A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Allow me to offer you my congratulations, my lady,’ he says. ‘You have a fine boy there. I pray God give him long life and health. I have brought him a gift.’ His voice is gruff as he places a silver rattle, which must have cost him a goodly sum, on the counterpane.

‘I thank you for your kindness, Sir Edward,’ I say, touched. ‘It is a very pretty toy; he will love it. You are most generous.’

I perceive some emotion working in the Lieutenant’s rugged face.

‘To have a healthy son like yours is a great blessing from God,’ he says. ‘My late wife bore me three boys, but they all died in infancy.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Sir,’ I tell him, genuinely moved. Now that I am a mother, I find I am inordinately sensitive about harm befalling little children. In fact, I can now hardly bear to think of the Princes.

‘I have married again this year,’ the Lieutenant tells me. ‘My wife and I – well, we live in hope.’

‘I will pray for you both, that your hopes are fulfilled.’

‘That is kind, my lady. I am painfully aware that my duty to the Queen’s Majesty requires me to be stricter than I would wish on occasion; but I want you to know that you have my goodwill, and that I will do all in my power to make your stay here as easy as possible.’

‘It gladdens me to know that,’ I smile.

‘The midwife has asked me to engage a wet-nurse and rockers,’ Sir Edward continues. ‘My lady, I am minded to ask her Majesty if she will graciously agree to a suite of rooms being appointed in my lodging here for you, the child and your attendants, and I also intend to request that you be provided with the comforts of your rank. There may be a charge for such privileges, but if there is anything you require to be brought to you, you have only to ask.’ I have heard that gaolers and turnkeys supplement their fees by doing favours for prisoners, and that a man or woman can live well in prison, so they have the means.

‘I thank you, good Sir Edward,’ I say. ‘But although I have some money of my own, I do not know how to get hold of it, shut up as I am here.’

‘That can safely be left to the Queen’s Council,’ he tells me. ‘They will arrange everything. Would you like me to put forward these requests?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I exclaim, eager to be out of this miserable chamber, which is no place for my child – my little prince, as I am already calling him secretly. A suite of rooms in the Lieutenant’s Lodging! That is where Ned is held. We will be near each other.

‘We will see what her Majesty has to say,’ my good gaoler is saying.

‘Sir Edward!’ I call him back as he prepares to leave. ‘Does my lord know of the birth of his son?’

‘He does, my lady. I myself told him the good news, and he recorded it at once in his Bible, adding a prayer beseeching God to bless your child and to move the Queen’s heart to pity.’

‘And did he show himself joyful at becoming a father?’

Sir Edward hesitates. ‘I am sure he felt it inwardly. But he seemed a little cast down, no doubt because he ca

‘A strange thing to say when a child is born.’

‘It is the circumstances, of course,’ he replies.

Why does Ned feel cast down? Inexplicably weepy, I lie fretting about it. Then I pick up my babe and hold him tight to my breast, marvelling at his soft skin and downy head, his rosebud lips and milky blue eyes. How could anyone wish harm to such an enchanting, defenceless creature? The whole realm should be rejoicing in the birth of such a prince! It is the one blessing the Queen has not bestowed on her people.

But, insidiously, unwelcome thoughts fill my head. If I am to protect him, I must face the fact that there are those who would not see my son as merely an i

I drift off to sleep, and find myself dreaming about her, as I have not done in years. In my dream, I see the girl in the blue dress, the one whose portrait I saw hanging in the old wing in Baynard’s Castle. I know it is her, the King’s daughter. She is young and beautiful, a fine dark lady. She seems to be reaching out to me once more, mouthing words I ca

I wake up suddenly. The dream was so real, more vivid than normal. It is night; the moon is up beyond my window. All is still.

And then, once more, that strange shifting of the air, and a distant cry –

Help me!

Help us!

I huddle, terrified, under the bedclothes. I wanted to believe I had dreamed what I’d heard before, but I am certainly not sleeping now. A dog barks. Has he heard the voices too? There they are again! Help me! Help us!The dog barks once more. Then silence.

I poke my head above the covers and sit up, looking about me fearfully. Everything seems normal. Had I really heard them? Or am I so weighed down with troubles that I am begi

Eventually I drift into sleep, and in the morning, I decide I could not have been dreaming.

‘Sir Edward,’ I say, when the Lieutenant comes to enquire after my health, and we have admired the baby, snug in his swaddling bands, ‘do you believe that the Princes in the Tower really were murdered here all those years ago?’

For a moment he looks uneasy, and I realise that it may still be unwise to speak of such things. For if the Princes had survived, then the Tudors must be usurpers. Thinking of Queen Elizabeth, it is a heartening notion! But Sir Edward’s qualms, if he has any, are fleeting.

‘I have often wondered that myself,’ he confides. ‘In fact, I’m very interested in the subject, my lady – and have been for years. I know all the world thinks they were killed, but they never found them, you know. It’s well known here that King Henry VII ordered several searches of the Tower, all of which revealed nothing. And without the bodies, there is no proof. Yet it is invariably said that Sir James Tyrell had them killed, on King Richard’s orders.’

Tyrell! That name again. I remember now. It was in Vergil’s history that I read of him murdering the Princes, seeking preferment as a reward. Yet I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere else.

‘Is it known how they were killed?’ I ask.

‘No one knows for certain, but many have guessed. Some say they were run through with a sword, some that they were suffocated or drowned in wine like the Duke of Clarence; others say they were poisoned, or walled up, or buried alive. The fact is, no one knows. I read that their bodies were chested and taken on a ship down the Thames, then thrown into the Black Deeps at the estuary. That would explain why they were never found here, in the Tower – but I have often wondered if it was a rumour put about to convince folk that they were dead.’

I had read that tale too; it was in the popular chronicles.

‘It’s an intriguing mystery,’ I observe.

‘I am moved to wonder, my lady, why you find it so,’ Sir Edward says. ‘It is a grim subject for a gentlewoman.’

I wrestle with myself, wondering if I dare show him the account I keep secret. It can do no harm, surely; and he has told me he is interested in the matter. I realise we have become quite companionable; I know him to be a good man, despite the unpleasant calling of his office, and it is a relief to be speaking of matters other than the reason why I am here.