Introduction

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

Prologue

Cornwall, England, September 25, 1497

Pain washed over Catherine in waves of unrelenting agony. She heard herself moan. 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 her lids felt like stones.

“Bury—” voices whispered. “Bury—make haste to bury—make haste—”

Was she dead? Would they bury her while she still breathed, or did she merely imagine that she lived? Help me—save me—Almighty Lord of Heaven! Forgive me my transgressions—

Muffled sobbing came to her, then faded away. She grew aware of the soft chanting of monks. Their song lent her solace, for she knew that wherever she was, it could not be Hell.

“She is full of beauty, even now, even like this,” someone said.

“She has the beauty o’ an angel, though her hair be black as raven’s feathers” Another voice. “God have mercy on her.”

“Of late, ’tis of a pale rose that she makes me think,” a man said sadly. “A pale rose, in a bitter winter’s wind . . .”

The murmurs died away, and the chanting grew louder. Catherine felt raindrops caress her brow. The spasms in her belly faded. Blissful oblivion engulfed her, and she drifted away into the darkness.

When she opened her eyes, a blur of shadows, flames, and arches filled her vision. Church bells chimed the quarter hour, and somewhere a shutter creaked on a hinge as it banged in the wind. A sudden pain made her cry out. She tried to rise and fell back on a rough mattress. A gentle hand settled on her shoulder.

“Nay, child, do not exert yourself,” a voice said. “You are very weak. What you need is rest.” A white wimple framed the wrinkled face, and a large wooden crucifix hung across her black robes.

A nun, thought Catherine. “Where am I?” she whispered. Words required effort, and the nun had to lean close to hear.

“St. Buryan Church, my child. You are safe, for it has the privilege of sanctuary that the Mount does not.”

“Sanctuary?” Catherine managed. Why did she need sanctuary? She grasped the nun’s hand when another spasm seized her, and tried to lift her head.

“You must not strain yourself. ’Tis too early for the babe to come.”

The babe. How could she have forgotten? She dropped back heavily. Church bells began to toll for compline, stirring a vague memory. All at once her mind cleared. “Where is my son?” she cried in a panic, clutching the nun’s sleeve. “Where is my bairn—my Dickon—”

“Fret not, he is safe. Your ladies keep watch over him.”

“I want to see him—I need to see him.”

“He shall be brought to you.”

“What of my lord husband? Has he sent tidings?”

The nun averted her gaze. “All in good time, my child.” She smoothed the girl’s hair back from her brow.

“Is he—did he . . .” She couldn’t finish the dread thought.

“We know nothing. Nothing for sure. Yet.”

“Why am I here, Sister?” Catherine gasped.

“Your lord husband requested that you—” The nun broke off. “He requested that you be transferred here from St. Michael’s Mount—” Again that hesitation. Softly, she added, “In case matters do not go as hoped.”

Even in her condition, Catherine knew that she was not hearing the full truth. She turned her mind back to St. Michael’s Mount.

St. Michael’s Mount.

She closed her eyes.

Part One

September 7th, 1495–

November 23rd, 1499

Chapter One

Twilight on the Mount

“St. Michael’s Mount,” Richard said in awe, his arm around Catherine’s shoulder as they stood together on the deck of his ship, the Cuckoo, huddled beneath his cloak. The wind blew in their faces, whipping his golden curls and her black hair. Above their heads, the banner of the White Rose of York beat wildly.

Catherine followed his gaze to the silhouette of the monastery-fortress rising up from the silvery sea, dark against a narrow crack of gold left by the setting sun. Behind the rocky outcrop curved a strip of land, as if in a protective embrace. The salt taste of the ocean on her lips seemed like wine to her, for Richard’s joy at returning to his fatherland banished her unease. She looked up at her husband’s shining face and laid her hand over his as it rested on her shoulder. Across the distance, the faint chime of abbey bells reached her ears.

“St. Michael’s Mount is a-bidding us welcome,” she said in the lilting Scottish brogue of her native land.

Richard brushed her brow with his lips.

She threw him a loving glance, nestling in his warmth. “Our babe shall be born here. In England. Your land. The land of your fathers.”

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and St. Michael’s Mount was bathed in shades of purple when they drew into the harbor. The families that lived at the foot of the hill had gathered to give them warm welcome with cheering and applause. As soon as they dropped anchor, the men leapt to help them disembark. Richard assisted Catherine from the ship while his men-at-arms sorted out their weapons on the dock and her ladies supervised the arrangement of their belongings on the mules. A groom brought a donkey, and Richard gently helped Catherine onto its back. Catherine’s kinswoman and lady-in-waiting, Alice Hay, took their babe and walked beside them. Little Dickon had already been fed his supper and, thickly swaddled against the wind, had fallen into a sound sleep in his nurse’s arms. Catherine’s lips lifted tenderly as her gaze touched on her child’s sweet form.

Ponderously, by torchlight, they ascended the hundreds of steps hewn into the rock that led to the fortress on the Mount, Richard on foot, leading Catherine’s mule. Behind them trudged their men, their breast plates and pikes glinting in the fading light of day. They had arrived at vespers and the chant of monks floated down from above, bathing them with comfort in the gathering gloom. Massive stones and uneven rocks made the steep climb long and arduous, and the higher they moved, the more ferocious the wind became, but Catherine was oblivious to the hardship. Her gaze was riveted on the view of the sea that unfurled around them, reminding her of an expanse of beautiful silver taffeta waving in welcome. Slowly, she became aware that the monk-song had died away and silence had descended over the fortress. The summit was within reach.

With his silver crucifix gleaming on his chest, the prior waited to receive them by the church steps, much joy in his heart. Beside him stood his little group of four black-clad Benedictines, for the Mount had suffered many setbacks under the House of Lancaster and these few were all it could support. But the abbot was not thinking of his troubles with the Lancastrian King Henry VII now, or even of God; he was thinking that never in his life had he beheld two such beautiful young people with such grace of deportment, one golden as the fields of wheat in summertime; the other with hair that shone like moonlight around large, black-fringed azure eyes.

Richard lifted Catherine from her mount, and they came before him. “In the name of Christ our Lord, we welcome Your Grace, Catherine, Duchess of York, and Your Grace, Richard, Duke of York, true King of England . . .”

The young couple bowed their heads to receive his blessing, and he made the sign of the cross over them. Accompanied by a novice, he led them across the courtyard, up the steps past the Lady Chapel, and through an arched entry into a distant wing of the abbey where stone steps led down again. The novice pulled open a heavy nail-studded door and they passed through a vestibule into a curved tower. Three lovely chambers fanned out before them. Each was crowned with wood beams on the ceiling and had windows to the darkening sea with seats carved into the walls for viewing. Coffers serving as bedside tables were set with ewers and basins, and candles that flickered in welcome.

“These will be your quarters while you are our guests,” the prior said, unable to take his eyes from Catherine’s face. Wondrous fair with chiseled features, milky smooth skin, and a rose blush along the cheekbones, she had a beautiful smile and teeth as perfect as a set of lustrous pearls. He forced himself to look away. “Your men are lodged farther down the hill, my lord, but there is room here for the royal princeling and the duchess’s attendants—Your Grace.” He turned to Catherine again, welcoming the chance to gaze at her once more.

“Thank you, Prior John,” Catherine replied. “After the cramped quarters aboard ship, this space is most welcome.”

“Ah, indeed, indeed . . .” Prior John collected his thoughts and addressed Richard. “We observe the vow of silence at the Mount, and our dinner hour is past, but this being a special occasion, I would be gladdened to partake a cup of wine with you as you sup, Your Grace.”

“We shall be delighted, Prior John,” Richard said.

The rooms filled with bustle and commotion as Catherine’s two ladies went to work settling in. Agatha picked up a ewer and poured water into a basin, and Catherine proceeded to wash, cringing with each icy dab. All the while, her gaze barely left Alice, who carried Dickon into the next room and laid him in his cot. She stood patiently as Agatha freshened the folds and embroidered hem of her tawny sea gown, straightened the flared sleeves of her square-cut bodice, and adjusted her low belt over her hips, but as soon as Agatha had secured her velvet headband and veil over her bound hair, Catherine tiptoed to her babe’s side and laid a kiss on his cheek. She arranged his blanket over him with a tender touch, careful not to awaken him before she left for dinner.

Outside, night was enfolding the world and the wind howled. Giant torches burned in the stone sconces set atop the walkways and their flames danced in the gusty wind. They filed into the chapel, their footsteps whispering reverently against the stone floor, and knelt before the gray marble of the reliquary of the Virgin’s milk. Catherine prayed for Richard’s success in winning back his father’s throne, but even more fervently she begged the Virgin for his safety, and the safety of her wee son, and her babe yet to be born, now five months in the womb. She lit a candle for her mother’s soul and murmured prayers for her father, her four brothers and six sisters, and a special one for her favorite siblings, William and Margaret, left behind in Scotland. She concluded her prayers and made the sign of the cross. Taking Richard’s hand, she left for the refectory, passing Agatha, who remained at her devotions.

The monks’ dining room was a beautiful chamber with windows along two walls. Though sparsely furnished with a long table, benches, and a few chairs, Catherine thought it radiated warmth and welcome. A great fire burned in the small hearth at one end, and from a large copper cook pot emanated the delicious aroma of vegetables and spices that sent her stomach growling with appetite. Beyond the glass, the sea was drenched in the blackness of night, yet the candles that were reflected in the panes cast a warm glow over the darkness outside.

They gave their cloaks over to the novice and took a seat at the rough-hewn table that was already spread out with thick crusty bread, and pewter dishes. A monk stirred the soup, and the novice brought them wine from an earthen flask before moving about the room to complete the final preparations for dinner.

“I pray your journey was not overly strenuous, my lord,” Prior John said when he joined them.

“I fear it was difficult, Father,” Richard said, toying with his mug. “Almost as soon as we left Scotland, we encountered a storm and were forced to take shelter in Ireland. We expected to meet Sir James Ormond while in Cork. As you may know, he is—was—one of our staunchest supporters. But on our arrival there, we learned that he had been murdered.”

A silence fell. The prior leaned close and said, “Murder, terror, Byzantine torture—’tis all we’ve known since the bastard Tudor seized the throne.” He kept his voice low, by force of habit. “He has spies everywhere. One cannot be too careful, even here, in this bastion of the House of York.”

Richard nodded. “King James and I always spoke in whispers, yet it seemed to us that Henry knew our plans even before we knew them ourselves.”

“How was your reception in Ireland?’

“Waterford was hostile, but the people of Cork welcomed us—some for affection, others because they desired change. Tell me about England. How do they feel about us here in the south?”

“Without exception, the Tudor is hated. All he has brought us is fear and taxes. We pray daily for the restoration of your royal father’s line. When you leave here to march against the Tudor, you’ll see the truth of what I say. All Cornwall will rise up to join you.”

“The Cornishmen were cruelly punished for their revolt in June. Dare they rebel again?”

“Their defeat at Black Heath came at heavy cost, aye, but we are a stubborn lot. And you are made in your royal father’s image, God assoil his noble soul. They will flock to your banner.”

“In the north, they ran from me.” Richard’s tone was soft, almost a confession, and his gaze was averted. Catherine’s heart ached for him. She reached beneath the table and placed a gentle hand on his knee.

“If the Tudor is so hated, why did they not join me against him, Father?” he asked, voicing the question that had tormented him since the failure of his northern invasion.

“You came with Scotsmen. We hate the Scots more than we hate even Tudor, but King James did not consider that.”

“James was angry that my people spurned me. He punished them for it. I could not stop him—”

Catherine bit her lip, remembering Richard as he had looked when he’d returned from the invasion. From her high bower she’d seen him gallop up the steep slope of Stirling Castle in the rain with his few men. Flinging himself from the saddle, he’d disappeared into the tower and, moments later, burst into her chamber, disheveled, a look of such anguish on his face that her ladies fled as she and Richard stood and gazed on one another. Someone shut the door and Richard threw himself into a chair. He covered his face with his hands.

“What has happened?” she cried. “Dear God, why are you back so soon? Where is my cousin? Where is the king—tell me James is not dead!”

Richard did not reply. She knelt before him. He dropped his hands and met her eyes. “James is in England, butchering my people.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The invasion failed. They did not rise up for me. He grew angry and gave the order to slay the men and rape the women—he cut them down like animals. He burned their homes. I could not stop him—it was terrible—terrible, Catherine—”

When she finally learned the full narrative of what had happened on that fearful day, she knew Richard was no longer welcome in Scotland. He had to leave, and there was nowhere left to go, except to England to win back his throne. But Richard had been consumed with doubts after the invasion, and it was left to Catherine to persuade him otherwise.

“Never mind what happened! You have the makings of a great king, Richard, for you have a good heart and know what it is to suffer,” she said. “And make no mistake about it—your people are suffering under that tyrant. Only you can save them—England needs you, Richard!”

The thud of boots broke into Catherine’s thoughts and the memories fled. She composed herself and lifted her gaze to Richard’s retinue filing into the refectory. They were led by the old mayor of Cork, silver-haired John O’Water, who had been loyal to King Richard III and the House of York through its many battles for the throne. Almost at the same moment, Agatha and Alice, relieved of her babysitting duty by a monk, entered from the opposite passageway. Amid a crosscurrent of greetings, everyone distributed themselves around the table. Catherine gazed at them, their wee group from the Cuckoo, and the thought struck her hard that their band of supporters had thinned woefully.

They had been left with only a single ship after their little fleet was scattered by the storm off the coast of Ireland, and they did not know where the others had gone, or if they had even survived. Richard had hoped for good tidings, but so far they’d had no word, not even at Land’s End, where he had briefly disembarked to inquire about the rest of his party and set up his standard. He had been welcomed by the Cornishmen, and promises had been made, but his only true hope lay in the men of southern England rising up for him in great numbers to provide him with the army he so desperately needed.

Catherine had not worried about his prospects until recently. So certain had she been all along that the righteousness of his purpose would bring triumph in the end that nothing had shaken her faith until the storm at sea had nearly claimed their lives—and even more important, the life of her precious son. So far she’d managed to keep her thoughts to herself. Richard had enough doubts of his own and needed all the reassurance she could offer, for much had gone against them since they’d set sail from the Scottish port of Ayr.

He will prevail, Catherine told herself. She had to believe that as strongly as she ever did—for everything in the world depended on it now. Around the table, the small party bowed their heads and the prior said grace. Then they spread their napkins, broke bread, and smiled at one another.

***

Catherine closed her eyes. Though she was weary from the day’s hard journey, she had trouble falling asleep. Waves pounded the rocks and the wind howled, reminding her of the tempest that almost sank their ship. The water had not been calm and silver then, but an angry white and frothing like milk. Memory carried her aboard the Cuckoo, and once more she stood peering through the open hatch. Drenched to the skin, his hair matted to his head, Richard shouted to her through the heavy rain, the thunderous roar of the surging sea almost drowning his words, “Go back, go back! Go—’tis not safe here—” In the cabin below deck, lashed to her bunk, she clung to her babe and gritted her teeth so that she would not cry out in terror as the vessel groaned, shuddered, and lurched, sending the bow headlong into the depth of the ocean in one breath, and lifting it up to the sky in the next. Men ran hither and thither overhead, and the creaking of boards and the clamor of their voices mingled together as if in a chorus drawn from Hell. She felt nauseous and dizzy; her stomach churned and she wanted to vomit. Coffers skidded back and forth across the plank floor and horn lanterns suspended from a beam in the ceiling swung wildly. Candles sputtered and went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. She heard Alice and Agatha weeping and moaning in prayer. Holy Mother of God, take not my babe this night—save us, dear Virgin! she pleaded silently as Dickon screamed in her arms. Let my babe live! Let him not die—

A hideous groan rumbled through the vessel and the ship shuddered violently. From above came the pounding of feet and the frantic shouts of men, “Save yourself! All is lost!” A fierce growling sound ripped through the cabin, then a hissing sound. The lumber was splintering, giving way—dear God, water was crashing through the hull! Water was everywhere; blackness was everywhere! She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see—and Dickon was gone—

Catherine bolted upright in bed, panting in terror.

Richard was asleep at her side. The monks were chanting their matins and the waves were crashing against the rocks. She had been dreaming. Relief swept her. Dimly, she wondered why the ship had broken apart in her dream, for if it had, they would not be here now. One thing for certain: it was a miracle they had survived. She sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.

A cold, fresh breeze wafted through the window cracked open for air.

She glanced at Richard. She could just make out his face in the shadows: the thick golden locks, smooth brow, and square jaw with its cleft chin. She let her gaze caress his mouth, bowed with humor even at rest, and linger on the cleft chin she so loved. If he had a physical flaw at all, it was in the dullness of his left eye, which was set lower than the right and had a droop in the crease of the upper lid. But this was the stamp of Plantagenet royalty. Two of his forefathers, Henry III and Edward I, had both borne the same mark.

Richard’s breathing was deep and even. That was good, for too often he slept fitfully and was awakened by evil dreams. She laid her hand lightly on his heart and its steady rhythm brought her as much comfort as the matins being sung to heaven in St. Michael’s Church across the court. She raised up on her elbow and gazed outside. The moon hung like a silver ball in the sky and the sea stretched to the horizon with the uncanny radiance that only moonlight could lend. She thought of Loch Lomond, where she and Richard had spent the honey-sweet early days of their marriage, enfolded by ineffable joy and untouched by the cares that were soon to descend on them. Even then she had known enough to see time as her enemy, and to resent each grain of sand that seeped through their precious hourglass.

Her husband’s peaceful form brought a smile to her face. She had loved Richard from the moment she first beheld him, and later she learned he’d done the same with her. So much had happened to them since that blessed day that she could scarcely believe it was a mere twenty-two months ago. In this short space they had met and married; she had borne one child, and now she carried another. She had shared with her husband the hope of success in claiming the throne rightly his, and had drunk with him the bitter cup of disappointment. Convinced that failure in the north would be erased by victory in the south, she had urged him onward when he’d wished to give up his dream. Then, abandoning kith and kin, she had sailed away with him through storms and disasters until they reached England.

Whenever she looked back, it almost seemed that time had altered its nature at the instant they met on that blessed day, the twenty-third of November in the year 1495, two days before her eighteenth birthday on the Feast of Saint Catherine. Striking from heaven like a bolt of lightning, it had borne her up and rushed her along on a glittering beam of light. With a clarity she knew time would never erase, she saw herself again in the courtyard at Stirling Castle, pearls in her dark hair, the king’s rich gift of a gown of crimson velvet, silk, and brocade adorning her tall figure. Once again she heard the blaring trumpets announce the royal arrival of King James IV of Scotland and Prince Richard of England . . .

***

The skies were blue as thistle, and the birds were atwitter at their first taste of sun in many days. Excitement pulsed through her as she awaited King Edward’s son, thought to have perished in the Tower of London at the hands of his uncle, King Richard III. Since her mother had been Annabella Stewart, sister to James II, and her father, George Gordon, Earl of Huntly, the most powerful magnate besides the king himself, she stood in the preeminent place of honor on the crenellated parapet overlooking the castle entrance, her heart pounding with anticipation as she craned her neck for a better view.

Ever since the news had blazed and thundered across Europe that King Edward’s younger son still lived, she had listened with rapture to the tidings about the handsome Yorkist prince. The stories of his life resembled an Arthurian legend and never failed to touch her heart, so filled were they with romance, danger, and melancholy. Taken from his native land as a child and hidden among strangers, the lost little prince had wandered from one land to the next as he grew into manhood. At the age of eighteen he had cast off his disguise and come before his aunt, Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy. She had acknowledged him to all the world as her nephew, the younger of the two princes in the Tower, and hailed him as King Richard IV of England.

From Margaret’s court the prince had gone to France, seeking King Charles’s support against the Tudor, Henry VII, who had usurped his father’s throne. But the Tudor mounted an invasion of France at a most inopportune time for Charles, and the French king was forced to make peace with England. As a condition of the treaty, Charles banished Prince Richard from his realm and withdrew his pledge of support.

From there the prince went with Maximilian, King of the Romans, to meet the pope while his Aunt Margaret tried to obtain the support of Spain for his invasion. But the Tudor had paid the pope to refuse his blessing, and Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain had just betrothed their daughter, Katarina, to Tudor’s son, Prince Arthur. While they, too, secretly acknowledged the wandering prince as the true King of England, they would not commit to helping him regain his throne. It was then that Margaret wrote Catherine’s cousin James, pleading for his assistance. James, taken with the inequity of Prince Richard’s predicament, agreed to make the prince’s cause his own.

And so it was that Catherine found herself in this shining castle drawn from the pages of Camelot with its pointed turrets and walls brightly painted with “King’s Gold” awaiting the arrival of the fabled prince. Bugles blew, and music flooded the air. Minstrels appeared, clad in brightly colored hose, their pipes trailing ribbons of crimson, scarlet, and gold, and cheers erupted in a deafening roar, for King James and Prince Richard had ridden into view in the castle gateway.

Her glance touched on her cousin, King James. Though he was as handsome as any chivalrous knight from the tales of Camelot, he could not compete with the golden splendor of the young prince beside him. Clad in a white silk doublet, a furred cape around his shoulders, and a beaver hat on his sunny hair, Richard, Duke of York, cantered in on a pale war-horse, a hand resting on his hip, a smile on his lips. She gasped; he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. Over the heads of the leaping musicians and dancers waving ribbons in the air, the prince lifted his head and their eyes met. In that instant, she heard no sound, took no breath, made no movement; she stood rooted to the parapet, and her heart, like a wild bird suddenly freed from captivity, took wing and flew to him.

During the ensuing weeks, day and night lost their measure and it seemed to Catherine that time had fractured into a thousand splinters of rainbow hues as it bore her along on its beam of light. An aura of mystery and romance clung to Prince Richard. He’d been to faraway places, and had met kings, doges, and popes, and the tales of his adventures mesmerized her.

At the dances that followed and the joust where Prince Richard asked to wear her colors, she lived in an enchantment not of this world. But when he told her that he loved her, and when her father blessed their match and King James bestowed his consent, she realized the full meaning of joy. Her only disappointment was that their wedding had to be postponed to the month of January, after Advent, for the season of Yuletide was upon them.

“I cannot wait—” Richard had whispered in her ear between hot, feverish kisses stolen one December night in a dark corner of the private royal garden.

“Neither can I!” she whispered back, burning with fire and faint with passion. “Tonight—meet me tonight—I’ll get away—somehow!”

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. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

(1) After reading PALE ROSE OF ENGLAND, do you believe Richard/Perkin really was Richard of York? If so, tell us why. If not, list your reasons.

(2) What do you think of King Henry and his treatment of Richard? What is King Henry’s political philosophy? Do you agree with him, or disagree? Explain your reasons. Is peace at any price ever justified?

(3) How did Catherine survive after what King Henry did to her child? Why was the child a threat if the father was really a boatman’s son? What do you think of King Henry for his actions? Are they justifiable, or not?

(4) Henry sends Catherine an intimate gift which she sends back to him. Do you think this was wise? Do you admire her for spurning the king’s advances, or do you believe she should have applied the old adage “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”? Do you think she could have helped Richard by playing along with Henry, rather than rejecting him?

(5) After Richard’s death, Catherine marries three more times for love. How do you feel about this? What do you think it says about her love for Richard? What do you think it says about her as a person?

(6) Why is Catherine driven to desperate lengths when Henry VII proposes to her? How does she find a way out? What do you think of her for doing what she did? Do you condemn her for her ruse and using King Henry’s superstitions against him? What would you do if you were in her position?

(7) Catherine endures a great deal of heartache and loses her faith. How does she find it again? What keeps her going?

(8) Which one of her four husbands do you like best? Give your reasons.

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Sandra Worth's web site
»	Full Excerpt of Prologue and Chapter One

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