A Dangerous Inheritance

But there remains that strange atmosphere, that odd change in the aspect of the room, the ethereal quality of the children’s voices. I begin to suspect that no human agency is at play here, and that what I have heard was not of this world. In the darkness, such things are all too believable.

I lie still, waiting, holding my breath, alert to every sound. There is nothing but the soughing of the leaves beyond the window and a distant shout from the direction of the river. It seems that there has been a shift back towards normality; and as the silence reasserts itself and I calm down, I start to wonder if I imagined it all. But I am chilled when I think whose voices I might have heard.

Master Aylmer schooled us well in history. I grew up to be familiar with the popular chronicles of Richard Fabyan and Edward Hall, and because my parents kept a good library, I had even read parts of Polydore Vergil’s history of England. From these, Aylmer had drawn lessons in morality, with the varying fortunes of our kings and queens as examples. And one example he had held up was that of Richard III. All those old chroniclers said it was the common fame that King Richard had, within the Tower, secretly had put to death the two sons of his brother, King Edward. They had condemned the deed as a foul murder, and I grew up accepting that story as fact, for no one I knew, least of all Aylmer, ever questioned it.

They suffered and died here, those poor Princes. So if any ghosts haunt this place, it would be them. Was it their long-silenced, plaintive voices I heard? In the dark reaches of the night, it is all too believable.

In the morning, I decide that I must have dreamed it all. Soon after sunrise, the door is unlocked and Honor appears, and being restored to human congress lends me a new perspective on things. My fears today are for the realities confronting me, not the imagined terrors of the night.

At nine o’clock, Sir Edward Warner presents himself and enquires after my health, and if I have slept well.

‘No, Sir Edward, I had a nightmare that was too vivid for comfort,’ I tell him. ‘It is hardly surprising, given the desperate situation in which I find myself. But I took such a fright that I was fearful for my babe. I pray you, can you find me a midwife? I would be assured that all is well.’

‘I will do what I can, my lady,’ he assures me, and leaves the room.

Darkness falls, and I am no longer so certain that the voices of the night before were a dream. Alone, curled up beneath the covers, I try to pray, yet ca

Help me! Help us!

Can this manifestation – for now I fear it can be nothing else – be heard in the Tower every night? Or is it just in this room? Or – and this chills my blood more than anything – is it intended for me alone?

There it is again! Pleading in tone, piteous … the voices of children, abandoned and maybe in dreadful danger …

Help us!

I gather all my courage and rise, cradling my swollen belly protectively in my hands. Beneath my fingers, I can feel the babe moving sleepily. My heart is hammering so hard I fear he might take fright from it.

I creep on bare feet to the window and look out, alert to every faint sound. And then I hear, disembodied in the air, and with nothing in sight to account for them, those awful words once more. Help us!

But they are long beyond help now. I fear it is I and my child who are in deadly danger. At the realisation, I start to tremble. Oh my God! They could murder us both, immured within these walls and helpless as we are – just like those little Princes were murdered. And our poor bones might lie here undiscovered like theirs for centuries, another of the secrets the Tower keeps hidden. Oh, sweet Jesus, save me and my child! Preserve us from the malice of our enemies. Let me live to behold my dear lord once more!

Sweating in panic, I pace up and down the room, hugging myself in distress and fear. I know I will not be able to sleep tonight. I am too frightened.

In the morning, I am rational again, although still disturbed in my mind. I find myself needing to know what really happened to those poor Princes. Despite being mere children, they were too close to the throne for comfort, and a deadly threat to their sovereign, just like me – and my unborn babe. If he lives, he may prove a similar threat to the Queen, and a focus for plots against her – as did Jane, and the Princes. He might not need to lift a finger, for there are many who would prefer a man on the throne, and who regard a woman ruler as u

Trembling, I wonder if there are lessons to be learned from the Princes’ fate, lessons I would do well to heed. Yet how could one can be sure exactly what happened to them? It is generally agreed that they were murdered by their wicked uncle Richard, but the means is often debated. And no bodies were ever found …

I wish I knew the truth about their disappearance. I know I am not being entirely rational, but I feel some strange affinity with those poor boys. I can identify with their peril because my own babe is under threat. I feel that, in some inexplicable way, their fate might have a bearing on his. But how could I, a prisoner in the Tower, find out the truth?

Suddenly, I remember that I may have the means right at hand. I hasten to my casket and take out the bundle of faded pages tied with old ribbon, which Harry and I found at Baynard’s Castle, in another life. These are the pages written, I believe, by Katherine Plantagenet. I had forgotten them until now, but I recall that I never deciphered them fully. I see again the barely legible words appreh … Raglan. Apprehended? Who was apprehended? Katherine herself? Does this mean she was arrested at Raglan Castle, the old Herbert stronghold in Wales? Could it be that these writings are those of a young girl like myself, imprisoned long ago? Is this why I felt an affinity with her?

I struggle through the closely written pages, trying to read the cramped script. Yes, this is about the Princes in the Tower, but it is not the story everyone knows. This mysterious daughter of Richard III had another version of it entirely. She believed her father to be i

Given what I heard in the night – or thought I heard – I am not sure I can agree with her. My belief is that the Princes never left this place. Their unavenged bones still lie here somewhere. That is what all the world believes, and I have no reason to doubt it.

I struggle on, as the handwriting becomes increasingly spidery. There is more here than I ever read in history books. But at the end, frustratingly, the writing has faded away. It’s the date 1487 on the first page that puzzles me. Everyone knows that Richard III was killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, but what happened in 1487?

There is no end to the tale, no satisfying resolution. Nor is there any evidence that Katherine’s belief in her father’s i

Did she ever find out the truth?

Kate

October 1485. Westminster Palace.

William was most unhappy when Kate told him she was forbidden to reveal what the King had wanted, and he was even less enamoured when, later that day, a page came saying that the King’s mother, the Lady Margaret, wished to see her, and would she come at once – alone.

Lady Stanley – the Lady Margaret Beaufort, who was Countess of Richmond by her marriage to Henry’s father – was now known as my lady the King’s mother. For lack of a queen, that formidable matriarch was ruling the court – and no doubt the King too, Kate mused. She remembered the woman’s cold eyes and haughty mien. The Lady Margaret was said to be very devout and learned, but Kate could only think of her as the woman who had plotted with Buckingham against her father. Traitress, she thought.