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  Even at court, people stared at him thus—boldly and with amazement. To that he had become accustomed. Here and there among the crowd he caught a face that gazed without malice, sometimes impassively, sometimes with pity. Some were scholars, clerics, physicians and men of God; and some wore the garb of other lands he had visited. These foreign merchants and travelers from distant lands would carry the tale of his humiliation across the seas. He was, he realized, a spectacle for the world.

  On this occasion the Tudor had thoughtfully provided further amusement for the rabble by tying a poor Cornishman to a mule with his head in the ass’s tail, bringing the mob to side-splitting laughter as he passed ahead of Richard. But Richard’s hurtful injuries came not from the stones thrown by the gleeful little boys who ran after him with their slingshots; it came from the people. “There goes the brave Duke o’ Runaways,” scorned a bystander, throwing a rotted egg in his direction. Riotous laughter erupted as the egg scored its mark on Richard’s cheek. Burning shame ripped through him. He wiped at the splatter with his sleeve, inducing more laughter. “Here’s one more gift for the Prince o’ Cowards!” jeered another, smacking him in the chest with a rotten piece of meat.

  He pretended not to hear the epithets, focusing instead on his memories and pretending the magnificent gold and silver shops of Cheapside were the shops he had viewed in Venice, Rome, Milan, and Florence. The wares they displayed glittered brightly in the sunshine. He thought of his mother, whose hair still glinted in his memory, and of Catherine, whose birthday it was in two days. In his game of pretense he perused their wares as if to purchase a gift for her, and it came to him suddenly that this day marked the second anniversary of when they’d met at Stirling. His heart twisted in his breast. He looked away. This is my penance, thought Richard. ’Tis just that I do penance.

  Henry Tudor’s man, Sir Charles Somerset, was waiting in the great hall when Richard returned, exhausted by his ordeal. Somerset threw a nod to Richard’s two guards. With a bow, they stepped back.

  “How was your outing today, Perkin?” Somerset asked pleasantly.

  Richard regarded the captain of the king’s guard. He came from a line of fervent Lancastrians who had died fighting against York, and his deceased father, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, was the last of the legitimate line related to the king’s mother, Margaret Beaufort. Charles Somerset was a bastard, born out of wedlock to Somerset and his mistress, Joan Hill, and this further ingratiated him to the king, who feared the nobility. Richard had met him for the first time at Brabant, when he came on a mission to the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian. He had refused to bow to Richard, who stood on the dais with the Emperor, his son Philip, and Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. When Margaret angrily demanded why Somerset didn’t reverence her nephew Richard of York, Somerset had declared that her nephew Richard of York was long dead, and if she would loan him one of her people, he would take him straight to the chapel where the little prince was buried. Richard had stepped forward then and called him a base-born liar. He had said that when he was back on his throne, he would make him painfully regret his words.

  And here they were.

  To Charles Somerset, Tudor entrusted all his most important business, large and small. It was Somerset who first set up Richard’s forays into the public streets. Now Richard wondered what cruel new jest had been devised for him.

  “Do you remember the old sergeant-farrier, William, who was the keeper of King Henry’s mares and foals until he fled to you in 1493?” Somerset asked.

  A jolt of pain came and went in Richard’s breast. He doubted that Somerset had come to impart to him merely that William was dead. Death was too simple for this Tudor king and his clever mother. No, he was beginning to see that nothing was simple in the Tudor court, and nothing was as one expected.

  “You may recall that he donned a hermit’s outfit when he fled after your capture.”

  Richard held his breath.

  “Tomorrow you shall have his company on your sojourn through Cheapside,” Somerset said. “Only you shall be the one leading the horse this time, and William shall be the one riding. King Henry has commanded that you deliver William to the Tower yourself, as reward for his faithful service to you.”

  Richard bit his trembling lip and averted his face. Poor William; poor dear, faithful old man! That night Richard lay awake as he had done since Taunton. But this time he prayed for forgiveness not only for men he had led to slaughter by the sins of his past, but for what he must do come the morrow.

  Everyone in the queen’s chamber at Shene watched the silent newcomer who sat with her eyes downcast over her embroidery, including the queen’s eldest sister, Cecily Plantagenet, though she did so more discreetly than the others. She had heard from her sister the queen that the Scottish princess had infuriated Henry by declining his offer to secure her a divorce. Her refusal was the talk of court. Cecily found something admirable in it, though she herself was made of a more pragmatic nature and had managed well enough through two marriages forced on her without love.

  Cecily didn’t know what to think about the matter of Perkin Warbeck. She had not seen the young man who had been sent back to London almost as soon as he’d arrived at Shene, but she doubted he was Richard. Her brother was dead, if not on their uncle’s order, then by the hand of their cousin, Harry of Buckingham, who wanted the crown for himself. King Richard had quarreled with Buckingham around the time her brothers vanished, and she’d always felt that her brothers’ disappearance had something to do with their argument. Harry of Buckingham had been so angered with King Richard that he’d raised a rebellion against him soon afterward. The revolt failed and Buckingham was captured and executed, but her brothers, Edward and Richard, were never seen again. All this took place while she and her sisters were confined with their mother in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.

  She gave an inward sigh at the memory of that time. Strange to admit, but sanctuary had not been without its charms. Often at night when her aged husband snored at her side after claiming his marital rights, she’d lay thinking of those starry nights when she’d been a maiden with dreams in her heart. But that was long ago, and one soon realizes that dreams are naught but fantasies of youth and have no place in the real world.

  It was said that the Scottish princess would not divorce her husband because she loved him, and that King Henry was in love with his rival’s wife and had commissioned a love sonnet from his blind poet, Bernard Andre, to win her affection. If so, what developed next should be very interesting, Cecily thought, not without a touch of pity for Lady Catherine. A captive princess wooed by the king who held the man she loved at his mercy—who wouldn’t have sympathy?

  Cecily shifted her gaze away from the forlorn figure in black. Of love, she knew little; and what she knew, time had dimmed into a distant memory. It was better that way. Maybe it would be so for this princess one day—if the fates proved kind.

  Catherine had felt Cecily’s eyes on her as she guided her embroidery needle through the heavy cloth, and had caught a soft look on Lady Cecily’s face before the queen’s sister had looked away. Here is someone who could be a friend, Catherine thought. Then a small voice came at the back of her mind: You are in the land of enemies and no one is your friend.

  There was a rap at the door and the queen looked up. “I come from Westminster, Your Grace, with a missive from King Henry.” The messenger handed it to her as he knelt.

  “Very curious,” murmured Queen Elizabeth. She passed the missive to Lady Daubeney.

  In her corner of the room, Catherine halted her stitch. She knew it had to do with her, for the queen and Lady Daubeney had glanced her way as they spoke, and she was not surprised to be summoned. Nervously, she rose and made her way across the room.

  “My lord king requests that you be sent to Westminster Palace immediately,” the queen said. Noting that the girl had gone pale, she added gently, “He does not say what it is about, my dear, but I do not believe there is cause for concern.”<
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  Within the hour, Catherine and her ladies were bouncing along in a litter, hanging on to her coffer. No one spoke, for now Catherine was accompanied by two ladies from the Tudor court who had been assigned to her by the king. She knew, as Alice and Agatha knew, that these women were Tudor spies.

  Catherine barely saw the winter landscape they passed through: the rolling meadows lightly dusted with snow, the sudden rushing waterfalls around the bend of an old bridge, the winding expanse of the Thames, where white swans glided on dark waters. Her mind was focused on what lay ahead. Richard was at Westminster. She wondered if she would see him.

  Through the torch-lit corridors Catherine followed the king’s messenger. No one had told her what this was about, but it was clear from the whisperings and the glances that had come her way at Westminster that something was afoot. At an arched door studded with nails and crossed with a heavy iron bar, the messenger paused. “Lady Catherine Gordon to see Perkin,” he said to the two armed guards who stood on either side.

  If Catherine disbelieved her ears, there was no denying the burst of ecstasy in her heart as the iron bar was lifted and the door thrust open, for there stood Richard. Clad in hose, soft leather shoes, and a plain brown doublet with long hanging sleeves that she had never seen before, he wore a simple leather belt and a small hat with a single feather. He had been seated and now he rose to meet her, a dazed look on his face, as if the world had stood still for him at the sight of her. By his side were two men who bore no arms except daggers at their belts. As if they are courtiers, not guards, Catherine thought contemptuously. Her gaze returned to Richard. Propelled forward by the joy in her heart, she fell into his arms. For the first time in two long months since Marazion, she felt her husband’s flesh against her own and her joy was so great that she broke into sobs.

  Richard held her as she wept, and kissed her tears. His soul had been filled with lament, and now boundless happiness poured into him. “Is it really you, my love?” they both said to one another at the same moment, breaking apart to look into one another’s eyes. Then they laughed.

  They were aware of the guards watching them, and Catherine realized that they had not been prevented from embracing, or commanded to refrain from speaking to one another. She took Richard’s hand and led him to the window. The guards made no complaint, so this, too, was permitted.

  She leaned her head toward Richard’s. “Do you know what this is about, my love?”

  “The Scots ambassador is presenting his credentials to Henry. It seems that he, as well as the Milanese and the Venetian ambassadors, desire to meet us and know that we are well,” Richard said in a low tone. “However, I have been told that we are not to speak or mingle with them, merely greet them as they leave.”

  “How strange,” Catherine whispered, gripped by unease once again.

  “Everything is strange here, Catryn—but I take my sweets gratefully. This day that began so cruelly is ending most marvelously.”

  “What happened today?” she demanded, anxious to know everything at once. But Richard shook his head. “Nay, not now—now I just want to look at you, feel you, be with you.”

  He could not tell her what happened. It was too terrible.

  That very morning he had delivered his friend, William, the old sergeant-farrier, to the Tower. At the gate he’d helped the old man dismount, and they had stood for a moment looking silently into one another’s anguished eyes before William’s handlers seized him and drew him into the tower of doom. Farewell was left unspoken, and no words passed between them, for no words could ease such cruel calamity. When he’d returned from his grueling ordeal, Somerset had the grace not to gloat on Richard’s misery, for he referred not at all to his outing to the Tower. Instead, he’d said, “You are invited to attend a gathering of nobles this evening. The Milanese ambassador, Raimondo Soncino, and the Venetian ambassador, Andrea Trevisiano, wish to meet you. New clothes have been laid out for you in your chamber. You are expected to be well groomed. I’d advise a shave.” He paused, and added, “Lady Catherine will be at your side.”

  Richard pushed a stray tendril of Catherine’s hair behind her ear, not taking his eyes from her, for fear she was a mirage and would vanish if he did. “Catryn, I know not when next we shall meet, and there is something I must say—” He broke off and gazed at her. “Catryn, I did not desert my troops because I was afraid to die. It is because I didn’t want to die without making sure you and Dickon were safe.”

  Tears sprang into Catherine’s eyes. She had been right. Richard was no coward. She imparted a kiss on the back of his hand and met his eyes. “The king wants me to divorce you. I have refused. I have asked him to give me Dickon, and to let us go to Scotland. That, too, he has refused.”

  Richard’s eyes darkened with pain. “I am so sorry, Catryn. I wish—”

  She placed a finger over his lips. “Richard, I love you, and I will never abandon you, not to the end of my life. But there is one thing . . .”

  He waited.

  “If he offers me Dickon in return for divorcing you, it is an offer I cannot refuse, my love.” Her throat ached. She felt Richard tense. Then he gave a nod.

  “I shall pray he does so,” Richard said.

  Catherine bit her lip and cast around for something to say, something that would take their minds off their pain. “They call you Perkin now, not Piers. Why is that?”

  “ ‘Piers’ is an English name. Henry doesn’t wish to suggest I am English—for if I’m English, I could be the one I say I am. But ‘Perkin’ is foreign and evokes suspicion. It is also a diminutive, used for children, so it has insult for a grown man.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “In the king’s wardrobe. With them.” Richard indicated his guards with his chin.

  “That’s an odd place to keep you.”

  “Henry thinks it a jest. He says that in his wardrobe I am as easy to find as a fresh shirt or pair of gloves.” He grinned.

  She returned his grin. “I wish I could say the same. It would be helpful to have you as easy to find as my hose and kirtle.”

  They both laughed. Then they fell silent and looked at one another. For each the thought was the same. It had been a lifetime since they had laughed.

  “Why do your guards not have weapons, and why are they dressed like courtiers?” Catherine demanded.

  “So they look like my servants, and give out the impression that I am not guarded. But they guard me well. I even sleep between them in the same bed at night.”

  “Oh, Richard—”

  The sound of the bolt being lifted drew their attention to the door. Sir Charles Somerset entered.

  “Lady Catherine,” he said with a bow in her direction, “and Perkin. ’Tis time. The ambassadors await.”

  Hand in hand, Richard and Catherine followed Somerset into a small chamber where a crowd of nobles mingled in close conversation. Richard put his arm around Catherine’s waist and they stood quietly together, unnoticed in a shadowy corner by the door. Fire crackled in a massive fireplace that was decorated with stone roses entwined with ivy and lions. Banks of candles threw twinkling light over the faces of the men and the silver goblets they raised to their lips; silk robes rustled and gems flashed with their movements. Servers passed, offering trays laden with wine and delectables, but none approached Richard and Catherine.

  “Do you know any of these people?” Catherine whispered to Richard.

  “I do, and so do you—there’s your cousin, the Scots ambassador, Sir Alexander Stewart of Garlies.”

  Catherine spotted the burly noble who was a maternal relative. For a moment her heart lifted.

  “No doubt James has sent him to find out about you, and it is at his request that we are here.”

  “That may be. But I feel there’s more to it—” She broke off, leaving her doubts unsaid. She was together with her husband, and she could not spoil this precious occasion with uneasy thoughts. She relaxed against Richard, but as her glance moved over t
he room, it touched on a French-style cap: a flat affair with a peak in the front.

  “He’s here—” She had not expected King Henry to be present, but there he was in the midst of the crowd, talking to the Venetian ambassador, close enough for her to hear his conversation. “We have heard reports that the French are planning another Italian expedition,” he was saying. A man wearing a golden collar of curling snakes leaned forward then and whispered something to Henry, who glanced over his shoulder at the French ambassador standing behind him. Henry gave the man a rueful smile and lifted his shoulders in a barely noticeable shrug. His comment had not been meant for French ears.

  So he is human and makes mistakes, too, Catherine thought with surprise. At that moment, Henry’s glance moved to her, and their eyes met and locked.

  Catherine felt herself in the grip of a powerful force. She couldn’t look away, but she stared at him defiantly until he did. Beneath her brave front, however, she trembled. He had dared to look at her in this bold fashion though she stood at her husband’s side—as if Richard didn’t exist. As if Richard were nothing, and meant nothing. The realization struck her more forcefully than ever that he could make Richard disappear with a wave of his hand. An old memory stirred uncomfortably in the dark reaches of her mind. She had been newly married at Stirling Castle, and was seated in King James’s privy chamber with her father, playing with a pup. Her father and the king had been chatting pleasantly when James suddenly grew serious and turned the subject to Richard.