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  He knew that Henry referred to him as “the boatman’s son, Perkin Warbeck.” Still, he must know that Richard was who he claimed to be. Challenges were issued to equals, not to rebels or those of inferior rank. But that scarcely mattered anymore. Taunton Castle was little more than a fortified house. The place had no roof, nor a wall around it or the town. It was entirely indefensible. If he was killed tomorrow—as he surely would be—what would become of Catherine?

  “My lord,” said a scout.

  Richard glanced up. He could barely make out the man with his bleary eyes, for he hadn’t slept in twenty hours, or eaten all day, except for a single crust of dry bread.

  “Lord Daubeney has left London with the royal army and is nineteen miles away. The Tudor king is also on the march from Woodstock with ten thousand troops equipped with knights and many guns. We estimate Daubeney will arrive to give battle early tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow morning—Saint Matthew’s Day; the twenty-first of September. Next week would be Dickon’s first birthday. Richard gave the man a nod, and he withdrew. When Richard looked up again, Astley stood before him. “How can God have turned His face against us so, Astley?” Richard demanded in a voice hoarse with emotion.

  Astley made no reply. His councilors filed into the miserable chamber. Richard stood to address them.

  Chapter 4

  Eye of the Storm

  Catherine heard herself moaning, but the sound came to her dimly, as if from someone else across a far distance. Where was she, and where was she going, she wanted to ask, but only dull cries issued from her lips. She tried to open her eyes, but she could not lift her lids; they felt like stones.

  “Bury—” voices whispered. “Bury—hurry to bury—hurry—”

  Perhaps she was dead. Would they bury her while she still breathed, or did she merely imagine that she lived?

  With a scream of terror, she awoke to find herself in the monastery infirmary. She had been dreaming of her journey to St. Buryan again. She blinked and looked around her at the stone wall and the single high-barred window that afforded a view of a patch of sky. Across from her straw pallet hung a crucifix with an image of the suffering Christ, and below the crucifix sat a nun, murmuring over her rosary. “I’m in sanctuary,” she whispered aloud. “I had forgotten.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Agatha rose from a stool and came to her side. “You are safe.”

  Catherine tried to sit up, but Agatha restrained her with a gentle touch. “Not yet, my lady. There has been bleeding. You must lay still.”

  Catherine grabbed her hand in panic. “Is my babe all right?”

  “’Tis too soon to know, my lady. The monks are preparing a potion for you. Meanwhile you must rest.”

  “But where is my wee one, Dickon—and what of my Lord Richard? Has news come yet?”

  Agatha exchanged a look with the nun and lowered her lids. “The lord master is with Alice, and he is well. He is sleeping—” How could she tell her the rest? It was too terrible. Outmanned and outprovisioned, the duke had no chance. No doubt he was already dead.

  “Where is everyone—where is John O’Water? Why did we leave the Mount—I’ve forgotten . . .” Catherine managed to rise on an elbow. Pain exploded in her belly, and she dropped back down on the pallet, gasping for breath.

  “There, there, my lady—try not to move—” Agatha was grateful that these questions were ones she could answer. “The lord duke wanted you taken to Burgundy, but since you were too ill to travel, they brought you here, to St. Buryan’s. Alice is at mass, and John O’Water—he’s away right now. We know not when he will be back.” It was not a lie. He had sailed to Burgundy with the crew of the Cuckoo as soon as weather had permitted. And who knew? He might return one day. “Now rest, m’lady. I will fetch you something to eat. Sister will watch over you until I get back.”

  Catherine grabbed her hand. “Dickon—pray, bring me Dickon. I need to see him.”

  So Richard had been preparing to give battle to Daubeney. She had lost count of the days, but surely news of Richard’s battle at Taunton would arrive soon. Until then, she would pray for his victory.

  Finally the door flew open and little Dickon toddled forward on his unsteady little legs. Catherine stretched out her arms to him.

  “Mama, Mama!” he beamed. “Mama.”

  Oh, what a wondrous sight he was! How piercing sweet was his voice after so long an absence! Only he could make her smile in darkness. “Come to me, my precious . . .”

  Laughing, Dickon took her hand and snuggled down at her side. Catherine kissed his brow and silken hair, taking care not to brush his lips with her own, in case it should pass on her sickness. “Have you been well?”

  He nodded his golden curls. “Pay.”

  Catherine chuckled. “That is good. ’Tis always good to play, my sweet.” She devoured him with her eyes and traced his face tenderly with her finger. She never wanted to forget his feel, his smell, the way he looked at this moment. She wanted to remember it for all eternity, even when he was grown.

  A knock came at the door. The sister bowed reverently when she saw who it was.

  “Lady Catherine,” said the abbot, looking with great pity on the figure of mother and child nestling together on the pallet. “The king’s messengers have arrived with news of great import to relate. Will you receive them here?”

  Catherine’s smile vanished. Fear stopped her heart for an instant, and then it took on a frenzied beating. Why the king’s men? Why not Richard’s messenger? Dear God—

  She passed Dickon to Alice. News of this import could not be brought here; she had to stand. She had to dress. “By your leave, I will receive them in the Chapter House shortly.”

  The abbot gave a nod.

  After leaving Taunton, Richard and his men tore through the black night, the flaming torches they carried casting fearsome shadows around them. Daubeney’s army was miles away, but though Richard could not hear or see it, he felt it with every beat of his pounding heart and every sore sinew of his body. No part of the landscape could be trusted in the darkness. The hedges he flew past might harbor enemies, and the thistles in the field might be men lying low, bristling with weapons. In a flash, they could loom up and cut his troops down. He did not pause, even for a moment. He had to get to St. Michael’s Mount before Henry Tudor’s men. That meant riding back by the shortest possible route.

  His council did not offer opposition once they realized his decision was made. The battle was as good as lost and he had chosen family over country. Through moors, misty forests, and rolling chalk terrain they sped, often with no track to guide them. As day broke over the land, Richard and his small band of men, exhausted and out of breath, halted in Exmoor Forest and regrouped.

  A scout, who’d been sent into Tiverton, galloped back within an hour with grim news he’d picked up in an inn. “We cannot go south by road or sea!” he cried. “King Henry’s sent ships from Lyme Regis to Exeter to Barnstable. His men guard the roads. We’re cut off in all directions.”

  Richard had no intention of accepting defeat. “There has to be a way! There’s always a way.” He spread his worn map on the rough ground. Southampton had water and ships, and it offered the sanctuary of Beaulieu, in case—God forfend!—of desperate need. “If we can’t go south or north, we’ll fool Tudor and go west. To Southampton. He can’t be guarding every port in England! From Southampton, we’ll take ship to St. Michael’s Mount.”

  “We are too many,” Nicholas Astley said, gazing around at the weary party of sixty men, drooping in their saddles and leaning against the trees. “We can’t all fit in one small ship, and we don’t have enough money for a large one.”

  “You’re right,” said Richard. “We’ll attract attention in the towns. We have no choice—we must split up and try to make our own way.”

  As rain pelted them and thunder rolled, Richard’s chaplain, William Lounde, prayed over the men. Then, in a secluded corner where they would not be overheard, he took Richa
rd’s confession.

  “What I did—leaving those men at Taunton—can God ever forgive me, Father?” Richard demanded with tortured eyes.

  “God understands and forgives all sins, if penance is done.”

  “What kind of penance will absolve me, Father?”

  “God will send it to you. You will recognize it when it comes.”

  “I will embrace it,” Richard said, his voice choked by emotion.

  It took Richard and his men less than two days to reach Southampton in a journey that should have taken a well-horsed man at least three. Weary, hungry, and cold, they arrived in the early morning as church bells rang for prime, but their spirits fell at the sight that met their eyes. They had not known a city wall protected the harbor, and now the water gate was shut against all traffic and the docks were all but deserted. With their hats pulled low over their eyes, they made careful inquiries about passage aboard ship and learned that King Henry had ordered no ships to dock until further notice.

  “There’s naught to be done. We must go to Beaulieu and seek sanctuary,” Nicholas Astley said as they huddled near an inn. “It’ll buy us time to devise a plan.”

  “Time we don’t have!” Richard exclaimed. “Soon Henry Tudor’s men will be at the Mount.”

  “There is naught that can be done about it, my lord,” said Astley.

  “You’re wrong. There is something—” Richard turned to the one man who was not a member of his council. “Roger, take a message to the prior of St. Michael’s Mount. Tell him I want my lady wife and child moved to St. Buryan.” He pulled off his gold ring from his finger. “Give him this and he’ll know it’s from me that you come.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Roger whispered. He mounted and spurred his horse to the west road. They watched him gallop away.

  John Heron, a mercer and the second member of Richard’s threeman council, turned to his fellow Yorkists. “Poor Roger, he’ll get no food this day either,” he sighed. “But mayhap we can buy bread and ale to eat on the way to Beaulieu? If only one of us went in, we wouldn’t attract much attention.”

  “As long as it’s not the duke. Forgive me, my lord, but you don’t look much like a peasant,” Edward Skelton said. He was a mercer and the third member of Richard’s council.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Richard smiled wanly.

  “There’s naught we can do about your hair—though the rain’s helped darken it a bit—but the larger problem is that you carry yourself like a prince, my lord,” Nicholas Astley said. “A peasant has not such erect shoulders and regal deportment. You need to sag your back as though you’ve been carrying sacks of potatoes all your life.”

  Richard did as Astley suggested.

  “Good—but not enough. Here, let us show you . . .” The miller, the mercer, and the scrivener all helped to round his neck and shoulders. “Better.”

  “Let us not forget they’re going to be on the lookout for strangers.” Skelton stole a glance at the inn.

  “Can’t be helped,” Astley replied. “We need food. We haven’t eaten in two days.”

  “Starving I am, and a round of sausage would be as welcome right now as salvation itself,” John Heron agreed.

  “Then you go in, John. I’ll see to the horses. Sire, how much money have we?” Astley asked when Richard made no reply.

  Richard opened his velvet pouch and checked his coins. “The royal sum of twelve crowns.”

  Astley’s face paled.

  “What?” demanded Richard. “Surely that’ll buy us a bit of sausage? Prices can’t be that high merely because we’re near London.”

  “The velvet—’tis a dead giveaway,” Astley said in a hoarse whisper.

  Richard stilled his hands as if he touched fire. He emptied the purse and slipped the coins to Astley. Casting a furtive glance around and seeing no one, he bent down and scooped up some horse manure with the pouch. At a nearby rubbish heap, he took a few moments to bury it from sight before returning to his band of riders. “There, that should take care of it.”

  “Best we not stop here,” Astley said abruptly. “I don’t have a good feeling about this place. Let’s look for an inn closer to Beaulieu.”

  No one gave him argument. They mounted, and turned their horses north.

  Astley didn’t realize that his sudden discomfort had sound cause. A face had been watching them from an upstairs window across the street. The band of four horsemen looked out of place to the man, though his town was used to rowdy foreign types. And what was it they scrutinized in their hands?

  When the horsemen left, he went downstairs and into the street. He had to know what was important enough to bury so deep in a rubbish heap.

  Dusk had fallen when Richard and his three councilors reached New Forest. In the gathering gloom, they rode hard for Beaulieu Abbey, home to the monks of the Cistercian order. Founded by King John, it was one of the few abbeys in England that offered permanent sanctuary, not merely within the church but over the entire perimeter of the land inside the walls. The abbot didn’t answer to any bishop or king, only to the pope himself, and the laws of sanctuary were strongly enforced. Beaulieu also had a water gate that afforded access to ships in the river, for the monks had the right to trade in wool.

  “Once we’re there, we’ll await our chance to escape by ship. With God’s help, you’ll see Flanders soon,” Astley said to Richard as they galloped up to the twelve-foot walls that protected the abbey. Drawing rein before the outer gatehouse, they pounded on the doors.

  “Open up, in God’s name!”

  A head popped out of the gatehouse. “Who’s there?”

  “We want sanctuary!”

  After a silence, the heavy door creaked open. Ahead stood another gatehouse, even larger and more fortified.

  “Sanctuary seekers!” the porter called out to the monk manning the Great Gatehouse. That gate swung open, this time with a loud grating sound of metal.

  They galloped inside. Richard exhaled with relief. Safe at last! He had not realized until this moment how tense he was. He dismounted and waited in the open courtyard for a monk, for they had arrived at vespers and the community was at prayers. Listening to the monk-song helped soothe Richard’s troubled heart, though the smell of the dangerous world outside still enfolded his nostrils. At last, a lay brother appeared, clad in black. He led them inside, where a white-robed monk sat at a desk in a vestibule, with pen, paper, and a small chest set neatly before him.

  “In seeking sanctuary, you must first give up your weapons,” the monk said. He waited until the four men had unbuckled their swords and set them on the table. “There is also a fee of two shillings for each of you.”

  Astley removed his soiled leather pouch from inside his shirt, and counted out the coins. “There’s another four pence for recording your name in the register.”

  As Astley, John Heron, and Edward Skelton complied, Richard felt himself turn pale. He bit his lip.

  “Your name?” demanded the clerk.

  Richard swallowed hard. “Piers . . . Osbeck,” he managed. He wondered if the clerk who regarded him so strangely knew that he lied. He glanced at Astley, and was relieved to see approval on his face. He had done the right thing. “Perkin Warbeck,” a version of his childhood identity, had been widely circulated by Henry Tudor and was closely associated with the Pretender.

  “Piers . . . Osbeck,” the monk repeated, recording the name. He scattered sand to dry the ink and gathered his papers. “First you will be taken to the lavatorium. After you have washed, you will be shown your quarters in the lay area of the abbey, where you will don the black habit of the lay community. You will not mingle with the fully ordained monks, those in white, either for eating or sleeping. You have separate facilities for prayer also, and will use separate doors to enter the church. Brother Roger will take you to your dormitory.” He nodded to the black-clad lay brother who waited by the door.

  Later, at mass, Richard was relieved to have his face hidden by his hood, for his mis
ery was acute. Now that he felt safe and had time to think, it was Taunton that filled him with torment. Torchlight flickered in the passageways of the beautiful abbey, but in their shadows he saw the faces of those he had deserted, and of Catherine, whom he had dishonored by his flight, and of his babe, whom he loved and could not kiss, and now might never know. He knelt in the chapel and pressed his palms together.

  That night, Richard tossed and turned on his straw pallet, too tortured by memories of the past and by the uncertainties of the future to find rest. He wondered how his companions could sleep. Because they have courage, and I have none, he thought, overcome with shame.

  The next morning, after services, Richard walked the grounds with his small party, telling his beads and hiding his thoughts as they looked for ways they might escape. The sight of ships passing on the river heartened them, but it was autumn, and no tall wheat fields weaved in the wind to hide a fugitive making for the riverbank. His heart lightened somewhat to see the river come almost to the abbey walls at high tide, leaving behind seaweed when it receded.

  “We shall have to leave in the dark of night,” whispered Astley under his breath, “so take note of the rise and fall of the land.” Richard nodded. Since monasteries never truly slept, eyes would be watching. They fell silent as a laborer passed them, and again when a lay brother approached.

  When it was safe to speak, Richard asked, “How much money do we have left?”

  “Ten crowns,” replied Astley.

  “Barely enough to buy ship’s passage, or a bribe,” murmured Edward Skelton. “We’ll have to devise how we can stow away.”

  “We can help load the ships,” offered John Heron.

  “No, we’re sanctuary seekers,” Astley replied thoughtfully. “We’d be watched too carefully to slip past that way, even if they let us help, which I doubt.”

  They took their meals, sang their hymns, and chanted their prayers while around them servants toiled at their chores, sweeping floors, picking fruit, carrying sacks of flour and goods to the kitchen, feeding the animals and weeding the flower beds. After vespers, they went to their dormitory. They had not yet devised a plan that might work. “Maybe something will come to us in the morning,” John sighed.