B004H0M8IQ EBOK Page 4

  An’gleamin’as moonlight is her black hair.

  For the bonniest lass in a’ the warld is she.

  But the winter’s passed and the leaves are green,

  The time is passed that we have seen.

  If you no more on earth I see,

  An’ I be in Heaven afore ye,

  I’ll be waitin’ there for thee, my black-haired love,

  Look for me there, my black-haired love,

  For the bonniest lass in a’ the warld an’ in Heaven

  Be ye.

  The wind carried back the memory of Richard’s voice in her ear. “That is so sad, Catryn,” he had said the first time he ever heard it. “Who would write something so sad?”

  “’Tis believed it was a Scots soldier awaiting death in English captivity. In his last letter he wrote this song, telling of his love and how much he missed her.”

  “Everything is mournful in Scotland, even the love songs. Why is that, Catryn?”

  “We have a sad history, Richard. Suffering is what we know best. We have endured much grief at the hands of the English.”

  “Is there anything happy here in Scotland?”

  “There is a blessing we give one another.”

  Richard laughed. “The one about the mouse in the granary?”

  “Nay, another. It goes like this—” She put down her lute. “May the hill rise behind you, may the mountain be always over the crest.” Taking his hand, she closed a finger over his palm one by one as she spoke the words, until all five were folded over. “And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”

  “Now, that pleases me.” He echoed the refrain in his resonant voice. “May the hill rise behind you, may the mountain be always over the crest—”

  “And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand,” she prompted.

  Richard had risen to his feet and drawn her up. He had smoothed her hair with a tender touch. “When I am King of England, Scotland shall be a favored nation, for her queen will be the fairest rose of all England. And when I am king, the queen will be forbidden to sing a lament. By law, laments will be banished and only gay ditties sung all over the land.”

  Catherine put down her lute. A white-haired monk in the brown habit of the lay brothers was appearing over the rocks below, leading four black-and-white cows. Her glance followed the direction of his gaze, and for the first time she noticed the weathered old shed behind her. She rose to her feet.

  “Brother, I greet thee well. Forgive me for claiming your domain.” She turned to go.

  “Nay, m’lady,” he called out breathlessly, drawing near. “Do not leave on my account—I couldn’t help but catch the strains o’ the melody you sang, and I must say it lightened m’hard climb back with my charges!” He came to a halt before her. He had a pleasant rosy face, deeply lined by the years, and gray eyes as silver as the sea that surrounded them. “Indeed, even the cows mooed approval. Bessie, in particular.”

  The monk fixed his eyes on Catherine. A fairer creature he had never seen. A perfect oval face, lips like berries, coloring that combined the best of night with the finest summer’s day.

  Catherine blushed beneath his gaze. “Which one is Bessie?” she asked, for want of something to say.

  “This one, with the big brown eyes, m’lady.”

  “But they all have big brown eyes, do they not?”

  “Not like Bessie’s,” grinned the monk. “Her markings are more distinct than theirs, an’ a richer velvet. She’s a blue-blood, that one. Once you’ve seen her, you know.”

  “Indeed. You know.” Catherine fell thoughtfully silent, thinking of Richard. Those who had seen him “ knew.” Indisputably royal, he had been acknowledged as the true King of England by all the crowned heads of Europe.

  “May I?” The monk pointed to a large wooden water barrel near the cow shed.

  She nodded. “Do the others have names, or only Bessie?” she asked, watching as he filled a large pail and set it out for the cows.

  He smiled broadly. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Jessie, and Molly—and here is Michelle.”

  “Michelle?”

  “Her name is French, for Saint Michael.”

  She found Michelle’s face surprisingly sweet up close. “And you, Father?” she asked, rubbing Michelle’s silky black ear.

  “I am Brother Nicholas, m’lady. I see that Michelle’s taken a liking to you.”

  “Too bad that her destiny is to end on a platter,” Catherine said sadly.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Her destiny is milk, m’lady. We don’t eat flesh, lucky for Michelle and her friends—” He gave her a pat. “Should she fall sick, I’ll nurse her, and when she dies, I’ll grieve. I daresay she knows it, too. Animals are a good bit smarter than most o’ us give them credit for.”

  There was something endearing about this monk. “Have you been here long, Brother Nicholas?”

  “Aye, a long time. Came as a young ’un in the fifties, during the time of the she-wolf, Margaret of Anjou, queen to poor saintly Henry VI. Now there’s a Frenchwoman to put the fear of Satan into a man! Many a candle was lit for Edward IV all o’er the land when he finally vanquished Lancaster and set things to right.” His gray eyes soft, he added, “As his son, our bonnie Prince Richard, has come to do now.”

  A raindrop fell on Catherine’s face and she looked up at the sky. Clouds shrouded the castle and no part was visible now, making her feel empty and alone. For some reason, she thought of her father and how much she missed him at this moment. He’d always been able to fix whatever was wrong, like the time she’d been skipping through tall grasses and come face to face with a serpent. She could still remember her terror vividly and the ugly hooded eyes that stared at her, and she could still hear in her ears the swish of her father’s sword as it came crashing down on its terrible head. But her father was not here to save her anymore, and soon Richard would be gone as well. She tore her gaze away.

  Brother Nicholas caught her distress and grew solicitous. “I beg your forgiveness, m’lady—here you are, with child, and I’ve been ramblin’ on about nothing. May I help you back up the slope? Or fetch you a cup o’ wine?”

  She shook her head. “I am fine. ’Tis nothing—”

  “My dear lady, you are ashen pale,” the old monk said. He took her by the elbow and brought her back to the rocky ledge where she had sat. “Something is troublin’ you. Do not deny it. I have been around a long time, and I know when someone is afflicted in their soul. Do you wish to speak of it? Mayhap I can help.”

  Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat. “I know not why I feel as I do, Brother Nicholas,” she said in a small voice. “But of late a heaviness has taken hold of me. I cannot dispel it, no matter how much I pray.”

  “This heaviness you speak of, what is its source?”

  She stared at him, unable to form the words.

  “May I sit?” He gestured to the ledge. She inclined her head, and he took a seat beside her. “You may confide in me, m’lady. I do not seek to judge. If the course be righteous, I can grant a blessing. Or advise, if advice can be given.” He took her hand into his own, and she thought of her father. She had not known she would miss him so much. Tears stung her eyes.

  “I have doubts—and fears, for my husband—my child—” She averted her gaze from his searing gray eyes and twisted a pleat of her sea-gown between her fingers. “Once I was so sure about my lord husband’s enterprise—so certain that justice was on his side—that he would prevail. I was confident that he was God’s chosen, that his quest was righteous and he was meant to purge the evil that has beset England. But now—now—I fear—Brother Nicholas, fear is always with me—”

  The old monk threw her a penetrating glance, the wind whipping his white hair as he looked at her. He turned away and they sat together side by side, staring out to the gray sea.

  “Aye,” he sighed at length. “You are both too young to have such burden placed
on you. Much as I wish to, I cannot give you the assurance you seek. Scripture says the battle is not to the brave, nor the race to the swift, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the learned, but time and chance happeneth to them all.” He brought his gaze back to her. “Right is on your side, but the outcome of your lord’s enterprise depends on time and chance. God’s ways are not ours, and remain beyond our understanding. One day all shall be revealed, so it is promised. Meanwhile—” He broke off and turned soft eyes on her. “We must endure.”

  “But there has to be a reason for the way I feel!” she cried in desperation. “Why this sudden change in me? I used to be carefree, confident—nay,’tis not the child in my womb—I have been with child before, and not felt as I do now. Surely God sends me this heaviness for a purpose! Is it—is it—could it be to deter my husband from his path?”

  “The burden you bear may be sent by the angels as a warning to you. Or it could be from the Devil, who takes many guises and has an arsenal of tools to use against us. We cannot know.” After a long pause, he said, “Pray for guidance, child.”

  She blinked back her misery and attempted a smile. “I am glad for Bessie, and her friends, that you eat no flesh, and that they are safe,” she said to change the subject, for she was suddenly drained and weary to exhaustion, though it was not yet nones. “For I am only now realizing what an uncertain world it is, Father.”

  The old monk dragged himself to his feet. Strangely, she felt the weight of his years on her own shoulders as she watched him.

  “There is one thing I can do for you, my child. I can pray for God to bless you. That He see fit to reward thee and thy husband of the noble House of York.”

  She fixed her eyes on his wooden crucifix hanging from the rope chain around his neck. His robe billowing around him, he placed a hand on her bowed head. On the wind, she heard his words: “Child of God, may Richard, Duke of York, save England. And may England save King Richard.”

  Their fifth day at the Mount, like their first, dawned bright and glorious. Catherine decided to take Dickon across the causeway for a stroll on the beach. The sun shone on the glittering water, and white sea birds squawked noisily as she made her way across the old causeway to the little village of Marazion with her ladies, her babe held close in her arms. She kissed his soft cheek.

  “Mama!” he said.

  She rubbed noses with him and pretended to bite his chubby cheek. He giggled.

  “Aye, my sweetin’, you love me, too, don’t you—you love your mama.” She gazed into his clear blue eyes. Never could she have guessed before he was born the delight that would be hers each time her little one reached out his arms to her. Never could she have fathomed the joy of what it meant to have a child until she’d had her own. It was as if she had stepped into a new world, a glittering world of daily discovery and wonderment.

  She squeezed his precious body to hers, but he protested and wiggled in her grasp, for they had reached the beach and he wished to be free to taste the sand. “Nay, nay,” she laughed. She set him down for a moment, and pried loose his grasp on a fistful of mud that he was taking to his mouth. “You canna eat that, ’tis not good for ye!”

  Dickon bawled. “Look what I have here,” she said, picking up a shiny seashell and holding it up so that it sparkled in the sun. “If ye are good, maybe Mama will give it to you—”

  He set his eyes on it and reached out a hand. Intently he examined his new toy as she led the way to a dark outcrop of rock where she could regard the Mount in all its grandeur.

  The ladies who accompanied her gathered their skirts and settled themselves on the rocks. They were good lasses, Catherine thought, and so pleasant, they made you forget they were not great beauties. Dear, plump Agatha was always jolly and good-natured, with a kind word for everyone and a warm smile that lit up gloomy days. And any man would be fortunate to get Alice. Her fair-haired cousin was a poor relative of her father’s third wife, Elizabeth Hay, and at sixteen, she was the youngest of the group, yet she was wiser than them all. Being kin, she had been entrusted with the responsibility of caring for Catherine’s babe. In this she had never failed her. Her sea green eyes remained ever vigilant when watching wee Dickon, as now, while he studied his seashell.

  “’Tis lovely here, is it not?” Catherine sighed on the wind.

  “Near as bonnie as Scotland,” Alice replied softly.

  Catherine caught the wistfulness in her voice. Aye, they could all use some cheer. She asked Agatha for her lute, and bending her head to it, she broke into the merriest song she knew and raised her voice in song. Even Dickon paused his scrutiny of his shell to listen. But as the ditty drew to a close, Catherine realized the music had made them all melancholy instead of lightening their spirits. ’Tis the homesickness, Catherine realized, making a promise to herself. If Richard won his throne back from the Tudor, she would send these girls back to Scotland, where they belonged. Without love and a family of their own, England would always be exile for them.

  The sea birds overhead mewed feverishly. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she glanced up as they careened above her. In that instant, a cloud passed over the sun and a stabbing pain came and went in her belly, yet it was Richard who filled her mind. Dear God, Catherine thought, if he loses to the Tudor—what then? She staggered to her feet. Her lute fell from her hands.

  “Mama!” Dickon cried, reaching for her, dropping his shell.

  She looked at him in horror. What of my bairn? What of us?

  Dickon screamed. She covered her ears. Faces pressed around her. A voice rose above the others, “M’lady—dear lady—what canna the matter be? Is it the child in your womb—”

  Her hand went to her belly. A spasm of nausea seized her, and she bent over and retched. Alice held her gently, while Agatha ran to moisten a cloth with seawater and returned to wipe her face. She closed her lids until the sick feeling passed. When she had recovered, she grew aware of her child’s piercing cries. Alice was bouncing Dickon in her arms, but he would not be comforted, and his own were outstretched to her.

  “Naught—’tis naught but a wee pain,” she said, embarrassed to have frightened her ladies for no reason. “’Tis gone now—all is well.” She put out her arms to her little one, wailing as if his heart would break. “Come, my sweetin’.” Forcing a smile, she tossed him lightly into the air and caught him again. He giggled with delight. Somehow, she thought, gazing at her child, she must fight the fear that had taken hold of her heart, and focus on hope.

  There was a swarm of activity at the Mount when they returned. Men lined the steps halfway down to the harbor, and the waiting rooms were crowded to overflowing. Catherine’s heart flew to her throat. Something had happened.

  She found Richard in his council chamber poring over documents, surrounded by his advisors. He broke into a broad smile when he caught sight of her, and his face shone as he came and took her hands. “I have an army, Catryn! Ten thousand men stand ready to follow where I lead! The time has come to oust the bastard from my throne!”

  Something had happened indeed. The day of parting had arrived. She swallowed hard, and glanced around uncertainly. “When—”

  “When?” He turned to his men crowding the council table behind him. “Why, as soon as possible, of course! We leave tomorrow.”

  A roaring cheer went up as pandemonium broke out. The room seemed to shake with the gleeful shouts of men, the stamping of feet, and the calling out of messages. Slaps were given on the back, bear hugs received, and people rushed to and fro to pass on the news. But Catherine could not breathe. Her heart pounded so wildly, she thought it must surely leap from her breast. She heard Richard’s voice only dimly though she stood but half an arm’s length from him.

  “You look pale, my love. Here, have a seat—someone fetch wine for my lady!”

  She stared at his face as he bent down to her. “Send them away,” she whispered.

  He knelt before her and took her hand in his. “I cannot do that, Catryn,” he said, h
is tone evincing puzzlement at her request. “It would be unseemly, but they shall be gone soon enough, my beloved.”

  “I must speak to you!”

  “Whatever it is, surely it can keep till the night, my sweet?” he asked gently. “’Tis but a few hours from now.”

  She regarded him. He was alight with excitement and anticipation, and now, for her own sake, she needed to speak of her doubts and perhaps deter him from his chosen path at the moment when victory seemed most within his grasp. She felt suddenly weary. Realizing she needed a chance to compose herself for the task, she gave a nod. This was too important to blurt out, and she had not the words for it now, nor the heart. The timing was wrong. Perhaps the night would be better.

  Catherine retired to the solitude of her chamber. She had to think, to prepare for the vital moment when she would present her case to Richard. She could not bear to let him go without him knowing her thoughts. But by voicing her dread, would she be blunting his confidence in his enterprise, and sowing in his heart seeds of doubt that could lead to failure? She had to tread warily.

  She thought of Brother Nicholas. Were her fears sent by the angels or by the Devil? No one could answer that. All she knew was that the time had come to bare her heart, for there might never be another chance.

  After dinner that evening, she stood with Richard in the high courtyard by the church, where the prior had met them, hidden from view in the curve of a turret screened by a stone wall. Stars glittered in the silken sky. All below them flamed torches in their stone sconces, and these were reflected in the water, bathing the night in ethereal beauty.

  “God has blessed us,” Richard murmured.

  “He has, Richard. With a love I never dreamed to find.” She drew away from his arms and looked at him. His hair stirred in the breeze, and in the low light of the flickering torches, his eyes had darkened like the ocean. She raised a finger and traced the line of his mouth and chin.