A Dangerous Inheritance

‘There is a bed, too, in pieces,’ Sir Edward says. ‘It’s not worth bringing it up here, it is too mean a thing, so I will have the one you used in the Bell Tower brought in.’ A disintegrating damask counterpane has been laid over Honor’s pallet bed; it was probably made centuries ago. Sir Edward shakes his head. ‘A sorry jumble, my lady. As for the footstools, I forbear to show them to you.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I recognise them as King Harry’s, from the days I was at court. He would rest his ulcerated leg on them. The velvet is stained with pus, and is too far gone to clean. In truth, I am ashamed, my lady, that you should be so discommoded.’ Insulted, I think. These items were sent to slight me. They convey what Elizabeth thinks of me.

‘I am very sorry about this, my lady,’ Sir Edward continues. ‘My wife and I will lend you some furnishings. And in compensation, I will have your maids and your pets sent for. They shall keep you company and make you and the babe merry.’

And so it is that my old bed is brought in and reassembled, with new hangings of silk damask and a fine counterpane striped in red and gold silk; and Mrs Ellen, Mrs Coffin, my maids and my two lap-dogs, Arthur and Guinevere, are brought to the Tower, along with a more recent acquisition, my pet monkey, Jester. With them arrive four of my good gowns and French hoods, and several changes of body linen, which Honor lays away in the chest at the end of my bed. Effortlessly, after an emotional reunion – for she has been in this place before, in far more tragic circumstances – Mrs Ellen takes charge, while I suckle and cuddle my child, with chaos all around me.

Arthur lies sleeping on the coverlet of the bed; Jester, perched on a stool, feeds daintily on a few morsels left over from the supper I could not face eating, and of which the dogs made short work. Guinevere gnaws a bone at my feet. And Sir Edward Warner regards them all with despair.

‘My lady, they are wrecking the furnishings, and the servants are complaining about the messes they make. I beg of you to control them.’

‘I am trying, Sir Edward. Please do not take them away. They do cheer me, and I need it.’

He sighs. ‘I would not deprive you of good cheer, my lady, but these three are a handful. And, having permitted them to be here, I will be accounted responsible for the damage.’

‘I will do my best,’ I promise. ‘I am so sorry. Arthur, Guinevere, Jester: you are very naughty animals!’ Three pairs of soulful eyes look at me appealingly, and Jester tries again to climb into the cradle, but I tell him no, sharply, to demonstrate to the Lieutenant that I mean to keep my word.

He sits down by the fire, shaking his head at them. ‘I came to tell you that I visited the Guildhall Library. I was not allowed to search for myself, but when I explained that I was looking for any records from the reign of Richard III, a clerk brought me the Great Chronicle of London. It contains testimony from those who were eyewitnesses to events. Alderman Smyth and I spent some hours going through it, and I do declare, he is now as interested as I am in the matter of the Princes.’

‘And did you find anything that sheds light on our mystery?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Some things that were especially interesting,’ he tells me. ‘The chronicle, in referring to the murder of Henry VI, after his final defeat by Edward IV, states – I have it here; a moment please!’ He draws from the pocket of his furred gown a folded paper covered with notes. ‘Ah, yes: The common fame went that the Duke of Gloucester was not altogether guiltless. If that’s true, Richard was seasoned in blood twelve years before the disappearance of his nephews. Alas, the affairs of kings are deadly games.’

‘As I am finding,’ I comment drily. ‘I hope they are not deadly for me!’

‘My lady, our sovereign lady may be strict, but she is just.’

I forbear to answer that. ‘Did you discover anything more, Sir Edward?’

‘I did. This chronicler clearly did not approve of Richard. He accused him of executing Hastings unlawfully without any process of law, and said it was this one act that convinced the citizens that the Duke aimed for the throne. He wrote that Hastings was killed only for his truth and fidelity to Edward V. Later, he says that the Princes were held more straitlyin the Tower.’

‘Katherine Plantagenet mentions their being behind bars. It probably means the same thing. Sir Edward, where do you think the Princes were held?’

‘In Caesar’s Tower, most certainly. It is the i

Tyrell again. ‘It’s what Katherine Plantagenet heard. That name – trying to place it is vexing me sorely, because it might give us a clue …’

‘Tyrell was merely reportedto be the doer. But the fact that he was actually named the murderer as early as 1484 might be significant. And why Tyrell? He was not well known, so why should his name be tossed about?’

‘I agree, Sir, it is strange.’

‘It ca

‘Now that is saying something!’ I observe.

‘There is another serious accusation against King Richard in this chronicle,’ Sir Edward continues, ‘that there was much whispering, even among his northern people who had loved him, that he poisoned his wife so that he could remarry.’

‘That’s news to me. Do you think it could have been true?’

‘It is impossible to say. By then, men would have believed anything of him.’

‘Yet he could have counteracted everything! Why did he not, unless he was guilty? Could he not see that these rumours were destroying him?’

‘Well, my lady, he should have – he came to a bloody end because of them. Maybe he underestimated their power to bring him down. It’s clear that most of his subjects hated him. After he was slain at Bosworth, the Great Chroniclesays, his body was despoiled to the skin and he was trussed up like a hog or vile beast, thrown over his own herald’s mount, and so carried naked into Leicester. And then he was indifferently buried in St Mary’s Church. Henry VII had his remains moved to the Grey Friars, which became known as the Tyrants’ Sepulchre, because Cardinal Wolsey was buried there too.’

‘So much for gaining a crown,’ I reflect, thinking that, in the end, Richard III, like my sister Jane, had paid with his life for usurping the throne.

‘Had it not been for his ambition, he might have grown old and respected by all, for he had the makings of a great prince.’

‘Unless the Wydevilles had done for him first.’

‘Yes, that was what he evidently feared. But I wonder. Was that just a pretext? Well, we may yet find out. When Alderman Smyth perceived I was disappointed that there was not fresh light on the Princes in the Great Chronicle, he told me in secrecy he had something in his house that might interest me. He said he dared not speak of it in public, because it might, even now, be dangerous to do so. Naturally, I asked him why, and he said it was one of the books that had been suppressed by Henry VII. Apparently it was Smyth’s grandfather’s. I know no more, for he would not divulge its title, and he has sworn me to secrecy anyway. I should not be telling you this, but I know I can rest assured you will not speak of it.’