maidens near St. Buryan.”

  Catherine turned her head. In the distant fields a stone circle marked the bleak terrain, but otherwise it was devoid of life, and thankfully, there were no birds. “The Merry Maidens,” she echoed.

  “’Tis what the natives call them. They remind me of the ancient circle of stone in Strathbogie where we used to play as children. Remember, M’ lady Cate?”

  “Aye,” said Catherine, closing her eyes, “I remember . . .”

  “How is she?” demanded Lord Daubeney, riding up to Alice’s side.

  “Asleep for now,” Alice replied softly, her voice trembling. “Her fever still rages and her heart beats too rapidly—” She bit her lip. “She has lost much blood with the dead child she birthed, m’lord. I fear she will not survive the journey to London.”

  Daubeney turned his eyes on Catherine. His heart ached for this still, nearly lifeless figure who only two days ago had displayed such courage in the face of cruel Fortune. God help her, he thought, and God forgive me for what I must do next. “I shall send to King Henry and inform him that the Lady Catherine is in dole and needs time to mourn. Meanwhile we shall take her to the Mount instead of London. I will join you there after I have discharged a pressing duty.”

  Alice’s eyes filled with tears, and one by one they rolled down her cheeks for she knew too well what that duty was. He was taking Dickon away to where no one would ever find him again.

  Richard dismounted, an oppressive tightness in his chest. In the last few days, his fear for Catherine and Dickon had reached frenzied proportions. The Tudor would get them, and there was nothing in this world that he could do for them. He might as well be dead, and now he wished he was. His horror of capture had worn itself out and an onerous burden of shame had descended in its place. The last time he had been at Taunton, he had an army at his back, and honor. Now the captain had returned as captive. Worse, men called him a coward, the vilest epithet in the English language. Whatever Fate held in store for him, he had to meet it with fortitude. Maybe then some shred of honor would be restored to him. Maybe then Catherine would not be repelled by the thought of him, as she surely must be now. That was the greatest shame of all—that she would learn of what he had done, and despise him for evermore.

  He looked up at the elegant Augustinian Priory where the usurper waited. The building could not be more different from the roofless, dilapidated so-called castle where he had made his last stand. But to the victor go the spoils, not the least of which was comfort.

  “This way, my—” Richmond Herald bit his tongue, and not a moment too soon. Once again he was about to say “my lord.” The young man not only looked every inch a prince of the blood, but had deported himself with dignity throughout the journey. Richmond Herald remembered with near-blinding clarity the moment the young man had surrendered himself from sanctuary at Beaulieu, and never would he forget, such a shock had it been.

  The Pretender had discarded his homespun cowl and emerged from sanctuary arrayed in cloth of gold, looking every inch the prince he claimed to be. He had charm and wit; he had the manners, grace, parlance, and bearing of a Plantagenet, and it was impossible to believe that he was a boatman’s son in disguise—a garçon—a “feigned boy”—as King Henry liked to call him. During their long journey together, Richmond Herald had stolen many a surreptitious glance at him and received the curious sensation of time flown backward. As if the tears rent in its fabric by the Wars of the Roses had never happened and at his side rode the new king, son of the late Edward IV, as it should have been.

  But Richmond Herald quickly quelled his treasonous thoughts. This young man was a coward, and not fit to lead England, even if he were the true son of the beloved King Edward. Passing through the arched entrance of the abbey and ascending the marble steps of an elegant double staircase, Herald led the would-be king to meet the king-who-was, a couplet spoken by a dead Yorkist friend chiming in his head: “Treason doth never prosper—what’s the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.” Aye indeed, such were the rules in the game of kings, and best he never forget. He took his leave of Richard at the door of the chamber.

  Richard surveyed the room as he entered. It was as grand and impressive as any he had seen in France, Flanders, Venice, Rome, or Bohemia. His eye fell on a desk in the corner, set with a candelabra such as he had admired in Vienna when he’d attended the funeral of the Holy Roman Emperor, Ferdinand III, and was proclaimed Richard IV.

  A commotion in the hall announced the king, and the door was thrown open to reveal a lanky man in his early forties, wearing a crimson and gold velvet robe studded with jewels. He was about Richard’s height, with a bony face, pale hooded eyes, and limp brown-gray hair. A sudden, overwhelming impression of coldness struck Richard with full force. The man stood perfectly still, taking Richard’s measure in one long, unwavering gaze as servants shut the door behind him. Richard could see from his flushed cheeks that he was as nervous as he was excited and that he was much taken by surprise, and trying to recover his composure.

  In truth, King Henry VII was astonished into speechlessness. What he saw before him—and not without a pang of envy—was a weary, fair-haired, muscular young man in the full bloom of youth who discontented him both with his good looks and his graceful princely stance. No one could have mistaken him, Henry, for a king in the days before Bosworth. Arrayed in cloth of gold and unadorned by jewels, the young man exuded as much royal presence as he himself did in circlet, furs, gems, and rich velvet robes after eleven years of kingship. The only physical imperfection Henry could see was the young man’s dull left eye. He thought, uncomfortably, that this had been a mark of the Plantagenets, borne by the two kings Henry III and Edward I. Abruptly his thoughts took a more pleasing turn. In one important aspect—and the only one that counted—he bested the fellow. Of what use were his princely attributes and pretensions when he stood here a captive, no better than a slave? Richard’s fate rested entirely in Henry’s hands and no one could
help him now. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  “So . . . you have bedecked yourself in the apparel of a king,” he said, closing the distance between them.

  Because I am a king, Richard wanted to reply, but he said nothing.

  “Yet you claim to be—” Henry strode to the desk. He turned the papers toward him, and glanced down. “Piers Osbeck. At least, such is the name you gave at Beaulieu.”

  “You have promised me fair treatment and that you will not harm my wife and child. For this reason, I am willing to say I am whoever you wish.”

  Henry slammed his fist on the desk. “I want to know from your own lips who you really are!”

  Richard’s heart thumped wildly. He knew this man could tear him from limb to limb as he’d done to many others, but he would rely on Henry’s royal word, transmitted to him by Richmond Herald, that he would be treated honorably. More bravely than he felt, he said, “You already know that. It is what the world is given to know that matters, is it not?”

  “Do not delude yourself—you are no prince of the blood, you coward!” Henry spat.

  “You, too, ran away the night before Bosworth,” Richard reminded him. He could have also reminded him—had he dared—of Henry’s terror at St. Malo, when Duke Francis of Brittany had delivered him up to an English embassy about to take ship to England. Henry, in a frenzy of fear, convinced he was going to his death, fell desperately ill with an ague, and Duke Francis, taking pity, changed his mind and did not send him back to England.

  Instantly, Richard regretted his words. A vein twitched in Henry’s forehead, and his eyes took on a wolfish glare. He closed the gap between them until they stood almost nose to nose.