Chapter 10

Richard didn't expect King Henry to haunt his sleep that night.

The Earl of Warwick, yes. He had tried to woo the daughter of a man he'd killed. It was an unsuccessful wooing, granted, but that was entirely due to Katherine Bly popping up where she wasn't meant to be. She had simply thrown him and delayed his plan. So he wouldn't have been at all surprised if Warwick or the supposed Prince Edward had come to torment his dreams.

But he had never dreamt of Henry VI before.

Henry floated in and sat in Richard's chair, looking more regal than he had in life. Richard waited for the inevitable violence that characterized such dreams. But Henry simply regarded him.

"Why hast thou come?" Richard finally asked.

"Hast thou ever thought what Purgatory might be like?" Henry asked. "Myself, I imagined flames, though not so hot as in Hell." Richard had never allowed himself to think about what might await him in the next world. "But in some ways, 'tis harder. 'Tis full of mirrors. Mirrors that show a man's life with a clarity he never possessed in this world. So he knows himself for the first time."

Richard disliked mirrors, but thought they still might be preferable to flames.

"When I looked, I saw my piety for what it was," Henry continued. "Much of it was an avoidance of the difficulties of this world. I thought I was keeping myself pure by withdrawing into prayer. Instead, my neglect of duty allowed others to do great harm that I might have prevented. If I had been a better king, thou would not have killed me.

"Not that that absolves thee, or so many others. We speak of the stars, but men may choose among the paths they have set. Thy father chose proud ambition, and I believe he is still gazing into what it wrought."

"The Duke of York is in Purgatory, then," Richard answered. "And Edmund?"

"Like most children, he had little time to heap up great sins," Henry said, not unkindly. "I am told he has been set free."

"That is well," Richard responded. "And what hast thou come to tell me? That my sins are so black that I shall never receive even the cold comfort of mirrors?"

"I wish to tell thee thus. But that it my love of my own righteousness speaking, not God. This is my last task before I too may ascend."

"What task?" Richard demanded.

"To tell thee that God has offered thee two paths. One, laid by ambition prouder and bloodier than thy father's, leads to the ruin not only of thyself, but of every man bearing the name Plantagenet. The other ends with thee an old man, comforted by a devoted wife in his last days."

Richard scoffed. "Devoted wife. Thou hast come to mock me, then."

"Sometimes I know not whether to hate thee or to pity thee for the self-hatred thou imbibed with thy mother's milk," Henry mused. "At the moment, I feel both things at war in me. I should like to be free of such strife. And soon, I shall be. I have delivered the message."

"And how would I know these paths if I saw them?"

"Thou hadst a glimpse tonight."

"Here? Now?"

"Earlier. Mayhap God thought thou didst not understand the message, and for that reason set me this task."

"Earlier." Richard shook his head. "And why, pray tell, is God suddenly concerned with the fate of my soul?"

"A man's evil never falls only upon his own head. A murderer forces others to become murderers to stop him." Henry paused. "And our Lord did tell us that not even a sparrow could fall without His knowledge. Perhaps every soul is of great import to him. But most are not tempted to the extremities of sin that thou wilt be." He rose. "Thou hast been forewarned. What thou dost next is thine to choose."

It was a dream, of course, with no more meaning than any other, Richard told himself the next morning. Still – was it possible? No, no. Nature had made it so that no devoted wife would ever comfort him. And he had forsaken God, of his own free will, calling on Hell to free him from the torment of his unfulfilled desires. Henry's shape was nothing more than a weak part of himself that didn't dare face the tasks before it.

And yet, he had to concede, it never would have occurred to him that Purgatory might be full of mirrors.

00000000

"Try to be at peace with everyone, as far as right will allow thee."

How many times had Thomas told her that when she was growing up and ready to quarrel with the stable boys over some trifle? Dozens? But he hadn't been able to tell her what to do when being at peace with some meant being at war with others.

That was no fault of his – neither of them had expected she would be a lady-in-waiting.

She had been avoiding the Duke of Buckingham ever since he suggested she might use her friendship with Anne to aid Gloucester's suit. She had said no, even though her knees knocked. One did not refuse a duke's command lightly. But right would not allow Kate to manipulate Anne into a marriage she clearly did not desire, even if she possessed the capacity to do so. She hadn't been punished; Gloucester had said she should not be punished. But nonetheless, she wanted to be as far from Buckingham as possible, in case he was more apt to revenge impudence than her friend Gloucester.

Her friend – that was impudence too, thinking she was of any importance to one of the most powerful men in the realm. And yet, she was confident it was true. That made it difficult to keep her face serene when the Queen and the Dowager Duchess spoke of him as one might a rat in the grain stores.

"Why that sour look on thy face?" the Duchess demanded.

"I know not what Your Grace means," Kate lied. "I merely grow frustrated by my clumsy stitches."

"Thy stitches are always clumsy, but thou twists up thy face only when I talk of my womb's shame."

"If Your Grace says it is so."

"Perhaps she finds him a vile subject of conversation," Anne Neville offered. "As we all do."

Kate knew she should chime in her concurrence with Anne, but she couldn't. "He has, at times, shown me kindness."

The Duchess scoffed. "He has never shown anyone kindness, thou fool."

"Perhaps he has not received much to return," Kate snapped, then instantly regretted. "Forgive me. I should not have spoken thus."

"Thou shouldst not have," the Duchess answered. "What, wouldst thou we drip honey into the ears of thy cousin's enemy? Thou art a greater fool than I knew."

"Yes, madam," Kate said, bowing her head. "I know I am."

She begged off from supper, on the grounds she needed to do penance for her unruly tongue. No one would argue with that. She did go to the chapel, but not to confess. She knew Thomas probably did not have much clout in Heaven (though she had no doubt he was there), but she still went and prayed to him rather than to one of the established saints. Other than Gloucester and Joanna, he was the only one who'd paid mind to her in this world, and she supposed it was likely the same in the next.

"You told to govern my tongue," she said. "You told me to speak truth. You did not tell me what to do when it was impossible to do both. Not that I blame you. I – I crave your guidance."

She never heard an angel speak, but still, she sometimes felt a small nudge in her soul. That night, she was strangely aware of the cross around her neck, though she wore it every day. She held it in her hand. "Do as He would? Is that the lesson?" She heard neither a confirmation nor a denial. "I have never been naturally good, uncle. You know better than anyone. I am disobedient, headstrong, wild even. I know I am. I try to be good, but I fail. I can never hope to know what He would have me do."

Thou art not polished and pleasing, she imagined Thomas answering. But thou art just, in thy heart. Let Him use that to guide thee to do good.

It was useless to ask how she would know which way she was being guided, she knew. "I will try, uncle," she simply answered.