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  “Henry Tudor wants to assassinate Richard,” he said.

  Catherine’s laughter had died on her lips.

  “How do ye know?” the Earl of Huntly had demanded.

  “Henry is not the only one with spies,” James had replied. “What you should know as Lady Catherine’s father is that there is no doubt this young man Henry Tudor callsa ‘feigned boy’ is Richard of York. An imposter could never engender such hate and fear. If Scotland can win back a lost throne, my fair cousin, one day your daughter will be Queen of England. And this I vow to you before Heaven—I shall do all I can to serve this cause of justice and make it so.”

  Catherine returned to the present abruptly. Now Henry had the power to act on his hate and fear. Feeling her agitation, Richard whispered, “What’s the matter, my love?”

  “Nothing, dearest—nothing at all except that the evening draws to a close and when I shall see you again, I know not.”

  “But being close to you like this, Catherine—it shall sustain me till, God willing, we meet again.” He planted a kiss on her brow.

  The envoys began to leave. The Scots ambassador was the first to head to the door and see them. He acknowledged them with delight and a measure of perturbation, for he was about to address Richard as “Prince.” He caught himself and gave Richard a bow instead.

  “I swear to gawd ye are still the bonniest lass I ever did see,” he said, “tho’ I hav to sae, ye’ve lost a bit o’ weight—both of ye.” In truth he was taken aback. The two young people looked gaunt and about them hung a heaviness that had not been there when he’d known them. But there be nae wonder in that, would there naw? he thought to himself.

  “Kindly give my regards to King James and to—my father,” Catherine said, her voice almost breaking at the mention of him.

  The ambassador regarded her silently a moment, and then gave another bow and kissed her hand. “I will, my bonnie lady. Sure it is that I will.”

  Chapter 8

  This World, My Prison

  The day after the reception, the entire court returned to Westminster from Shene. The wind blew bitter cold, but Catherine went for a morning stroll, accompanied by her two minders and Alice. The garden was deserted and she was surprised to find herself crossing paths with the Scottish ambassador between the hedgerows.

  “Me lovely Lady Catherine!” Sir Alexander Stewart exclaimed, his blue eyes twinkling beneath his white grizzly eyebrows. “An unexpected pleasure, indeed! The Scots blood leaps in m’veins at the sight o’ ye, dear lady. Ye make me smile, for seeing ye be like hearin’ an auld Scottish sang.” He gave her a deep bow.

  “An’ ye, gracious kinsman, gladden me and make me to smile as well,” Catherine replied, reverting to her old Scots brogue. “My heart goes back to auld Scotland to hear ye, and I bless the Scottish tongue that speaks to me.” Though her words were light, Catherine felt the sting of tears.

  “Lady Catherine, if it be no intrusion, may we walk together for a short spell? I am only recently back from Edinburgh, where I spent Yule, and to talk o’ Scotland lightens the winter clouds around me.”

  “The honor is mine, dear kinsman.”

  Alice retreated with a curtsy, and Catherine knew she was preparing to distract the minders, in case there was news to be had.

  “Have you tidings of my gracious father, the earl?” Catherine asked as they strolled along the path, which was lightly dusted with snow.

  “Indeed I do! He has been appointed Chancellor of Scotland by our noble sire, King James.”

  A wide smile curved Catherine’s generous mouth.

  “It brings a tear drap to me eye to see ye smile, Lady Catherine,” the old man said softly under his breath.

  Catherine blinked back the emotion that his kindness stirred in her. “Pray, tell my royal cousin James that I cherish him for what he has done for us, and for not abandoning us. He is a beloved, honorable, and noble king—” Catherine’s mouth trembled. “And pray tell my dear father when ye next see him how much I love him, and that I miss him more than he can ever know—” There was a quaver in her voice, and she fell silent to recover her composure. For it had become clear to Catherine that Henry would never let her go, and never would she see her native land again. Nor could she leave England as long as her stolen babe was somewhere on these isles.

  Sir Alexander nodded sadly, as if following her thoughts.

  “And my brothers, William and Alexander?” she managed. “How do they fare, do you know, Sir Alexander?”

  “They spoke to me of you before I left bonnie Scotland. They wished ye to know that yer charm lingers around their hearts an’ sometimes they think they hear the voice of their lang-lost sister in their ears.”

  The silence that fell was suddenly broken by a medley of laughter. Sir Alexander stole a hasty glance behind him. Alice was playing with a group of children who had skipped into the hedgerow, and Catherine’s two minders, not wishing to seem rude, had stopped to join hands and sing “Ring-Around-the-Rosie.” He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper, said quickly, “Can ye not write them?”

  “I have done so—clearly my letter was not passed on to you!”

  “Give it to me directly—I’ll take it when I go back.”

  “I cannot—’tis too dangerous—I must do naught to displease the—” She spoke in a rush, but she caught herself before she said “tyrant.”

  “I understand. I have something for you. Smile and give me your hand.”

  She did as he instructed. Sir Alexander took it and bowed low. In a loud tone, he said, “Dear Lady Catherine, thank ye for yer glad company. Ye have made the Scots heather bloom for me this day.” He kissed her hand, and left.

  She gazed after him, her hand tightening over the note he had slid into her palm. Their meeting had been no accident after all.

  Catherine read the ambassador’s note in the privy and was buoyed by its tidings. “Offer made by Burgundy and Holy Roman Emperor to Tudor. If prince released into their custody, they will abdicate all rights to the English throne for him, and themselves, and all their heirs in perpetuity.”

  That evening, she found an opportunity to ask Richard whether he’d be able to read a note, if she slipped him one.

  “Little chance. My minders are always with me. One even comes to the privy.”

  “Then,” Catherine whispered, “you shall have to force him out.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “With milk pudding,” she replied, a smile dancing on her lips. Milk always upset Richard’s stomach, and in addition to the flux, he farted for days.

  Richard laughed until his sides hurt.

  She passed him a note. “A test—let me know how it works,” she grinned.

  Late that night, clutching his belly, Richard headed for the privy in an antechamber at the end of the hall, accompanied by his two minders, Robert Jones and William Smith, Henry’s trusted royal servants.

  “’Tis your turn,” said Smith to Jones as they neared the room.

  “Nay, ’tis yours,” said Jones.

  Jones won the argument and dropped back to lean against a pillar and make eyes at a servant girl sweeping up the ashes from the hearth while Smith followed Richard into the privy.

  Hastily, Richard pulled down his hose and sat. “You won’t like this one,” Richard said with a smile as his bowels loosened.

  “Caw!” exclaimed Smith, covering his nose and mouth and turning away.

  “There’s more—” said Richard, “coming . . . Ah . . .”

  Smith ran out of the privy, gasping for air.

  With a chuckle, Richard removed his note, and read.

  “I love you,” it said.

  The next afternoon, his eyes twinkling, he sauntered to Catherine’s side and took her arm. “It worked, my Celtic princess,” he whispered merrily.

  She gave him a smile and slipped him the note from the Scottish ambassador.

  The days passed but no word came about Henry’s decision.

  Cath
erine’s duties as lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth resumed with embroidery work on the large tapestry in the queen’s solar. She had been disappointed to the depths of her being that the queen had made no overtures to speak to her personally in the weeks she’d been at court. She had hoped secretly—and had fervently expected—that Elizabeth, her sister-in-law, would help her get back her child. After all, she and Elizabeth were not only related, but their situation bore uncanny similarities. They were both captives, no matter how free they seemed, and how well treated they were. Even if Elizabeth believed that Richard was not her brother, Elizabeth was royal and Henry was not, just like Catherine. Elizabeth’s son, Arthur, was half-royal, just like Dickon.

  And they were both mothers. Surely Elizabeth could understand a mother’s pain. Yet she did nothing. How could she not wish to help? She avoided all personal contact and made no allusion to Catherine’s heart-wrenching situation—as if nothing had happened, Catherine thought, when the world had been turned upside down.

  I hate her! Catherine cried inwardly.

  She felt everyone’s eyes on her, but kept her own downcast. After a while, she glanced up and encountered the soft gaze of the queen’s sister, Cecily Plantagenet. She was indeed the fairest of the five Yorkist princesses with her bright blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and fine features. At twenty-six years of age, Cecily was three years older than Richard, and five years younger than her sister the queen. Before her father’s death, she had been betrothed to James IV, but those marriage plans were discarded when Richard III took the throne and wed her to his friend Ralph Scrope of Upsall. Clearly, Fate had ordained them to be kinswomen, for here they were, sisters by marriage, sitting around the same table—but in England, instead of Scotland. Catherine forced her thoughts back to the tapestry.

  When a messenger entered the chamber, Elizabeth accepted the missive he brought from her mother-in-law, and read it. “The king wishes to throw a masque for Yuletide,” she said. “Lady Margaret has decided the theme will be Camelot. We are commanded to begin preparing our costumes.”

  Catherine could scarcely believe what she heard. In Scotland, no one commanded the queen except the king.

  “Is it not the king’s mother who plans royal events in Scotland?” asked Kate, the queen’s youngest sister, noting Catherine’s expression.

  “That falls within the purview of King James’s queen, when he marries,” replied Catherine, dropping her gaze back to the tapestry she was stitching and hoping Kate would move on to a different subject. She knew that spies were among the queen’s thirty attendants, who were, in the main, widows and daughters of slain Yorkists. In reality, the queen’s court served as a prison. Being a captive herself, the queen was closely monitored and wielded no power, and access to her was almost impossible to obtain. Margaret Beaufort, the king’s mother, was the true queen of England. “The imposter queen,” the people called her. The subject was fraught with danger, and Catherine’s position was precarious enough already.

  “Elizabeth never decides anything,” Kate announced wistfully.

  Catherine’s eyes flew to the queen, who worked the tapestry with them. “Because I don’t want to,” smiled the queen, unperturbed at her favorite sister’s careless remark. “I prefer Lady Margaret to manage matters that involve a great deal of work. That way I can devote myself to doing what I most enjoy.”

  “Prayer,” said Kate knowingly, tipping her head close to Catherine, but not lowering her voice. “And charitable acts, and music,” she amended.

  Catherine decided she liked this girl, who was about her age and seemed incapable of artifice. The second youngest female of King Edward’s large brood, she was wed to Sir William Courtenay, who had shut the gates of Exeter against Richard. He had been one of the three nobles that Tudor had sent to bring Catherine out of sanctuary at St. Buryan, but to his credit, he had refused to snatch Dickon from her arms. Her eyes softened as she looked at the Yorkist princess. Katherine of York’s marriage to Courtenay had been a love match, like her own, and Kate was an incurable romantic. Naive, too, though—and in this nest of vipers, innocence could be dangerous.

  “What do you think if I altered the design of the tree so the fruit hangs thus . . .” Catherine asked in an effort to change the subject. “Then we could use red silk on this side, and pink on the other, as if it were lit by sunlight from above. It seems to me more lush.”

  The queen studied her sketch on the fabric. “Indeed, you are right. It adds dimension. You have a gift with things artistic, Lady Catherine. From now on I wish you to be in charge of laying out the design of our tapestries.”

  Catherine blushed at the compliment and murmured her thanks. The noon bell sounded. Elizabeth rose with a rustle of her black silk gown. “Ah, ’tis time for luncheon.”

  Catherine fell into line behind the queen while her sisters and other ladies took up their positions behind her in the procession to the great hall for luncheon. As a princess of Scotland, King Henry had accorded Catherine high rank at the Tudor court, and she stood fifth after the queen, the king’s mother, and the king’s two small princesses. When they arrived in the great hall, the queen’s ladies peeled away and the royals went to the dais to take their seats at the dining table. Catherine was often seated next to the king’s mother unless high-ranking visitors of other lands were present. This made mealtimes difficult. Beside Margaret Beaufort, she felt like a bird pecking its food under the watchful eye of a cat.

  While the nobles still milled about seeking their places, a clarion fanfare rang out, announcing King Henry’s imminent arrival. Those who had taken seats rose to greet him, the men to bow, and the ladies to dip into their curtsies. But the one who entered on the heels of the trumpet-blower was not King Henry. It was Richard. Everyone burst into riotous, side-splitting laughter at the jest. Catherine felt herself blush with shame for Richard and sank into her chair, her misery a steel weight.

  In the month of December 1497, as the court prepared to leave for Shene to celebrate Yule, Henry, Morton, and Margaret Beaufort closeted themselves in their private solar at Westminster.

  Henry opened the discussion. “As you know, we held a reception for the Scottish ambassador. Afterwards, the envoys were permitted to see the one who calls himself Plantagenet and speak to him briefly. Welladay, our spies have reported back to us. It appears the Milanese ambassador, Andrea Trevisiano, who had called him ‘Perkin’ previously now refers to him as the Duke of York.” Henry’s voice held a peculiar listless quality that was not lost on the others.

  “Perhaps he should read Perkin’s confession?” Margaret Beaufort retorted coldly.

  “He has read it, and he’s witnessed the boy’s humiliation,” Henry replied.

  “That tells us a great deal,” Morton said. “So we know what he believes.”

  “The same applies to Soucino, the Venetian ambassador,” Henry added.

  “If he is the real prince, he cannot be allowed to live,” Margaret Beaufort announced abruptly.

  “For if he lives, I am a usurper,” Henry said miserably. “Aye, Mother, I am well aware of that.” He drew an audible breath and turned to gaze out the window. He had no wish to kill the young man . . . no wish to hurt Catherine. He had no wish to love her, either, but he did. He could not deny he hoped for her love one day, but if he killed the one she cared for, would she ever forgive him?

  Gazing at her son, Margaret understood the unspoken reason for his anguish. Princess Catherine. But Henry did not speak again. “I assume this concludes our meeting then?”

  Henry stirred himself. “No,” he said. “There is more.”

  He hesitated. The issue at hand was painful, but he had to bring it to their attention. “You may not be surprised, Morton, to find that you are proved correct yet again regarding Perkin’s value to us.”

  “Since he has already secured us a truce with Scotland, that leaves Burgundy,” Morton said, mulling his thoughts aloud. “You’ve received an envoy?”

  “Not exactly
from Burgundy,” said Henry. “I have received an envoy on behalf of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian and Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. He is sent to us by Maximilian’s son, Philip the Handsome, the one who took Juana of Castile as bride last year. Philip is acting as mediator in this matter.”

  “Ah, the Spanish connection. Juana is Katarina of Aragon’s sister,” said Morton.

  “The choice of Philip and the Spanish connection is deliberate, since our Arthur is betrothed to Katarina. It is meant to pressure us to do as they wish.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To send the one who calls himself Plantagenet back to Burgundy.”

  Margaret Beaufort laughed; Morton gave a snort.

  “And what do they offer for such a gift?” inquired Morton, in an amused tone. “Or should I say, what can they possibly offer?”

  “To us—or to our councilors?”

  “Both. As a councilor, I may be interested.” Morton’s lips parted in the crooked sneer he considered a smile.

  “You, Morton, stand to gain ten thousand gold florins if you can persuade me not to kill the one who calls himself Plantagenet.”

  “Ah, I can always use gold, though I daresay I have enough,” Morton replied, remembering how he had once stuffed his pouches with France’s gold for persuading King Edward IV to abandon his war against Louis XI back in ’76. “Am I the only one who is offered these riches?”

  “No. Anyone who has a hand in persuading me is paid the same. Maximilian is being exceptionally generous despite his financial difficulties. As to what is in it for me—Maximilian has made a remarkable offer.” Henry bowed his head and put a hand to his brow. “One that defies and confounds me, Morton.”