A Dangerous Inheritance

Kate pondered much on what the Tudor had said about the Princes not being in the Tower now. It made sense to her. Her father had been a careful, cautious man. Once those conspiracies had come to light in the summer after the coronation, he might well have had the boys moved to a secret location whence there was no chance of their being rescued. He would have reasoned that, if at least one attempt had been made already, there would be others in the future.

So had the Princes been at Sheriff Hutton all along? Had they been taken there when the King’s Household in the North was set up under the governance of Lincoln? It had been a secure household of necessity, given the threat posed by Henry Tudor, and it had sheltered the heirs and bastards of York. Had the sons of Edward IV been of their number, secretly lodged there with their sisters?

Kate’s brother John had been there too, but he was still in Calais, his future uncertain with their father dead, and he had not replied to her recent letters. Even if she had been able to reach him, she would never have dared to commit such a dangerous question to paper.

But it was highly doubtful that the Princes were still at Sheriff Hutton. Henry Tudor would surely have checked, so desperate was he to find them. So if they had been there at the time Bosworth was fought, where were they now?

The answer, she was sure, lay with John de la Pole. Had he hastened to Sheriff Hutton after Bosworth and taken them into hiding with him? Were they the reason why he had disappeared after the battle? Had he perhaps taken them abroad, to their aunt, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, whom Kate had never met, but of whom her father had always spoken with loving respect? Margaret had helped shelter Richard when, as a youth, he had sought refuge with King Edward in Bruges after Edward had been driven from his kingdom by Warwick and Clarence. John had also spoken of Aunt Margaret with affection. Certainly she would willingly have offered a refuge both to the Princes and to him.

The more Kate thought about this, the more it made sense, and with that came a welcome feeling of relief that at last she had an explanation as to why her father had never produced the Princes alive. But it was still only speculation. She had to talk to John, or get a message to him, as soon as his whereabouts became known.

She wished she knew what had happened to him; not knowing was killing her. He might even be lying dead somewhere, his beloved body undiscovered. She caught her breath at that. No! Don’t think that way. He is an astute, resourceful man, and must be in hiding somewhere. All at once she was seized with an unbearable longing to see him – not just to look once more upon the beauty of his face, and to touch him; but also to ask him that crucial question: had he had the Princes under his charge at Sheriff Hutton?

It was late when William returned that evening, and she was nearly asleep when he came in, doused the candle and began to undress. She was grateful that her condition precluded his usual nightly attentions.

She turned over to face him. All discourse between them now was limited to necessities; there was no love lost on either side. Yet her curiosity was burning her.

‘My lord, I have been wondering. Is there any news of my cousin Warwick?’

William started. He had thought her asleep, and was evidently unprepared for her to speak to him, let alone ask such a question.

‘He’s in the Tower of London, if you must know.’

The news shook her. ‘What?’ Another prince in the Tower? ‘Why?’

‘By King Henry’s order. Presumably he feels that Warwick is a threat, being so close in blood to the throne.’

Yes. And he is also a threat because, simple lad that he is, he may blab about the Princes being at Sheriff Hutton, and expose the truth: that they may well be alive, though Henry doesn’t know where they are.

‘That is terrible. That poor boy could not commit treason to save his life. He has not the wits for it – and he is so young.’

‘The King, for all his virtues, is not a sentimental man,’ William said stiffly. ‘He is a political realist, and knows well it is not Warwick himself he need fear, but those who might act on his behalf.’

‘But that poor, wretched boy …’

‘It is a necessity, alas.’

Kate shed a silent tear for her cousin, who had committed no crime save that of being born his father’s son – and, perhaps, of knowing too much.

‘Is there news of my brother coming home from Calais?’ she asked, after William had risen from his prayers, used the pisspot, and climbed into bed.

‘I heard he was deprived of the captaincy, but he’s still in Calais, for all I know.’ How short a time young John had enjoyed his post in Calais, she reflected sadly.

‘You should keep your nose out of great affairs,’ William reproved, ‘and don’t go asking questions. It will be marked, surely.’

‘I do not intend to. But Warwick and John are my kinsmen, for whom I have much love. I ask only as their relation. And I was also going to ask if there are tidings of my lord of Lincoln.’

‘None, and good riddance I say. Now go to sleep.’

She slept; but in the morning, when William – commanding her to stay in her room – had gone to seek out old acquaintances and re-establish himself in the pecking order at court, she got out her papers and wrote down every last detail of her theory that the Princes had been taken, safe and well, to Sheriff Hutton. One day, she promised herself, her infant child would be able to hold his head up and say his grandfather’s name with pride.

Katherine

September 1561. The Tower of London.

Ned is here, in the Tower. Sir Edward has informed me that he was arrested at Dover, brought here under guard and imprisoned in the Lieutenant’s Lodging. I do not know whether to laugh or cry, for while I am heartened to know that he is nearby, I am aware that there are now three of us in peril of our lives.

‘May I see him?’ I ask eagerly.

‘I regret not, my lady. The Queen has expressly forbidden it. But my Lord Hertford sends you these, and asks after your health.’ He hands me a small posy of violets. Violets, for modesty, delicacy and chastity. I feel choked. It is as if my good reputation has been given back to me.

‘You are both to be questioned by the Privy Council, separately,’ Sir Edward tells me.

‘But I have told you all I know,’ I protest.

‘That remains to be seen, my lady,’ Sir Edward says, and makes to depart.

‘Please tell my husband I am in good health,’ I call after him, and he pauses and nods.

Later, in the afternoon, I am visited by five lords of the Council, among them the Bishop of London, and the Marquess of Winchester, he who placed the crown on my sister’s head in this very Tower.

‘Lady Katherine,’ the Marquess begins, ‘why did you not tell the Lieutenant everything?’

‘But I did,’ I declare.

‘Let us go over what Lord Hertford has deposed.’ He reads Ned’s own account of our wedding day, and I am shocked to hear that my lord has confessed all, even to the most intimate details, and find myself blushing hotly. Nevertheless, he has corroborated everything I myself told Sir Edward, even reciting the lines he composed for my wedding ring. Surely they must believe us now!

‘Why did you not give all this information in your first interview?’

For shame, of course; how could they have expected me to say such things to a man not my husband? Even now, I ca