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  Richard waited with rapt attention. This was the moment of reckoning. In the north they had turned their backs. Would they turn away from him in the south?

  Members of the crowd threw down their shovels, and with one voice shouted, “Out with the dirty hound Teudar! He has no right to rule us!” Richard beamed; he felt as if the sun had burst through the clouds to drown him in golden light. He murmured a prayer of thanks to the Lord for blessing him so mercifully.

  In Redruth, Truro, and St. Austell, he was greeted the same way. As word spread, men flocked to his banner. By the time he approached the edges of Bodmin, he had twelve thousand peasants at his side, brandishing weapons. And when they reached Canyk Castle, to his delight, the gates were thrown open wide to him.

  He sent a messenger to take the news to Catherine.

  “Tell her how it pleases my heart to send these joyous tidings!” Richard beamed. “Forget not to tell her every detail! Ensure she knows that, on the news of my arrival at Castle Canyk, the usurper ordered the sheriff of Cornwall to muster the county against me, and though he came at me with twenty thousand men, they defied his orders to charge, and instead, they turned and fled!” He grinned, remembering the glorious sight of the sheriff ’s men tripping over themselves as they scrambled to get away over the purple moors.

  Wasting no time, Richard rode into town to proclaim his victory to the folk of Bodmin. A jubilant multitude had already assembled to greet him. Men from forty guilds waited to do him homage, and so many people had come from the surrounding villages to celebrate his victory that the hilly streets of Bodmin could take no more. With blaring trumpets and bonfires, he was pronounced Richard IV, second son of the late king Edward IV, undoubted heir to the crown of England.

  How good it felt! Richard had feared this homecoming would never arrive, and now, at last, it had. He was home again in the land of his birth. He gave thanks in each of Bodmin’s three churches for God’s great bounty, and sent Catherine a missive in his own hand.

  “I cannot stay long in Bodmin, for I must subdue the rest of the kingdom. But O, Catryn, how I hate to leave this beautiful place, and these good people—my people! It is such unbearable joy to be here with them at last,” he wrote. “Pray God that I may soon send you more such glorious tidings!”

  The day after Catherine’s all-night vigil outdoors, her throat pained her so terribly that she could scarcely swallow, nor could she hold her child for fear of transmitting her sickness to him. How she regretted refusing the wise counsel of all who had tried to lure her inside! At least the Almighty had seen fit to answer her prayers, for the tidings that Richard had sent her could not have been happier. She received his messengers in her chamber, and their smiling faces lit up the room like bright tapers as they recounted news of Richard’s stunning successes in Cornwall and Devon.

  “The duke’s boon grace and affable deportment is winning the hearts of all who set eyes upon him,” messengers reported. “In this short time, he has grown so popular and formidable, that no force dares oppose him.”

  Catherine’s heart was finally at ease. How foolish she had been to let fear overtake her. To her great happiness, she was being proven wrong—and the unknown terrors that had plagued her were proving hollow. With gratitude for Heaven’s benefices, she read and reread Richard’s missive during the hours when her weak and feverish body did not force her to sleep:Beloved Catryn,

  As you have been informed by my messengers, my quest is blessed by Divine Providence and matters are proceeding better than I could have hoped when I, with bitter reluctance, bid you farewell at Marazion. By now you know that men have flocked to my standard from the first moment, and that I entered Bodmin as king by right of battle. How joyous it is, Catryn!

  I was proclaimed king in Bodmin’s large and beautiful hall of the church of the Franciscans, as fine as any at Westminster. ’Tis not so poor a place to begin being King of England, my dear love.

  I have been making certain my troops pay for the wine and food they are given in the villages they pass, so that my people have proof of my goodwill and the manner of king I plan to make to them. I must admit to finding the landscape here strange with its moors and red-earth hills, as I have never seen anything like them before in all my travels on the Continent. I marvel at all my discoveries, and thank God for each moment.

  Tomorrow we reach Exeter. My expectation of success is high. Exeter supported the Cornish rebels against the usurper only a few months ago, and they have no love for him there. Surely, they will throw open their gates wide to me. I have heard that the usurper is in a state of great agitation and distress over my victories. That comforts me mightily and bolsters my resolve to oust the villain from my father’s throne.

  My beautiful Celtic princess, you should know that wherever I am, and whatever I do, you are foremost in my thoughts. Your image floats before me like my banner of the White Rose. You are queen of my heart today, and with God’s blessing I shall see you queen of my realm of England soon.

  May God have you and our babe in His safekeeping.

  Your adoring husband,

  Richard of England

  By my own hand, this day Saturday, September 16th in the year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and ninety-seven.

  For the next three nights, Catherine slept better than she had since Richard left, and the dreams that came to her were sweet. At long last, she felt strong enough to rise from bed and don her gown, though she had been unable to shake the fever that caused her ladies much concern. The improving weather helped her spirits, for the tempestuous sea had calmed, and the rain had eased. Soon she would be strong enough to venture outside. She longed to smell the freshness of the wind.

  She was seated in a window seat dangling a bauble before Dickon when she heard the messenger arrive. Catherine knew something was wrong as soon as he came into view, joining her and her ladies in the refectory. Richard had sent none other than Nicholas Astley, one of his most senior advisors and the head of his council. The expression Astley wore could not have been more sober. He fell to a knee before her.

  “My lady duchess, fain that I had better tidings to relate. Alas, matters have changed most fearfully since Bodmin.” He lifted pained eyes to Catherine. “On Saint Lambert’s Day, King Richard IV arrived at the gates of Exeter. His herald shouted his proclamation at the city walls, commanding surrender by duty of its allegiance. In reply, the Earl of Devon locked the gates against him.”

  A shocked murmur ran through the little group, and Catherine caught her breath. Alice put out her arm to sustain her, and Astley half rose with concern. “My lady—”

  “’Tis nothing. Pray, continue,” she managed.

  He swallowed visibly. “King Richard tried to besiege them, but they had guns, and all we had were rocks, fire, and battering rams. For two days, he tried to get our men over the walls by ladder, but was repelled. Eventually, we broke through the east gate, but we were driven back and lost many men. At the news of Lord Daubeney’s impending arrival with ten thousand of the royal army, King Richard made a truce with the Earl of Devon and left Exeter. He is marching to Taunton as we speak.”

  “Lord Daubeney—is he not engaged in fighting my royal cousin James on the northern border?” Catherine exclaimed in surprise, for the invasion was always meant to be a coordinated two-pronged attack, from north as well as south.

  “Word has it that the fighting on the Scottish border ended last month. King James attacked in August, as he and King Richard had planned, but King James had no way of knowing that we had been blown to Ireland by weather. The storm has cost us much.”

  Catherine’s head swam. Here was her great fear, taking shape before her. And there was more. She could see it on Astley’s face. “Pray, continue—” she whispered.

  “King Richard’s forces are badly outmatched by the army royal. The usurper has nobles and guns, cavalry and armor, my lady. King Richard has naught but men in leather jackets with pitchforks and a few swords. The usurper has many
lords experienced in warfare, but King Richard is his own commander and has no experience of military matters. Discouraging numbers have been killed. Further, he has run out of money, and his men are weary and hungry. Many are sick, dying not only from wounds, but also from sickness. The Cornishmen who have eaten grain harvested since the rebellion, or drunk beer brewed with this year’s barley, have died as quickly as if they had taken poison. ’Tis said they are felled by the pope’s excommunication, but His Grace believes that it is by Tudor’s poison. There is nothing the tyrant would not do to keep his crown, and murdering his own people is as good a way as honorable battle to him.”

  Nicholas Astley hung his head, as exhausted by the telling of these dread tidings as the little group on the Mount was to hear them. Catherine felt nauseous and faint. The ocean roared so loudly, it made her head ache. She knew she would not be able to endure much longer. “I—” A sudden pain pierced her stomach. She doubled up in agony and would have fallen but for the quick action of those around her. She heard John O’Water’s voice as her ladies helped her to her chamber. “Whatever else your tidings,” he said, “give them to me in private. The duchess can bear no more this day.”

  The prior, his monks, O’Water, and the crew of the Cuckoo watched Catherine disappear through the passageway. Astley dropped into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. John O’Water kicked a chair away from the table and took a seat beside him. “That bad?”

  Astley gave an anguished sigh. “Worse than anything you can imagine. The situation is hopeless. Tudor has kept us harried, sleepless, and hungry. We cannot eat because there is no money for food, and even if we could pay, we know it’s tainted with Tudor’s poison. There are wholesale desertions, but you can’t blame the men. Given the situation, they have no choice but to accept Tudor’s pardon.” With stricken eyes, he said, “His Grace wishes you to take the duchess and the lord master to Burgundy posthaste.”

  Silence.

  O’Water looked at the Barton brothers, both sea captains who had brought them safely through the Irish storm. To their skill, they owed their lives. Andrew Barton was the first to speak. “You saw Her Grace’s condition; there’s no way she can survive a rough sea voyage.” His brother, Robert, echoed the sentiment. “She’ll lose the babe for sure, and likely her life, too. In any case, we don’t even know if the Cuckoo can survive such a storm.” All heads turned to Guy Foulcart, the previous owner of the vessel. He was the only one who could answer that question.

  Foulcart didn’t respond for a long moment but stood at the window, assessing the raging sea below, where the Cuckoo tossed violently at anchor even in the sheltered harbor. The storm had worsened in the last hour and now the ferocious wind howled around the Mount, lashing the windows with rain, loosening shutters, and tearing away pieces of roof tile. He shook his head. “We’d be dashed to splinters on the rocks before we could even get out to sea. We must await better conditions.”

  “What’s to be done with the duchess if she can’t be comin’with us?” O’Water demanded.

  “She’ll have to stay here,” Nicholas Astley said.

  “But the Mount has no right of sanctuary,” the prior interjected.

  “Then she must be taken where there is,” Astley replied. “What is the closest place?”

  “St. Buryan. ’Tis not far from here, but in this weather it will take at least two days to get there.”

  Nicholas Astley drummed his fingers on the table. “We have not much time then. Tudor’s man, Lord Giles Daubeney, is expected to reach Taunton within the week. The duchess can rest four days at most, Prior. I have to apprise Prince Richard of the situation and see what he wants to do. If he decides to send the duchess to St. Buryan, can you manage the journey alone?”

  The prior was a figure of misery as he stood rubbing the edge of his crucifix between his fingers. He was thinking of the beautiful young woman in the tawny sea gown who had stood before him little more than a week earlier, her babe asleep in his nurse’s arms, her handsome husband at her side. They had come with such high hopes, such noble designs for the kingdom, and now here they were, their doom fast approaching. Though he was a man of faith who would never question God’s plan, sometimes the uncertainty of human destiny and its tragic consequences brought him to the edge of grief.

  He gave a nod.

  Alone in his tent, Richard contemplated what lay ahead. The blood and terror that he had seen in the north nauseated him even now, months later. With an anguish of soul as desperate as it was hopeless, he called out to Catherine in the dark. The candle in the sand bowl flickered, almost as if she had heard him and had tried to respond. He rubbed his eyes. His army was crumbling around him, and of the men that remained, many were sick, others hollow-eyed from sleeplessness and hunger. He blinked to banish the images of the poor wretches who would meet their doom on the morrow—thanks to him and his bid for the crown of England. None would last an hour against Daubeney’s forces.

  And what of him? He had never been taught to fight—certainly not the way a knight was expected to fight. The art could only be learned in a baron’s household, and that had been too dangerous for a child who looked so much like his father, King Edward of England. He passed a hand over his face. Of what use was he to his men? He had brought no army with him to England’s shores because he had believed in his countrymen. When they saw him, they would know him, so he had thought. They would rise up for him and cast out the usurper with one voice. So he had thought. But it had not happened. Tomorrow he would die, or worse.

  If his limbs weren’t cut to pieces on the field, he’d be taken to the Tower, where untold horrors awaited a man. Such was the usurper’s dedication to destroying his enemies that he had spent the ten years of his kingship refining its methods and making a fine art of torture. At considerable expense, the miser who avoided spending a groat had imported expensive instruments and machines from France to inflict unendurable pain. One that he knew about tore the skin from a living man but left him still living, each breath an agony as he cried out for a death that took its time. He, Richard, had promised to restore justice and law to England and to cleanse the land of such cruel terrors, if only England would help him rid the land of the tyrant. But the people had not heard. They had turned away from him.

  Rain pounded the tent he had pitched near one of the roofless chambers of Taunton Castle. The castle was owned by Bishop Thomas Langdon, an avid Yorkist. Richard had sent him a missive pleading for support, but the bishop had not replied. He knew, as did Richard, that the cause of York was lost. Richard’s eye fell on the beautiful gateway that the bishop had crenellated two years before. It was decorated with an escutcheon, a cross and five roses, symbolizing the five wounds of Christ. The date was carved underneath: 1495. A curious coincidence: that was the year Tudor had discovered the plot against Richard and destroyed all who would have helped him—from Tudor’s own powerful uncle, Lord William Stanley, down to the humblest bowmaker. Richard thought of Catherine as she’d looked on their last night at the Mount, begging him to abandon his invasion. “Too late, too late, my love!” he whispered to the memory. Too many promises had been made, too many princely clothes, jewels, and attendants had been accepted. He had taken on a king’s cares, and a king’s enemies; the necessity of fighting, and the risk of failing. He had gambled all; and he had lost. Never would he see Catherine again. He swallowed hard. At least she was safe, God be thanked. She and Dickon would sail to Burgundy. They would receive loving welcome from Aunt Meg.

  “My lord—”

  Richard looked up. It was Nicholas Astley, whom he had sent to Catherine. He rose from his stool.

  “My lord,” Astley said, “the duchess is very ill. She cannot make a sea voyage in her condition. They await your instructions at the Mount.”

  Richard felt himself pale. He loosened his collar and leaned a hand against the wall for support. “I must go to her—” He pushed away from the wall, headed for the door. Astley blocked his path.

 
; “My lord, forgive me, but the troops await,” he said.

  “I have no time for them! I must get to the Mount!”

  “My lord, think what you are doing. Do not act in haste.”

  “How can I think of anything when the lives of my family are in peril? They come first—aye, before my men, Astley, before my country, before the crown—before anything else in this world!”

  “My lord, I understand. After you have addressed the troops, let us discuss matters with the full council. All I beg is that you do not act in haste. An hour or two won’t make a difference. ’Tis all I ask. Surely your country is worth that much?”

  Barely able to concentrate, Richard issued his orders and watched the muster call. His captains noted carefully who was there, and who was not, and wrote their names down on parchment that was then secured in a coffer. Dutifully he went up and down the muddy lines of his ragged army, feigning confidence. In the pouring rain, his hair and clothes drenched and sodden, Richard encouraged his men.

  “I am in close touch with certain lords of the realm, who will soon help,” he lied. “If the bridges ahead are cut, we will track to the right and find another way through Somerset. Do not give up—do not go home—do not believe Tudor. You know his word is writ on water. March with me to London and see me crowned.”

  Some had stayed with him, but more had left. In Taunton’s ruined castle, Richard sat in his tent, awaiting his council, his head in his hands, a man comfortless. Henry VII, through his lord, Daubeney, had issued him a challenge to fight, but he had also tendered another offer. “If the war does not end in a battle, it can end by agreement.’Tis your choice.” Richard had not sent back a reply. He couldn’t surrender, not until Catherine and Dickon were safe.