A Dangerous Inheritance

The Queen’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. ‘Have her sent back home to Derbyshire to await our pleasure. I am not minded to dismiss her i

‘Not yet,’ Cecil says thoughtfully. ‘You see, Madam, Lady Katherine is about to be delivered, and of course many are lost in childbed, mothers and infants both. Dame Nature might solve the problem for us.’

Elizabeth rests her gimlet gaze on him. ‘I trust, William, that you are not intending to give Dame Nature any assistance.’

‘I, your Majesty?’ He is a little shocked. ‘I but leave her to take her course. And if the Lady Katherine and her child survive, we will think again about what is to be done with them. I bear in mind that she is your kinswoman.’

‘Would that she were not!’ fumes the Queen.

Kate

October 1485. Westminster Palace.

After Pietro had gone, Kate wandered along the paths between the fenced flower beds for a little while, but a stiff wind was building up, and she began to retrace her steps to the palace. William would be furious if he returned to their lodging and found her absent.

As she turned into the passage that ran beside the chapel, she glimpsed the tail of a black gown disappearing into the cloister. Was it the person she had imagined following her earlier? She sped along the passage, but when she got to the cloister it was empty. Warily, she walked on, past the guards in their red livery, up the spiral stairs and so to her lodging, seeing nothing out of the way.

She lay down to rest, loosening the laces across her stomach, but her mind was agitated. Was she becoming too fanciful? Women in her condition did sometimes. She yearned for Mattie’s sound common sense, but Mattie was far away in Raglan; she had been suffering too much morning sickness to accompany Kate on this journey, and Kate had been obliged to bring with her mousy little Gwenllian, one of her Welsh maids. She’d chosen her because the girl was unobtrusive and gentle; but today she was not here, because Kate had given her permission to go out and watch the procession; by now she would no doubt be joining in the revelry that was going on in the streets. The din of it could be heard distantly.

Dusk fell. As Kate lit the candles she heard a scratching noise. What was that? It came again, from the keyhole. Someone was trying to open the door! Gingerly she pulled the key out, grateful that she had locked the door on her return earlier.

She was conscious of the sudden silence outside. And then she heard footsteps, stealthy and barely audible, retreating in the distance. Someone had definitely been trying to break into the room. As soon as they realised someone was within, they had retreated.

She sat on the bed, shaken, and tried to think about it rationally. She wished she had opened the door and challenged whoever it was, but the moment was gone now – and she’d been too fearful anyway.

What had they wanted? Had it been the person whose black gown she had espied earlier? Had they come to search her room, or frighten her? She was chilled to her very marrow at the thought.

Had someone been spying on her as she spoke with Pietro this afternoon? Surely no one could have been near enough to hear what was said, although if they had been … She had seen not a soul nearby, but she recalled that Pietro had kept looking about him. Had he glimpsed someone? Was that why he had made his hasty excuse and left?

If that person picking at the lock had got into the room, and she had not been here, what would they have found that was incriminating – or that could throw light on the mystery of the Princes? There was nothing, surely … Ah, but there was: her papers! She flew to the table and lifted the lid of her casket – and there they were, undisturbed. She stood there, breathing heavily in relief.

What should she do with them? The lock-picker would be back, as surely as night followed day, so she must find somewhere safe to keep them. They must never fall into the wrong hands. She looked at the travelling chest. It had a secret compartment, but that was easily opened – even a child could work it out – and the King’s spies would be skilled at such tricks. And they would search thoroughly too. There was nothing for it. She would have to keep the papers on her person.

She set to work at once, stitching two white kerchiefs into a small bag, through the top hem of which a long ribbon could be threaded. That she tied about her waist, under her gown, with the papers inside it. That her waistline was expanding daily made no matter: she and William would be away from here soon. No one would ever suspect, she thought, as she surveyed herself in the mirror. The heavy folds of her skirt concealed the slight bulge of the bag completely.

The papers were safe now. And the Tudor’s henchman could search her chamber as thoroughly as he wished.

Katherine

24th September 1561. The Tower of London.

My labour began this morning as I lay abed. The midwife, a stout, no-nonsense body, had explained to me what the pains of travail would be like. I had also heard women’s tales about the agonies and perils of childbirth, and for a while I was inclined to dismiss them, for these pains were easily bearable. Only as the morning wore on did they become fiercer, and then the midwife bade me lie down on the bed and pull, when I needed to, on a length of thick-woven material she had tied tautly between the bedposts. Then she sent Honor off to fetch Holland cloth, hot water, bread, cheese and wine, and herself laid ready the cambric swaddling bands and rollers, the tiny shirt and coif I had embroidered, the taffeta coat with satin sleeves, the little bib and apron, the lace mittens. An old oak cradle, provided by Sir Edward, was placed beside my bed and made up with sheets and a miniature counterpane of crewel work. Then the midwife closed the window, drew the curtains together and hung a sheet over the faded tapestry.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘It’s so hot in here – I need some air.’

‘The air of the City is noxious and bad for your babe,’ she told me, ‘and the child might be affrighted by the figures in the hanging. Best to be on the safe side!’

Stifling and perspiring, I have laboured for what seems like hours, my pains growing stronger all the time, until I have to acknowledge that most of the gossips spoke truth. It is all I can do not to cry out. But then comes a change, an overwhelming urge to push downwards – and when I do so, I find that I push the pain away.

‘Nearly there!’ the midwife pronounces, looking between my splayed legs. ‘I can see the head crowning.’ And suddenly, here he is – my son. England has a Protestant male heir at last.

He is healthy, thanks be to God, and beautiful too. I ca

Sir Edward Warner comes to see me. His face creases in a tender smile when he sees the swaddled babe lying contentedly beside me in his cradle.