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The old cleric edged forward in his chair expectantly.

  “If we do not put our captive to death,” said Henry in a soft voice that was barely audible, “and do no injury to his person, and we send him back to Burgundy safe and sound, he has offered—” Henry looked up with anguished eyes, and swallowed visibly.

  Margaret Beaufort moved to her son’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder in comfort. She could not fathom what had agitated him so terribly.

  “The Holy Roman Emperor has offered to renounce—in perpetuity—for himself and for his cousin of York, and all their heirs and successors, all rights in our kingdom of England. It is a grand offer.”

  The king’s mother let herself down heavily into a chair. Morton, who suffered from gout, was agitated enough to rise from his seat. He went to the window and stared out.

  They all understood the full import of this missive. Though Maximilian’s interests were no longer remotely served by this young man, the Holy Roman Emperor loved and honored him to the point of abandoning all his own claims, and York’s, too, merely to have him back safely. They would not do that for a false prince.

  We should have expected it, Morton thought. There was simply no explanation for how a so-called boatman’s son could become what this young man was.

  Margaret Beaufort looked at Henry, sitting miserably in his chair. To secure the throne for her only child, she had done things in her life that she preferred not to remember—things even her son did not know. But it had been worth it in the end; now he sat on the throne of England. Nothing was going to change that. “He is doing all this for a self-confessed boatman’s son?” she said, ripping out the words. “Then Maximilian is a fool! No ruler in his right mind relinquishes power.”

  “Maximilian says he does it because York is a kinsman and an ally, and because he holds him in great affection and is saddened by his evil fate. For these reasons, he is obliged for the sake of his conscience, and his honor, to do all that he can to secure his release.” Henry had recovered his composure. “He stands ready to provide us his letters patent of assurance, stating whatever we wish, so we can be satisfied and completely assured, and rest easy forever.” He drew a heavy breath, and added, “If there was ever any doubt, now we know the truth from all directions. The one who calls himself Plantagenet is who he claims. Prince Richard of York.”

  Margaret Beaufort slammed a fist down on the table. “It means no such thing! All it means is that Maximilian—and these other foreigners—believe the boy is who he says—and it makes no difference to us what they believe. The only thing that matters is what the people of England believe, and they will believe what we demand they believe! He is a feigned boy, and he shall remain such! Where is your iron, Henry?”

  “Mother, there is more. Maximilian entrusted a secret verbal message to the envoy. He said I should bear in mind that even if I say he’s a false prince, all of Christianity knows he is the true son of King Edward IV. Therefore, if I put him to death, I will be putting to death my own brother-in-law, to my eternal shame, dishonor, and reproach. Because York is unable to do me any more harm, alive or dead.”

  “You put your uncle to death, and there was no question about who he was. Why do you shrink from this?”

  “He is my queen’s brother, for God’s sake!” Henry said.

  Margaret Beaufort came to him and rested a hand on his arm. “She cannot be certain of that. Keep Elizabeth away from him—as you have done—and she will never know.”

  “Sooner or later the truth had to come out,” Morton said, “at least to you, Sire, if not to the people. Lady Margaret is right—the people are a beast to be led wherever you deem. They have a short memory and are easy to manage. Twisting the truth may require twisting their bodies, but that is why we have the Tower. Nevertheless, it must be managed with utmost care—to ensure not only that the people never know, but that no harm is done to your fledgling dynasty, Sire. That is what matters, is it not?”

  Henry ran a hand over his face, and sighed.

  “You don’t have to decide this minute, my son,” said Margaret Beaufort gently. “Put this aside for now. Do not accede to Maximilian in your present state. See how matters develop. Give yourself time to think. And remember, time is on our side.”

  “Sound advice, my Liege,” Morton said.

  Queen Elizabeth proved thoughtful, gracious, and considerate. She did not demand much of Catherine in the way of duties and left her free to seek out Richard. Mornings were taken up with his procession through the streets and Catherine’s needlework, but they spent the afternoons together, parting only at night. Though Catherine couldn’t help despising Elizabeth for never standing up to her husband, she was grateful for her kindness.

  When the court journeyed back to King Henry’s favorite palace of Shene to celebrate Yule, Catherine rode at the front of the procession with the other princesses, while Richard was placed in a cart at the back with the kitchen help, surrounded by guards. The Tudors had much to celebrate: Richard’s capture; the proxy marriage of Henry’s son, Prince Arthur, that now bound Spain and England to one another; and the truce with Scotland that Henry had made with James in exchange for the promise of treating his young captives honorably. At these banquets there was much feasting, dancing, and merriment, but Catherine’s relief in having Richard back at her side was blighted by Dickon’s absence. She ached for her child and he was ever on her mind. Nights were especially hard. She dreaded to sleep in case her evil dream of Death and tombstones recurred, as it often did, and she lived in terror that one day it might reveal Dickon as the headless child the bird-creature held in his coiled tail. She decided to confront her nightmare head-on in order to put a stop to it. With the small monthly allowance Henry allotted her, she bought yardage of black silk, and some embroidery thread in shades of olive, gray, brown, and white. When the dream awoke her, she sat through the night and embroidered the terrible images, stitch by stitch. The dream never returned, but she continued with the tapestry of her nightmare, for stabbing at the fabric with her needle brought great comfort.

  At the Yuletide banquets for Twelfth Night, Richard and Catherine attended the lavish feasts and entertainment provided by mummers, troubadours, tumblers, wrestlers, and leapers. For Richard’s sake, in an effort to make the most of the few good moments that came their way, Catherine pretended to be merry, though Dickon’s absence left her with no heart for merriment. She pretended, too, to be oblivious to the lustful glances King Henry threw at her. Courtiers followed the king’s every move, wondering how this tale of spurned royal love might unfold, and taking the measure of every sigh, frown, and smile. That it would end with Richard’s death was certain—but when? Some put their money on Candlemas, but most favored May Day, the day of the pageant of love.

  As Twelfth Night approached, Richard and Catherine realized that nothing could compete with what King Henry personally offered his court this Yuletide. On the day of the mask, he gave his nobles more to whisper about by introducing an unusual addition to the royal household: a monkey named Prince with a white-whiskered face, who wore a jacket of golden cloth. Henry led him around by a gilt chain attached to a golden collar. “I am fond of the creature, he amuses me,” he liked to announce, turning in Richard’s direction. “Especially when he drinks.” His courtiers would burst into knowing laughter.

  Catherine was appalled at the king’s new cruelty. Gossip, backbiting, and false flattery prevailed, as it did at courts everywhere, but Tudor took malice to new heights. That the masque was themed after Camelot, the most chivalrous court in Christendom, and the king had come dressed as King Arthur was to Catherine more of a farce than the monkey. She set her jaw and tightened her hold of Richard’s arm as they moved through the great hall, her head held high.

  If she had doubted it before, she no longer did: the old days were gone, and with them the old ways and every dream she and Richard had dreamt together. No one knew how she longed for the life they had lost and for what had been, not even Richard—but she
was fighting a different kind of war now, and she had to keep walking erect in the black gown King Henry had given her, so no one would suspect how vanquished she felt inside. She hoped by this to give Richard hope, for he belonged to her, and it fell to her to protect him now that they had lost the war they’d come to wage. The old monk’s words came rushing back often in these days. Naught is ended, he had said. Your husband lives, and somewhere your child also lives. You must be strong and carry on—for them.

  Richard took a cup of wine from a passing server. Catherine eyed him; he was rarely without a drink these days. After dinner, she took his wine from him and gave it over to a server. “Let us dance, my love,” she whispered. Though her misery was acute, and Richard’s spirits were no better than hers, they launched into their game of pretense, clapping to the merry tune of the minstrels, twirling each other as the king watched Catherine for a glimpse of the tawny kirtle she wore beneath her gown.

  When the minstrels in the gallery set aside their instruments, Richard grabbed another drink. Catherine took him by the elbow, bit her tongue, and smiled at him. She turned her attention back to the hall. The hubbub of conversation was dying down and King Henry’s jester, “Dick the Fool,” was taking the floor. She noted inwardly that Richard wasn’t the only one to be the butt of Henry’s malice, for the Fool was named after Tudor’s predecessor, King Richard III—another whom Henry loathed, and feared even now, when he was dead.

  “Tonight, we have the eminent Poet Laureate Merlin to entertain us with a new composition,” the jester announced. “Most noble majesties, princes and princesses, lords and ladies, I present to you the incomparable ‘Merlin’!”

  Wild applause rang out, and a small man wearing the green and white that were the colors of the king, sprang into the center of the hall.

  Richard gave a groan.

  “What is it?” Catherine whispered.

  “That’s John Skelton—the man’s a beast and a bully. He has hounded me from the first and loathes to find me playing the lute. His new composition is no doubt about me.”

  Skelton began to strut. Catherine listened with increasing concern.

  “My hair busheth so pleasantly—” he sang in a high voice, flipping his hair. “My robe rusheth so dashingly—” He made an elegant twirl. “Meseem I fly, I am so light—”Skelton skipped up to Richard. “For I am a butterfly with wind in my belly and no guts to weigh me down! I dance to delight—” Pursing his lips, he blew a kiss along the palm of his hand to Richard’s lips. “Let me sing for you.” He raised his voice to a high, quaky treble and squeaked about a groom who bragged of his base birth and thought himself talented: “He thinks he can play the lute. He thinks he can sing—” Skelton warbled offkey to Richard, “but he knows not he sobs like an old sow—” Skelton made an ugly sucking noise and the hall burst into derisive laughter. “A sow that sobs and stinks—la-de-rah-de-la—”

  Pirouetting around the floor, he paused to insert his nose into a woman’s bosom and exhaled an audible sigh of pleasure when he emerged. He skipped up to Richard once again. “This proud page looks comely as he plays the clavichord, whistling so sweetly, he maketh me to sweat—” He pretended to swoon, and moved away to work the crowd. “What is this person who was born in a cart—is he a master, a minstrel, a fiddler—” He pointed to Richard. “Nay, he’s a fart!”

  Everyone roared with laughter. To Catherine the applause seemed to go on forever. She stood rigidly beside her husband, unsmiling. Richard placed an arm around her shoulders. Skelton’s voice rang out again over the thunderous ovation, “Lord, how proud Perkin is of his pea-hen! Jack hath his Jill!” He was met with more snorts of laughter. Tears stung Catherine’s eyes but she lifted her chin. Never would she give her enemies the satisfaction of letting them see her weep. Hand in hand, they left the hall, followed by their Tudor spies.

  “Oh my love, I am so sorry!” Catherine cried when they were out of earshot of the revelers. They turned into a small vaulted chamber and went to the window while their minders watched.

  “It is my penance, Catryn.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I heard the Venetian ambassador tell the ambassador who has only one arm—”

  “The Spanish ambassador, Doctor de Puebla,” Richard offered.

  “Aye, him—that you bear your fortune with spirit and courage.”

  A wan smile lifted Richard’s mouth. Catherine embraced him, squeezing herself tightly against him. “’Tis done, and nothing can change it. We must go on as best we can.”

  “Catryn, I cannot help but think how it used to be for us, what joy it was when Dickon was with us. Now there is only torment. My family is torn asunder. I cannot love you as a husband and I cannot protect my child. We do not even know if he still lives.”

  Black panic choked off her breath to hear her child’s name spoken thus. In keeping them from their marriage bed and taking Dickon from them, this king had shown how greatly he feared Richard. He knew—he had to know—that Richard was the true prince. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so afraid of a second generation.

  “I live on hope, Catryn,” Richard went on. He glanced at their jailors conversing with one another a short distance away. “Hope”—he bent down as if to give her a kiss, but instead he whispered in her ear—“of rescue.”

  In reply to Catherine’s stunned surprise, he bent down as if to nibble her other ear. “My aunt—soon—”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. She was seized with mingled hope and dread. It was dangerous; she didn’t want him to take the chance. But could they abide this terrible fate forever? If Richard escaped, he might be able to find Dickon. Yet Henry was clever. He had spies everywhere. She dared not pursue the subject, for an alertness had come to their guards and now they listened intently. In as casual a tone as she could manage, she said, “I love you, too.” To throw them off the scent, she forced back her unease and went on. “In my mind, I keep seeing you ride through the castle gate at Stirling on your white stallion. The pipers are playing and the girls are dancing and twirling their ribbons before you. Our eyes meet . . . It is a memory without end that is etched into my soul. How I wish we could turn time back the way I do in my mind.”

  “You want to know what I see when I think of you?”

  Catherine smiled. “Tell me.”

  “Gold pouring from the sea. Rose petals in the sky. The sun staring down at me like the Eye of God.”

  Catherine’s smile vanished at the mention of God. “There was a time when I thought there was no wrong we could not right, no fight we could not win, for God was on our side. Why did God not help us, Richard?”

  “He has His reasons for everything, but I don’t blame Him for my loss, Catryn. I blame myself. I did not have the training to lead men into battle. Nor did I have the stomach for bloodshed. I knew that in Scotland, but I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to make you proud of me, and make Aunt Meg happy. She has had little happiness in life. And look where it led us—” He averted his face. “I cannot forgive myself, Catryn. I should have done as you wished, and turned back at St. Michael’s Mount.”

  Catherine placed her hand on his. “St. Michael’s Mount was too late, Richard. The time to have turned back was Ayr. I should not have urged you on. I am the one who bears the blame.”

  “Even Ayr was too late. Even Scotland was too late. Henry told me that every battle is won before it is ever fought. He uncovered the identity of my supporters across the realm in 1495. My fate was sealed when William Stanley’s head was put on a pike on London Bridge months before we met, but I was too fool to know it. Too filled with dreams—” His voice broke. “Fortune can be so wicked.”

  Catherine felt his words like the touch of an icy finger running along her spine. They never had a chance! God must have hated them to do this! She shuddered. She had to force back her newfound and terrible knowledge or she might not be able to go on. She turned her face to the dark sky. “Where is your star, Richard?” she cried in a panic. “I cannot see it!”


  Richard glanced at her in bafflement, but his tone was soothing when he spoke. “All is well—it’s there, Catryn. Clouds obscure it tonight, but we’ll see it on the morrow.” Richard looked at her meaningfully. “On the morrow,” he said squeezing her hand on “morrow.”

  Morrow. Realization struck with the force of a lightning strike. The rescue he expected was imminent! The plans had already been set in motion. Her heart hammered violently in her breast and she sagged against him. The knowledge seemed suddenly oppressive.

  The next evening—December twenty-first—a fire started in the king’s wardrobe. Walls collapsed in the conflagration, and flames spewed from the windows amid the cries of children and shouts of men trying to douse the blaze. Catherine stood on the frozen ground with a thousand noble lords and ladies, servants, men in armor, and men of the cloth, all of them shivering in night shirts and blankets and watching the palace flame. Her thoughts were all of Richard, if he had made good his escape. Her eyes sought his star in the sky, shining bright. Though she had not prayed since St. Michael’s Mount, she found words to send to heaven this night.

  Chapter 9

  The Horns of Fate

  1498

  The court moved back to Windsor from the charred remnants of Shene as January blustered toward its close. To Catherine’s anguished thoughts of Dickon were added new worries about Richard. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the fire and spent her days in desperate and growing despair.

  At the threshold of the queen’s privy chamber, she heard her name spoken and halted. “All she is guilty of is love,” the queen said. Such sadness clung to her words that Catherine no longer had any doubt that Elizabeth had drunk deeply of both love and loss. When a hush came over the room, she realized she had been noticed.

  “I have brought your illuminated manuscript of Boethius’s De Consolatione, as you requested, my lady.” She gave a curtsy.