Virginia Henley (54 page)

Cat took out her colored chalks and experimented on the sketches she’d drawn. “This deep shade of blue is so vibrant and would be a glorious contrast to your blond hair. I know! Why don’t we call it royal blue, Your Highness?”

“Royal blue? I like that! You are so inventive, Catherine.”

“And the ladies who attend you in Westminster Abbey could all have matching gowns in soft powder blue.”

The only dissenting voice was Margretha’s, and when Anne overruled her, Catherine tried not to look smugly triumphant, though she certainly felt it.

Anne saw some of her ladies from Scotland whispering in a corner and, thinking to stem some petty rivalry, she demanded to know what the problem was.

Lady Erskine stepped forward. “Your Highness, I don’t wish to cause alarm, but there is talk of
plague
in London.”

Philadelphia spoke up quickly. “That is a common occurrence in London. Every summer there are a few cases of plague reported.”

Isobel added, “It only occurs among the lower classes in the slums. The Royal Court is never endangered by the contagion.”

Later that day, conversing with James, the queen realized that the king was greatly alarmed at the reports of plague. In an effort to calm him, she repeated what Isobel had said about it not endangering the Royal Court.

“Oh, aye, that’s why Elizabeth deserted London every summer on her endless
progresses
tae her nobles’ country estates!”

“When the coronation is over, perhaps we should remove the Court to the castle at Windsor. I don’t much care for Whitehall. It’s such a ramshackle old palace, and far too close to the rabble.” As an added incentive, she said, “The hunting in Windsor’s forests is reputed to be unsurpassed.”

The following week, Arbella Stuart flounced into Catherine’s chambers to voice her frustration. “I’m so vexed, I could scream! Will Seymour invited me to attend a play at the Globe Theatre next Wednesday, but now I hear that by order of the king all the playhouses have been closed!”

“It’s to stop the spread of plague. Robert Cecil is ordering that the city gates be closed today to keep out the ‘unruly infected.’ Did you not see this notice?” Cat handed her a pamphlet. “King James has ordered that these be distributed, advising everyone of the best medical cures.”

“Too bad the masses canno’ read,” Maggie said dryly.

Arbella waved her pomander. “I cannot be infected. I carry rue and wormwood at all times. Closing the city is preposterous!”

“The king and Cecil intend keeping the city free from contagion for the coronation. Hundreds of English and Scottish nobles are in London for the celebration. It’s a wise precaution, Arbella.”

Catherine did not tell her friend that one of her aunt Beth’s servants at Hunsdon House in Blackfriars had died of the plague and that they’d had to bury her in secret. Such tidings must be kept from the ears of the Royal Court, or panic would ensue and ruin the king and queen’s coronation. Cat had promised Philadelphia that she would keep her mouth shut, but as a result her conscience began to prick her sorely.

At Crichton, in spite of the fact that Patrick was kept busy from dawn till dusk and beyond, his thoughts began to nettle him. Hepburn, never, ever, bothered by conscience, denied that he even had one. But Catherine was constantly in his thoughts, and sometimes she evoked the feeling that he was in the wrong.

It opened a tiny crack in his façade and as loneliness assailed him in the long hours of the night, he acknowledged that he missed her. Sleeping alone was like torture. The feel of the sheets against his flesh provoked such raw lust for his wife’s body that he was in a constant state of arousal. Finally, though, Hepburn was forced to admit that this wasn’t the heart of the matter. Over and above the sex and the passion, the thing that he missed the most, the thing that he yearned for, was the warm intimacy he and Catherine shared.

He quit the bed though the first glimmer of dawn was still hours away, and began to pack his saddlebags. It was July; Jock Elliot would be returning from Border patrol today, and Patrick had grown so restless that he was glad it was his turn to ride with his moss-troopers. He knew he must train Ian Hepburn as a captain to lead the men during the times that he would be absent in England. Patrick was eager to ride the dales to see first-hand how the Border residents of both countries were adjusting to one king, one law, for all. He was realistic enough to know that bitter feuds among the riding families that had gone on for centuries could not be brought to a peaceful resolution overnight. It would take an iron hand, fair and even justice, coupled with patience and perseverance, to attain neutrality, let alone harmony.

Hepburn and his moss-troopers found Midlothian trouble free, as Jock Elliot had reported. Its inhabitants were educated, and because of its close proximity to the capital of Edinburgh, the Scots there were knowledgeable about the king’s longstanding ambition to unite the two countries.

Patrick warned his men, “Many in Teviotdale, Eskdale and Liddesdale are only vaguely aware that there will be inevitable, sweeping changes, and most are ignorant of English law. It will be our job to educate them.”

Whenever they saw posses of men riding the dales, Hepburn stopped and engaged them in conversation. He explained that it would no longer be tolerated if they rode into England for plunder. “King James has appointed Percy and Clifford to enforce peace. Their men have authority to hang on the spot any caught thieving, looting, burning or reiving anywhere in the Border-lands.

“As a Scot, I’ll do all I can to stop injustice and atrocity. Past crimes will be overlooked if you start fresh today. You must take responsibility, disarm and abide by the laws of the land.”

Some Borderers listened, despite the dark surly looks on their faces, but others were ready to fight, determined to kill the messenger. In these cases Hepburn and his moss-troopers were quick to break a few bones or set a stern example with an occasional hanging. Hepburn hammered home the same message throughout the dales. “Those who resist the king’s law will have to go, either by exile or by the gallows. The choice is yours.”

Long hours in the saddle and nights by campfires, lying on the hard ground, gave Patrick Hepburn’s mind the freedom to roam. His thoughts were consumed more and more by Catherine. He knew that by now she would have returned to Court. His mouth curved into a cynical smile.
The little hellcat won’t be thinking of me. Her only thought will be which gown to wear for the royal coronation!

He threw a heavy log onto the campfire, then stretched his long limbs on the ground and stared up at the star-filled July sky. Patrick knew he could conjure her image if he wanted. Until now he had resisted the temptation. Tonight, however, the desire to see her was irresistible.
Just a glimpse,
he promised himself.

The sound of the horses tethered to the nearby trees faded away along with the murmured laughter and curses of the moss-troopers who sat dicing in the firelight. Gradually, he envisioned a room and recognized it as his own chambers at Whitehall. He focused on the polished silver mirror, knowing Cat could not long resist her own image. A voice, faint at first, came to him from afar. He sensed it was Catherine’s, long before the words became audible.

“I know I swore off white, but the heat is so oppressive, I cannot bring myself to wear anything else tomorrow.”

A vision in white silk, with white roses entwined in her shining black hair, materialized in the mirror. Her stunning beauty and elegance robbed him of breath. He stared, mesmerized, at her delicate loveliness. She was luminescent, as if lit from within, as Maggie made a last-minute alteration with her needle. Cat’s voice, breathless with excitement, sent a frisson of pleasure curling about his innards. She struck a pose and asked Maggie, “What do you think?”

“I think I’m in love,” Patrick whispered.

The vision of Catherine faded, but his words hung in the air, suspended like an echo in the night. He jumped up and strode away from his men and the firelight into the darkness, ostensibly to check on the horses, but in reality to resurrect the shield that guarded his vulnerability.

After a short period of seclusion, he began to examine the words he had uttered aloud.
What prompted me to say such a thing?

That’s a glib answer—a shallow answer.
He allowed his mind to delve below the surface, warily penetrating the layers of protection he had built up over the years. Then he forced it deeper, to where his emotions lay hidden.

Hepburn’s head had always been at war with his heart, and each battle fought and won reinforced his tough façade, submerging his more tender feelings. Now, for the first time, he realized that if he could not acknowledge the truth, at least to himself, he was not demonstrating his strength; he was revealing his weakness.

His head had always insisted that love was a useless emotion indulged only by women and fools. Love was also dangerous; his mother had died because of it. But now he realized that love might not be something you chose. Perhaps love was so powerful that it did the choosing. Though he had resisted, he finally admitted that love had conquered. For a man who always had to be in control, it was a humbling revelation.

Hepburn walked back into the firelight, wondering why it had taken so long for him to accept the truth. He looked down at the scar on his hand and chuckled.
Like a terrier, Catherine bites above her weight. She is special. She has that rare quality of being vulnerable and also being strong—it’s like a fragile crust.

He looked down at his large boots and his long limbs encased in soiled scuffed leather. He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble of his unshaven chin and marveled that such an uncouth brute had managed to wed a delicate lady whose ethereal beauty and elegance made other females seem plain and dowdy. And whose fire and passion had captured his heart and soul.

Hepburn decided on the spot that at the end of the month, when his Border patrol was done, he would return to England. He had no idea how he would do it, but he knew he must convince Catherine that he loved her.
Nay, more, I must show her that I adore and worship her. She is my treasure!

 

In Westminster Abbey, Catherine sat between her mother and Philadelphia. Liz Carey was not present. Because of the threat of plague, the queen had ordered that her children take up residence at Windsor Castle, a safe twenty miles from London.

Only by craning her neck could Catherine catch glimpses of the ancient and historic crowning ceremony of the new King and Queen of England. The pageantry, if not James himself, was spectacular. The royal couple had ridden to the abbey in a gilt coach, and the sweating throngs of Londoners who lined the streets jostled and gaped as the parade of monarchs and mounted nobles passed, though few cheered until the Yeomen of the Guard, plodding along in the stifling heat, came into view.

Inside the abbey, the pulpit was arrayed with cushions and cloths of gold silk where James and Anne were now kneeling. As the Archbishop of Canterbury said the orison over the king, Philadelphia yawned. Isobel, fanning herself frantically, cast her a glance of pointed disapproval, but before the archbishop droned to a close, she was yawning herself.

With the aid of the Abbot of Westminster, James and Anne were anointed, and then the Archbishop of Canterbury put the Crown of St. Edward on James Stuart’s head and took his oath. The Consort’s Crown was then placed on Anne’s head. Catherine thought of the queens who had worn this crown before Anne. They had been the wives of Henry VIII, and in spite of the heat Cat shivered.

King James took the rod and scepter from the archbishop, and then Anglican mass was celebrated. A few fainted in the hot, close atmosphere, but most simply nodded off from the soporific heat. During the sacrament, however, something happened to jolt the congregation awake. Queen Anne refused the offering of bread and wine. There was a commotion when Jamie ordered his wife to take the sacrament. Anne adamantly refused, and England’s new monarch went red in the face. The archbishop moved on to serve the nobles, and shocked whispers spread throughout the pews.

Back at Whitehall, Cat stripped off her dress and told Maggie what had happened as she took a cool sponge bath.

“That’s an omen!”

“Philadelphia said it was a good sign. Anne showed that women don’t have to blindly obey their husbands. And I agree!”

“In the kitchens, the English servants are blaming this plague on James. They say he has incurred the wrath of God by taking the throne. But the Scots are saying that God is making England atone for the sins committed by the previous reign. Either way, the coronation celebrations will be short-lived.”

“I think you’re right Maggie. They didn’t want people to panic before the coronation could take place, but Lord Scrope says that tomorrow Cecil will issue new orders. The infected must be isolated. Anyone found on the streets with a plague sore will be whipped from the city. Any who willfully pollute the air and infect others can be condemned as murderers and hanged. Searchers are being sent out to keep the infected out of the city.”

“I was talking to Rose, one of the cooks. She said farmers have stopped bringing in produce. She was sent into London to buy food and saw scores of red crosses over doorways and heard the death knell ringing constantly. ’Tis already in the city, my lamb.”

Arbella knocked on the door and Maggie let her in.

“Aren’t you ready yet, Cat? The banquet will be over before you are even dressed!”

“We were discussing the dreaded bubonic plague. It’s already spread into the city. The contagion could come to Whitehall.”