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  While guests and guards were downing malmsey and bellowing drunken songs of love in the great hall, Richard and Catherine escaped to the seclusion of the royal garden. There, protected by a battlement overlooking the torch-lit village below, whipped by the wind and shielded by the sighing yew, with his kisses singing through her veins, she surrendered her virginity to the man she loved.

  Christmas brought more ecstasy and a blessed discovery—she was enceinte! She prepared for her marriage in a state of bliss, floating over the world, barely aware that she moved among the living, so glowing and ethereal did the earth seem to her. King James spared no expense for their wedding. Sweet was the music and the feasting, handsome was her beloved, and delicately did morning mist give way to glittering sun and twilight fade into moonbeams. Her wedding day seemed as if it were a gift wrapped in veils, for the hours unfolded like scenes in some exquisite pageant, each layer lifting to reveal a sight more dazzling than the one that went before. The next morning, beneath silvery clouds, they took their leave of family and guests in the castle court.

  “May the best day ye hae ivver seen be the warst day ye’ll ivver see, my bonnie, bonnie princess,” her father said tenderly as he placed his strong arms around her and held her tight in a long embrace. Bidding her a silent farewell in his heart, he kissed the top of her head as he had done a thousand times when she was a lass. Then he clasped Richard’s shoulders fiercely, and boomed, “May the moose ne’er lea’ yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee!”

  “And the same to you, my Earl of Huntly,” Richard replied respectfully, with a slight bow. Leaning close as he lifted Catherine on her palfrey, he asked in a low tone, “What did your father say?”

  “That he hopes the mouse never leaves your grain store with a tear drop in its eye—’tis an old Scots blessing.” She grinned, unable to suppress her amusement at his expression.

  Richard leapt on his mount. “And the very same to you!” he called to her father across the court, restraining his horse with a practiced hand as he waved farewell. “The very same!”

  Laughing merrily, they rode out the castle gateway.

  Catherine came back to the present with a smile on her lips. Dawn was breaking, and the silence of the monastery was lifting. A cock crowed in the distance and sea birds mewed as they flew past her window. From across the court drifted the voices of the monk praising lauds, and on the horizon, orange fire was bursting over the sky, drenching the water in shades of persimmon and ochre. How beautiful the world is! she thought. She cast a glance at her husband, who was stirring with the rest of the castle, and her smile faltered. Richard’s quest for the throne of England was upon them and each day that passed would bring them closer to parting. She lifted her eyes to heaven’s shining abode. Blessed Virgin, ye who once walked this earth and knew what it meant to love, keep my beloved safe, protect him from harm, I beg thee, Holy Mother—

  “What are you doing?” Richard’s voice.

  She dropped down into the arms that reached for her. “I’d be admiring your land of England, my love.”

  “But you haven’t seen England yet—the sea is the same everywhere,” he murmured sleepily.

  She nestled against his shoulder. “Nay—in Scotland ’tis an angry tyrant. Here it embraces you like a beautiful mistress.” She shifted in his arms and looked at him.

  “Be that as it may,” he said, rolling over on his side to look at her, the sleepy unfocused expression fading from his eyes, “’tis nothing compared to your charms, my Celtic princess. Scotland has no sun now without your radiant smile to brighten its gloomy days, and no aquamarine eyes to sparkle like stars over its nights. No black hair to shine like moonlight over the land—no roses either, for you’ve gathered them all to stain your lips—”

  She gave a chuckle. “Your words are not your own, Sire—you’ve taken them quite freely from the Gaelic love song I taught you.” The song was dear to her heart despite its melancholy quality, for once he’d memorized the words, Richard sang it to her every night at Loch Lomond. She hummed the lament softly under her breath, and he lifted his rich voice in song:My true love’s the bonniest lass in a’ the warld,

  Black is the color of her hair.

  She has roses for lips, an’ milk for skin,

  Her neck is lang like a swan’s,

  An’ gleamin’ as moonlight is her black hair.

  He was about to sing the next stanza, but she placed a finger on his lips. “Nay, my love—not now—”

  He fell silent and kissed her fingers. The next stanza was about parting. She lay back with a sigh. Richard spoke again, and she knew it was to dispel their thoughts. “Whoever wrote that love song had you in mind, for he even mentioned your long swan neck. Yet for all your beautiful parts, you will not guess what feature I love best. Your little mole.”

  “This?” She fingered the little brown spot on the side of her cheek that she had always regarded as a flaw.

  “Aye, for I have long believed that God is an artist, and here is proof. Your beauty is so perfect that you seem drawn from another realm. Therefore, He added this touch. The mark serves not only as God’s signature on one of His loveliest works, but also as His assurance to mankind that you are indeed mortal.”

  His gaze sent the familiar ache of desire coursing through her. She felt the movement of his breath quicken. Untying the ribbon of her nightgown, he eased her from its folds and flung the gown away. Her senses spun at his touch and her heart hammered in her breast. Locked in his embrace, intoxicated by the strength and power of his flesh, Catherine felt as if she were caught in a summer storm as their bodies found the tempo that bound them together. She clung to him, riding waves of delight on a perfumed sea that swept her in, and bore her out, submerged her under, and lifted her up again . . .

  They lay still at last. She opened her eyes and gazed into his blue depths. “Here in the joys of the flesh is yet one more proof that I am mortal indeed.”

  He laid his hand tenderly on the swell of her stomach. “I love you—love you more than life itself, Catryn,” he said, his melodious voice giving her name the Flemish pronunciation of his adopted land.

  “I will always love you, Richard, to the end of my days, forever and ever.” She snuggled close. Richard wrapped his arms around her. The babe in her womb gave a sudden kick that they both felt, and they laughed.

  “Another boy, judging from the strength of that kick,” Richard murmured into her hair.

  “Aye, and what a strong bairn he is at only five months. Imagine what he can do when he’s fully formed.” Catherine smiled. She could have lain in Richard’s arms till the end of time, savoring his warmth, his scent, his love. Too soon, however, came a rap at the door.

  “Who is it?” Richard called.

  “John O’Water, me lord,” Richard’s faithful retainer announced in his Irish lilt, his voice bursting with excitement. “I bring news—good news! A delegation has arrived from Penzance in support o’ the Yorkist cause!”

  “I shall be there at once!” Richard leapt from the bed and threw on his pleated shirt, embroidered blue-velvet doublet and belt, and leggings. He grabbed his heavy mantle and set his black feathered cap on his head. “’Tis what we have been waiting for, Catryn!” He bent down and gave her a swift peck on the lips. At the door, he turned back, a hand on the latch. “And what shall ye be doin’ on this fine morn?” He grinned, imitating her broad Scots accent.

  She propped herself up on a pillow. “I shall be takin’ your son for a wee stroll on the bonnie, bonnie mudflats of St. Michael’s Mount,” she smiled, “and teachin’him his native Gaelic.”

  With a merry chuckle, Richard shut the door.

  Chapter 2

  Mist on the Mount

  Catherine had not long to frolic in the sun with her child. By terce, at the first sign of a storm, they hurried back to the Mount, and ’tis good they did, for a fearsome sight it made. The entire world descended quickly into darkness and the frothing sea pounded the rocks and roared
with fury, reminding her of the storm that had almost sunk their ship. Below, in the sheltered harbor of the Mount, the Cuckoo tossed and heaved at anchor. Catherine watched from the refectory as the great lantern was lit that served as a beacon to approaching ships to warn them away from the rocks, but its giant flame careened wildly in the wind that lashed the monastery. Inside, monks rushed about closing shutters, lest the glass break in the force of the gale.

  Over the next few hours, the worst of the storm passed, but for several days they knew only blustery winds and chilling rain. Undeterred by the inclement weather, however, delegations continued to arrive from over the entire south, keeping Richard busy from dawn to dark. The monastery fortress became a hive of activity that echoed with men’s voices and the thud of boots as they hurried up to the castle, eager to pledge their support to the House of York.

  Unseen from behind windows blurred with raindrops, Catherine played with her babe and watched them pass. Some had tears in their eyes as they departed, so moved had they been to behold King Edward’s son alive. As for Richard, he became again the prince she’d known in the days before the Scots invasion. Now he believed in the success of his enterprise as utterly as she had done when she’d urged him onward at Ayr. Bursting with dreams, buoyed anew with energy and enthusiasm, assured of victory, he plunged ahead with plans for his campaign against the usurper.

  As much as she welcomed this change in him, Catherine still couldn’t shake the misgivings that had come to her since the storm at sea had nearly claimed their lives. She had not known till then how much she’d wanted to live—and how much she had to live for. She could not speak of her doubts to Richard, however, for she had no basis for her fears. Nothing except that familiar and deepening distress at the thought of parting. It was why she had insisted on accompanying him to England, though he had begged her to remain in the safety of Scotland until he had matters in hand. She found parting such anathema that nothing would persuade her to let him go without her—not all his pleas, nor her father’s anger. “Ye always were a stug lassie,” her father had said, finally giving in, “and nane can say nae to thee.”

  As the days passed, she buried herself in her devotions in the Lady Chapel. When not at prayer, she delighted in her child. His golden curls and his eyes that were as bright blue as Scottish thistle reminded her of Richard—but also of how much they risked by coming to England to battle for a throne. A single toss of the dice—one spin of Fortune’s Wheel—and the world they knew, the hopes they cherished, could shatter and spin into night. She tried to dispel her fears by reminding herself of her words to Richard when he had wavered in Scotland. “Only you can save your people—England needs you, Richard!” There had been something exciting about not knowing where they were going and exactly what might happen next, and there was romance in helping Richard fight the righteous cause of regaining his father’s throne. Anxious to be off, she had hugged her father farewell at Ayr and, with barely a backward glance, had run up the gangplank of the ship that would take them to Ireland and the start of their great adventure. Young, in love, tempestuous, they saw the world as a magnificent bauble; they had merely to stretch out a hand, and it would be theirs.

  So she had thought.

  Now she realized how precious life was. How mortal they were. How gossamer-thin the thread by which they hung. While she cooed to Dickon on the slopes of St. Michael’s Mount, or supped silently in the refectory, her gaze would steal to their single ship, the Cuckoo, swaying at anchor in the protected harbor of the Mount. If Richard’s bid for the throne failed, could they flee to safety? And where was safety in this troubled world—not in France, not in Ireland or Spain, nor in Scotland any longer. Only Burgundy could offer refuge. Aye—only Richard’s aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy, could save her little Dickon, as she had once saved her husband, Richard—

  “See, my Lady Cate,” cried Alice, “our wee prince walks!”

  Catherine turned her gaze from the rain-splattered window where she sat mulling over her thoughts to the delightful sight of her golden-haired child, a proud grin on his face, taking his first steps unaided. As she led her ladies in a chorus of praise, he made his way to her, one careful, wobbly step at a time. “Mama!” he shrieked when he stood within her reach. “Mama!” He fell into her arms and smiled up at her, beaming with pride.

  “My sweet little angel,” she laughed. “How clever you are—what you can do! You walk just like your father.” She nuzzled his silken head against her breast, and drowned him in kisses. Soon he would be a year old, for he was born on Michaelmas, the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel, on the twenty-ninth of September. “Shall we play peek-a-boo?” He giggled happily, for it was his favorite game. When he had tired of it, he grew fussy and rubbed his eyes. “Shall I sing to you, my sweet one?” she cooed, for music always soothed him. He clapped his hands in assent, and Catherine smiled. Young as he was, he already knew his own mind, and they had all learned quickly that Dickon meant what he said. Agatha brought her lute, and Alice set him down at her feet, where she could watch him smile and clap.

  “Summertime

  And birds they’re a’wheeling

  High in the branches they sing for thee.

  Hush thee my bairn, thy sire’s a prince,

  And thy mother’s a royal lady.

  The woods and the dales from the castle ye see,

  They are all belonging dear baby to thee.”

  “And now, my bonnie little prince, ’tis time for a nap. It’s been a long morning for you. You must rest and grow strong so you can celebrate your birthday. Is that not right, Alice?” She picked up her child, and went to hand him over to her cousin, but he clung to her, crying. Gently, Alice helped Catherine pry the protesting child loose from his mother’s arms. “Princes need naps so they can take even longer steps one day,” she murmured to her charge.

  “Aye, Dickon. Sleep and grow strong, my tiny one,” Catherine said. She watched Alice leave. Dickon squirmed in her arms and made his objections more strenuously the closer she drew to the door. They disappeared from view. His wailing ceased, and Catherine’s heaviness returned. What is wrong with me? Restlessly, she rose from her window seat and stood uncertainly for a moment. Agatha, sewing a baby gown, paused her needle to regard her.

  “The rain has stopped,” Catherine announced. “I shall take the air—Agatha, would you fetch my lute?”

  Descending the wet stone steps carefully, she made her way to a rocky outcrop midway down the slope. The bad weather must be to blame for her mood, she thought. She had been confined too long and needed solitude. Maybe here, alone with the sea and the sky, she’d be able to sort herself out and regain her compass. She looked around. It was a solitary spot, shielded in all directions from prying eyes, even from above, for clouds shrouded the tip of the castle in mist.

  Gathering her skirts around her, she took a seat on a ledge covered with a patch of dying grass that was still damp from the morning rain. The thin green remnants brought to mind her days of summer in Scotland. What joy had been hers since Richard had come into her life! Reaching deep into her bodice, she gently moved past the gold and diamond locket that Richard had placed around her neck on their wedding day and pulled out his love letter from the leather pouch attached to a chain around her neck. She unfolded it carefully. Inside, she kept his tiny silver coin, one of many minted for him in Flanders that bore the profile of a crowned head encircled by the words King Richard IV. She removed the groat and held it in her palm as she bent her head to the letter. Many times had she read it, and she knew the words by heart, yet the need to feel them between her fingers never left her. The days at the Mount were sweeping by too quickly, crammed with incessant noise and commotion, and she barely saw Richard anymore. The words of this missive, and the touch of his silver coin, brought him close.

  “Love makes me your slave,” he’d written. “Whether waking or sleeping, I cannot find rest or happiness except in your affection. All my hopes rest in you, and in you alone.
Most noble lady, look mercifully down upon me your slave, who has ever been devoted to you from the first hour he saw you.” He had signed it, “Farewell, my soul and my consolation! You, the brightest ornament of Scotland, farewell, farewell.”

  Richard’s letter always brought a smile to her lips, for it was his earliest declaration of love to her and his words touched her like a caress. She placed the groat back into the heart of the letter and refolded the parchment along its worn creases. She slid the missive back in its pouch and dropped it deep into her bodice. She felt such a need for him at this moment, yet with each passing day she saw him less and less. Only after vespers, when darkness fell and the castle settled down to rest, did they have a few moments together. Oh, how she wished it were night! It could not come swiftly enough for her—the magnificent night—sometimes tender with lovemaking, sometimes delirious with passion. Yet entwined with their ecstasy ran a desperation they both felt. She clutched Richard, and he clutched her back, as if each night were their last. If only she could capture time and slow it down! If only she could bid the future gone, and keep the present!

  Below, waves dashed the rocks with the loud, steady roaring of thunder to which she’d become almost accustomed. Sometimes she feared the sound when it became too wild, but in the main she loved it, for it spoke to her of incredible power and freedom. She lifted her face to the wind and closed her eyes. Such, she thought, is the breath of Heaven—fierce, all-powerful, everlasting. She felt its strength beat at her, loosening her bound hair and bathing her lips with salt spray. She took a deep gulp of the frigid air and picked up her lute. Bending her head to the instrument, she strummed the chords of the lament she had taught Richard on the banks of Loch Lomond, the song she had cut short on her first morning at the Mount. For some inexplicable reason, she needed to hear all the words now—needed to remember the unclouded joy that had been hers in the early days of her wedded bliss:—Her neck is lang like a swan’s,