A Dangerous Inheritance

‘You speak sense, Sir. But what of Henry VII? The thought did occur—’

‘Hush!’ the Lieutenant hisses. ‘You must not speak so of the Queen’s grandsire. It is clear he was as perplexed as everyone else. He’d had the Tower searched for the bodies, but none were found, so he could not say what had become of the Princes. Why else would he have taken the threat posed by the pretender Perkin Warbeck so seriously? Warbeck pretended for years to be Richard, Duke of York, and convinced several of the monarchs of Europe before he was exposed as a fraud. He had the King terrified. No, Henry VII did not kill the Princes. Who else could have done it but Richard III?’

‘Unless Katherine Plantagenet was right, and he had the Princes moved.’ I so want that to have been the case.

‘My lady, you are forgetting two vital things,’ Sir Edward says. ‘First, if the Princes had been at Sheriff Hutton, what happened to them after Bosworth? Did they just disappear?’

‘Maybe they escaped abroad.’

‘That would have been the wisest course, for they posed as much of a threat to King Henry as they had to King Richard. But there is no proof of their being alive after the September of 1483.’

‘There is no proof of anything!’ I lament. ‘It’s all possibilities! It seems that every trail goes cold.’

‘After eighty years, what else can you expect? But there is another aspect you have not taken into account, my lady. Richard III was a twisted and ruthless man – a tyrant; there is no other word for it. He had his opponents beheaded without trial; he used scandalous and false precepts to stake his claim to the throne. These things are incontrovertible. We must ask ourselves if such a man was also capable of murdering his brother’s children, whom he had dispossessed.’

‘But Katherine did not see him as a tyrant. She saw much that was good in him.’

‘She saw him as she wanted to see him.’

‘Yet he had been a loving and careful father all her life,’ I point out. ‘Surely that argues that there was some good in him? And maybe those things he did – maybe he did them because he felt he had no choice, because his enemies were plotting to destroy him.’

‘Reading between the lines in these papers, I think he exaggerated that threat; he lied about those weapons, don’t forget. Yet I think that we should give him the benefit of the doubt for now, for there is, after all, no proof that the Princes were murdered.’ Sir Edward’s face creases in his endearing, craggy smile. ‘You have fired me up again about this mystery, my lady. For years it has nagged at me. It was the fact that no bodies were found; certainly something very secret – and possibly evil – took place here in the Tower, and I’ve often hoped there might still be a clue somewhere. This account by Richard’s daughter is most illuminating, something I never dreamed I would see. And perchance there are other sources.’

‘Other sources?’

The Lieutenant lowers his voice. ‘Much was suppressed, I’m sure. I believe there is far more to this mystery than we could ever suspect. There may also be histories I have not read. I am dining with a friend of mine, an alderman of the City of London, next week. With his help, I may be able to gain entry to Sir Richard Whittington’s library at the Guildhall, and see what records are kept there. I will report back to you.’ He stands up. ‘But now I must go, for it grows late. I bid you goodnight, my lady. I have enjoyed our most enlivening talk. I would it had taken place in happier circumstances.’

‘I too, Sir,’ I say with feeling. Yet it has offered me a welcome respite from my troubles and fears.

With my mind full of the Princes, I am nervously anticipating hearing those voices again tonight; and hear them I do, as I lie wakeful in my bed, their thin cries plaintive, like a whisper on the breeze. I shudder. It could be anything, I tell myself. Why should it be the lost sons of King Edward? Or am I myself conjuring up voices that are not there?

Kate

November 1485. Westminster Palace.

After they had returned from their outing to the City, William was much gratified to receive a summons to sup with the King and several other lords in the evening. The Tudor, it seemed, was making an effort to court popularity.

William began fretting about what to wear. His shirt was not fine enough, his best gown stained. Kate rubbed the stain and brushed the pile, then sat down to embroider the neck of the shirt. He nodded at her, more grateful than he would express, then left, saying he had to meet someone.

Kate unwrapped her few purchases, thinking joyfully of John. She was utterly relieved to know that he still lived and was safe. Maybe, God willing, he would try to contrive a meeting. She knew the dangers, but she was willing to risk much just to speak with him, and when they had known the rapture of being reunited, she could ask him about the Princes.

Life was suddenly looking much brighter. Her heart lightened. If you waited long enough, good things happened, and prayers were answered.

Taking advantage of William’s absence, she put on her cloak and sped down to the gardens to get some air, and to look out for John. The nights were drawing in much earlier now, and it was already dusk. She walked along by the river wall light of step, glad to feel the evening breeze on her face. There she came upon a boy kicking a ball along one of the paths. He was about seven or eight, a well-dressed, sturdily built child with a slightly lugubrious face.

‘Hello,’ she said, as he approached her.

‘Good even, Madam,’ he answered politely, and bowed. He had clearly been well drilled in courtesy, and his fine clothes proclaimed him of noble birth. ‘The Duke of Buckingham at your service,’ he said grandly.

The Duke of Buckingham? This must be the son of the traitor who had rebelled against her father. The last she had heard, this boy had been smuggled into hiding after his father’s arrest.

She curtseyed. ‘The Countess of Huntingdon, my lord.’

‘I have just been restored to my title,’ he told her with evident pride. ‘I was made a Knight of the Bath at the King’s coronation.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ She smiled. ‘You are in high favour it seems!’

‘It has not always been so,’ he told her, a shadow crossing his fresh young face. ‘You must have heard of my father, the old Duke.’

‘I met him several times,’ she said. ‘He was hearty company.’

‘Aye, but he tried to overthrow the usurper Richard and lost his head for it. I had to go into hiding after that. My nurse shaved my head and dressed me as a girl; it was horrid. I hated it! But she got me away, and now I am restored to my rightful inheritance.’

Kate wondered if this bright young lad might know something of his father’s motives for rebelling against his king. There could be no harm in probing gently, surely. ‘Why did your father wish to overthrow Richard?’ she asked.

‘Because Richard had had the sons of King Edward put to death, of course.’ The answer came out almost unthinkingly.

‘How did your father know that?’

The boy scratched his curly hair. ‘I don’t know. But he hated the usurper because of it. After he was arrested, he craved an audience with him. He made out he wanted to plead for his life, but really he meant to kill Richard with a hunting knife he had hidden in his bosom. But the usurper refused to see him. He died bravely, my father.’

Kate suddenly realised they were not alone. Two dark figures were approaching along the path. When they emerged into the light of the flare set in a nearby wall bracket, Kate recognised the cold features of the Lady Margaret. With her was a man in clerical garb whom she did not know.

‘My lady of Huntingdon, we meet again,’ the Countess said, as Kate curtseyed, never taking her eyes from that austere face. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of my ward, the Duke of Buckingham. Come, my young lord, it grows late, and I’m sure you have detained the Countess too long with your prattle.’ She put an arm about the boy’s shoulder and made to lead him away.