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  Henry leapt from the settle and looked at her. “You know not what you say! How can you love him? He has deceived you! He is nothing—worse than nothing—a despicable coward—a knave, a liar, a feigned boy! You have been reduced to this miserable condition by the perfidy and wickedness of this lying scoundrel, and you deserve far better—your royal birth, your grace and dignity all cry out for a far superior man! And I can make everything possible for you if you but divorce him. Think about your . . .”

  Catherine stared at him in dismay as he went on, a terrifying realization washing over her. The “far superior man” he had in mind for her was himself! He coveted her person! It was for his own sake that he wished her to divorce Richard! She fought to control the panic that assailed her. This was a horror she had never anticipated and for which she was totally unprepared. Without realizing that she moved, she rose from the settle and inched away from him until she stood with her back against the wall. Unable to master her revulsion long enough to answer his demand, she remained frozen in wide-eyed silence.

  The king, too, seemed to need time to recover his composure now that he had finished his diatribe. He assumed a stiff posture and stood immobile. As still as a snake eying his prey, thought Catherine, for the gaze he fixed on her was far from gentle; he was ashen-faced with anger, and a muscle worked at his jaw as he studied her. But when he spoke again, his tone was calm. “You still believe he is who he says he is, don’t you?”

  “I do, my lord,” Catherine replied. “But I am willing to agree he is not, if you give me back my child.”

  “There is only one thing to be done then. You shall hear it from his own lips,” Henry replied, as if she had not spoken about her child. “This wastrel shall confess to you how miserably he has deceived you. Perhaps that will persuade you.” He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Bring in Piers Osbeck!”

  The king took a seat on a tapestried chair, knees wide. With a wave of the hand, he indicated Catherine should also sit, and she almost fell onto the window seat nearby. The room went silent but for the distant twitter of a few birds and the soft hiss of the sand seeping through an hour glass on the mantel.

  She was going to see Richard. She would see him, though she could not embrace him nor let him know her thoughts, nor touch his hand, nor kiss his lips. And what must he feel after what he had been through, and how could she give him comfort when she could do none of these things? And what of her dismay at what he had done? Could she forgive him—or would that forever color the way she saw him? She swallowed hard and riveted her eyes on the door, for she caught the sound of footsteps in the hall.

  It was thrust open and Richard stood before her. He hung his head and did not look at her, as if he dreaded what he would see in her eyes. He had lost so much weight and looked so weary—yet seeing him again, even this way, seemed to her a gift from heaven. Aye, he had disappointed her, but now she knew it didn’t matter to her what he had done, or what they said about him. She loved him. I have seen you in your humiliation, she wanted to tell Richard, and it makes no difference to me.

  She rose to her feet. Richard—look at me—look . . . But he didn’t bring his gaze to hers and she could tell him nothing. Catherine stole a quick glance at Henry. The king was watching them. Now he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, a thin smile of satisfaction on his lips and his nose held high, as if he might foul himself by breathing in the same air as filled Richard’s lungs.

  “Get down on your knees and confess to this noble lady, whom you have so shamefully and dishonorably abducted and disgraced, who you really are!” he demanded.

  Richard did as he was commanded, and the awkwardness of his movements conveyed to Catherine more eloquently than words his abject shame. Catherine could only think that the last time he had been on his knees to her, it was to propose marriage. How graceful he had been then, how happy he had looked, how hopeful—how different it had been!

  Staring at the floor, Richard recited his other identity. “I was born in Tournai,” he said. “My father was a boatman . . .”

  It was the tale he had rehearsed with her in Scotland on many occasions. Fashioned of both truth and fiction, it had served to disguise him after he fled England as a child of nine and was deposited for a few years in the care of a family named Werbecque in Tournai, a town on the border between Flanders and France. The choice of a bourgeois family and of Tournai were both deliberate. The fugitive prince would be less likely to be noticed in a family that did not cross paths with the nobility, and the border town conferred an additional measure of security by confusing the usurper’s spies who were scouring Europe searching for him, for he could be whisked from Burgundy to France and back again at a moment’s notice, confounding them further. At the time of his arrival, Tournai belonged to Burgundy, making it possible for his Aunt Margaret to control matters and provide any forged documents he might need. Ultimately, however, the tale had another chilling purpose: to protect him and his royal mentors in the finality of capture.

  “My father’s name is Jehan Wezbecq and he lives at St. Jean de Schedlt . . .”

  This was the history he was to fall back upon under duress. Catherine had seen it a jest as she’d corrected him during the course of his recitals, for he would forget names and confuse dates and details. “No, your father’s name is Werbecque, not Wezbecq, and he lives at St. Jean des Caufours—not Scheldt. And your mother is not Cateryn— she is Nicaise—you dunce!” Then she’d laugh, “Cateryn is me—your wife.”

  Sometimes Richard would gather her into his arms and murmur between kisses, “The only beloved name that ever comes into my mind is Cateryn.” But sometimes he’d chastise her: “I’d like to see you remember the names of a hundred people you met and places you lived when you were ten!” And each time when he was done, she had laughed and said, “’Tis all so foolish! One would have to be an idiot to think you could be a boatman’s son. Who came up with that tripe?”

  Richard’s voice broke into her thoughts, scattering the memories. “My mother’s name is Cateryn . . .”

  Catherine looked at his bowed head, thinking how he had knelt to her, just so, beneath a starry sky, in a secluded corner of the royal garden overlooking the torch-lit village of Stirling, barely a week after his arrival in Scotland, to ask for her hand. The words he had spoken filled her mind: “You were not born as humans are, but fell from Heaven. Your face, so bright and serene, gives splendor to the sky. Your eyes, brilliant as stars, make all pain forgotten and turn despair into delight. In looking, they can only praise you; in praising, they can only love you; in loving, they cannot but reverence you. Love makes me your slave. Waking or sleeping, I can find no rest. Turn your eyes upon me, for you are my only consolation. I do not deserve you, but I can hope you might notice me among your crowd of admirers—”

  “Pierart Flan was my grandfather . . .” said Richard’s voice, cutting into her reverie.

  In her mind, Catherine heard herself prompt, “No, Pierart Flan was your godfather, not your grandfather!” Then memory, like the sweep of the ocean’s tide, bore her back once again to the garden at Stirling Castle, where Richard had knelt at her feet.

  “To accept my love would be a burden for you, and I can offer you nothing until I have won the throne and made you the queen God intended you to be. Most noble lady, my soul belongs to you. Have pity on me for I have been your servant from the first hour I saw you. I beseech, therefore, O most beautiful ornament of Scotland, that you might consider cleaving to me in marriage—though I know I deserve it not, I, who am willing to do your will in all things as long as life remains in me . . .”

  Richard’s voice jarred her back into the present, scattering her precious memories. His confession was at an end, and the words on his lips now were ones Catherine had never thought to hear: “I beseech therefore your forgiveness—though I know I deserve it not, I, who will never forgive myself for the dishonor I have cast on you as long as life remains in me.”

  T
he silence that fell was shattered by Henry.

  “There is your proof,” he announced, smiling coldly. “He is a fraud. A lowborn boatman’s son. What do you think of him now, noble lady?”

  Catherine did not trust herself to look at the king. Instead she stared at Richard, who was so close to her—within arm’s reach—but lost to her forever. Her mouth was dry as parchment.

  “What do you think of him now, illustris domina?” Henry repeated more gently, taking a step nearer to her. “Surely you can no longer care for this pathetic scoundrel who claimed to be born a royal?”

  On her answer hung her child’s life, and Richard’s fate. She knew it; and Henry’s face told her what he expected. If her darling child still breathed, if Richard was to somehow survive, she could not afford to offend this man. Yet she could not give him what he wanted, which was to deny her husband.

  “Illustris domina—” prompted Henry.

  Catherine barely heard him. All her energy was riveted on Richard’s golden head. Look at me, my dearest love, her heart cried out. Look—look—

  As if by a miracle, Richard lifted his head. Their eyes met. With her gaze riveted to his, in a deliberate tone that was yet tender with emotion, Catherine said, “It is the man and not the king I love.”

  Catherine cast no glance at Henry, though her words were meant equally for him as for her husband. Richard’s face lit with tremulous, disbelieving joy. Catherine felt his joy herself, knowing that by her forgiveness she had helped him shoulder a portion of the guilt he carried. But she also nursed another hope. That when Richard realized the full extent of the horror into which they were plunged, her words would continue to offer solace as their double meaning became clear. This king might stand between them; he might wield the power of a god over them; he might be his captive’s rival in both love and war—but it made no difference. Her heart belonged to Richard, and this other man, king though he be, could never touch it.

  Catherine smiled at Richard, and with her lips, silently, she mouthed to him the shadow of the words she knew he needed to hear: Richard, I love you . . .

  Chapter 7

  In the Dragon’s Court

  “I’ve sent the boy who calls himself Plantagenet back to London,” Henry said forlornly as he lounged in the private solar at Shene that he shared with his mother. “But I know not what to do with him.”

  “How can you not know? The outcome was always decided,” said his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated clarity, for she was given to precision in all things. “That is why France and Scotland refused to give him up to you. They knew he would be put to death. Is that not so, Morton?” She turned to the trusted cleric who sat in with them on important policy decisions.

  Cardinal John Morton spread his bejeweled fingers across his ample belly as he relaxed in a velvet chair and pondered the matter. At seventy-seven years of age, he had witnessed both the start and the finish of the Wars of the Roses. During those years of strife and inflamed passions, he’d managed to serve three out of the four kings who had ruled England. Only once did he have to put aside his Lancastrian sympathies, and that was for Edward IV. With Edward’s brother, Richard III, he had never got along, and Richard’s idealism had provoked his disgust. He had worked—successfully—to bring him down, for it was Morton’s contention, born of his considerable experience, that bleeding hearts belonged in a nunnery. Soft rulers invariably lost their thrones to those better suited to wield the scepter and keep the peace. Thus had Henry VI given way to Edward IV, and Richard III to Henry VII.

  In Tudor, Morton felt he had been matched ounce for ounce with the right mettle. He and Henry saw eye to eye on all things, and he was the king’s most revered senior statesman. That he was also the people’s most hated royal councilor troubled him not a whit. As far as he was concerned, they existed to serve their king as worker bees served their queen—by pouring golden honey into the royal collection coffers. This he made sure they did through repressive policies of fear and taxation. It was thanks to Morton’s wits that Henry Tudor had gained, and kept, his throne, and amassed enormous riches in the process. And Morton was satisfied that the king knew it.

  “By the law of nature, opposites do not spare one another, my Liege,” he said at length. “Water does not pardon fire, nor the predator the prey. Nor the powerful victor his helpless captive. But”—he held up a finger to restrain Margaret Beaufort’s approval—“there are several reasons you should not execute your captive.”

  Morton saw that he had the king’s rapt attention. “One is this. You can use him as a bargaining chip to secure a treaty with Scotland and bring peace to the border regions. James is fond of him, and does not wish for his death. He is certain to oblige us. There is also Burgundy to consider. He could prove valuable to us—alive.” Morton closed his eyes to better remember his other reasons, for it was after supper and he felt sleepy. “Additionally, this young man claims to be your queen’s brother—of course, we know he’s not—” Morton opened his eyes again as he said this, though he knew no such thing and was aware of Henry’s own grave doubts on the matter. “But that may not seem as clear to her. Therefore, you must tread carefully in such a delicate matter. Time would be a benefit and, likely as not, show us the way to proceed.”

  “Very good,” said the king. When Morton did not continue but fell into deep thought again, he prompted, “Any other reasons?” Unfortunately, Morton was growing old and sometimes he dozed off.

  Morton snapped back to attention. “Ah—yes. This lad was removed from sanctuary by the promise of life. It behooves a king to show mercy, for in so doing he honors God’s law. You did this with Lambert Simnell, and all praised your clemency.”

  “Aye, but that boy was eleven years old,” interjected Margaret Beaufort. “This false prince is a man. He led troops against my son. To put him in the kitchen would make light of his fearful offense and give heart to others who wish to bring down King Henry.”

  “You are not suggesting we keep him alive and place him in the kitchen as a scullery boy, are you?” Henry inquired.

  “Nay, my lord. For one, Perkin would not make a suitable scullery boy.” He smiled to himself at the ridiculous image of a young man with the hauteur of a prince peeling potatoes. “Nor can you treat Perkin kindly. It would only raise questions about who he really is. You were a captive yourself for many years, and you know that esteem and status determine how a prisoner is kept. As a child in Brittany, out of regard for blood, you were treated très doucement, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Very gently indeed, Morton,” Henry smiled. “But I do not feel inclined to treat this lad gently. He has cost me sleep for far too long.”

  “Exacly. What I suggest is something a little different. Remember, my Liege, how many times we have said that the people have short memories? You placed Lambert Simnell in the kitchen as a scullery boy, and it proved a brilliant move. Ten years later, no one has forgotten the lesson you taught them and he remains a jest to this day. If you execute this ‘Perkin’ now, you risk the people forgetting their lesson. By keeping him alive at court, crushed and beaten, you are indicating your utter confidence that no one would take him for Prince Richard and adhere to him. And ‘gently’ has its interpretations, does it not?” He looked pointedly at the king, and waited. One of the reasons for his long and spectacular career was that he always placed the thought into his superior’s head and never demanded the credit. He led the fox to the hole, but let him ferret the mouse out for himself.

  Margaret Beaufort raised an eyebrow as realization dawned. “Morton, you are a clever devil.”

  Henry’s lips curled with a satisfied smile. “Indeed you are, Morton. In this manner I may lay claim to being the most magnanimous king in Christendom, while at the same time disbursing the threat to my dynasty for as long as history lives. It is a revenge I shall delight in. I will return to London forthwith to set plans in motion.”

  He rose and went to stand by a tall gilt chair.
“There is one other matter. Lady Catherine wants her babe restored to her. She would like to be returned to Scotland with the child.”

  “You are not seriously entertaining such a move?” demanded Margaret Beaufort, rising to her feet with shock. “Why, it’s preposterous! What reason does Lady Catherine give for her demand?”

  Henry was a man in love. He wasn’t entertaining the idea at all, but not for the political reason he was sure his mother would give him. He felt guilty and needed affirmation for what he planned to do. “And why is it preposterous, Mother?”

  “Because the child is a threat to your throne!”

  “Lady Catherine states, not unreasonably, that if her husband is not the prince, as we believe, but a boatman’s son, as we say, then his child has no claim to the English throne. It cannot be denied that the royal blood of Scotland flows in the child’s veins, and that he is innocent of any crime. He is indeed a prince of Scotland. Therefore, he should be returned to Scotland.”

  “Not a good idea,” said Morton.

  Henry and Margaret Beaufort waited for him to continue.

  “He must not be returned to Scotland. The simple reason is that all of Scotland, all of Europe, and far too many Englishmen believe the father to be the true prince. Therefore, give this babe twenty years and he will be back to claim your crown for himself. And he will come not only armed with royal blood, like his father, but with a real army. He is, indeed, a threat to your throne.”

  “Well said, Morton,” said Margaret Beaufort.

  As Henry had hoped, the discussion had allayed his guilt. Relieved, he stood and placed a hand on Morton’s shoulder. “My friend, I admit now to having been most reluctant to pay the exorbitant price the pope set on your cardinal’s hat. But I see it was worth every pence.”

  Well guarded by a troop of men, Richard rode through the city streets, his feet bound to the stirrups of a mangy horse that was led by a groom. For the first three weeks of his detention, he had been kept in seclusion. In the last fortnight, however, he’d been taken out daily after mass to be paraded before the people. Whatever the weather—rain, wind, or sunshine—multitudes turned out, eager to see him as he rode past unshaven, in shabby clothes, on his shambling horse. Amid their spitting uproar, he endured the curses, venom, and threats of those who pelted him with rotten food and dung as he rode from Westminster to Saint Paul’s and back again through Cheapside. They stared at him as they stood on walls and balconies. Some even climbed rooftops for a better view—and perhaps a better aim, Richard thought wryly, dodging a rotted apple.