A Dangerous Inheritance

‘I could not even if I would, shut in here!’ I say with some spirit.

‘Of course, of course,’ he answers, looking embarrassed. ‘Anyway, I am going to visit him tomorrow. Afterwards, I have some stores to check, and some prisoners to question, but I will come to you as soon as I may. And, my lady, you should take heart. There are many that love and support you, as became clear in the City today.’ And with that unexpected revelation, which instantly revives my hopes, Sir Edward leaves me.

Kate

November 1485. Westminster Palace.

It grew late, and still William had not returned from the King’s supper. He would be enjoying himself, Kate thought, restored to the circles in which his rank and allegiance entitled him to move. She thought bitterly of how readily he had betrayed that other allegiance he had owed to her father, and yet it did not seem such a bitter betrayal now, for the events of this day had blotted out much of the misery and grief of the past months. Seeing John, and the spark of love flaring undimmed in his eyes, and then meeting the mother she had never known – no wonder she was finding it hard to sleep!

She felt an unaccustomed quivering in her belly, like a butterfly’s wings, and supposed it was her excitement manifesting itself. But a few minutes later she felt it again, and knew it for what it really was: her child, making its existence felt for the first time. She had not come so far along during her first pregnancy. A sense of wonder filled her as she placed her hands on her stomach, rejoicing in the life within. Truly, God had been good to her this day.

She rose from the bed, put on her nightgown and sank to her knees on the prayer stool below the latticed window; and there, in the moonlight, she gave thanks for this gift of new life, and the blessings and promises of love that had been vouchsafed her.

When she rose, she saw that a sealed letter had been pushed under the door. She snatched it up. There was no imprint on the wax, and no signature. The fine script she recognised instantly, though: it was John’s. She broke the seal and devoured his words:

My heart, burn this when you have read it. I came to Westminster to make my submission to the King and swear to him not to maintain any felons, as he is pleased to call those men who have been in hiding with me. I have done this at my father’s earnest entreaty. He would have his son at liberty to be a comfort to him in his old age.

In return for my allegiance, the King did me the honour of permitting me to precede him in his coronation procession, and he has been gracious enough to appoint me to his Council.

Know that I still cherish my inordinate love for you, still feel that furiosity and frenzy of mind of which the poet wrote. I know I need not repeat all the words, you have them by heart, as I do; but saying them brings you so vividly to mind, my dearest lady, that I can almost imagine that you are here with me.

Like the poet, I have no peace when I think of you. I burn for you eternally. The sweetest remembrance of all is of our one night together. It is not enough for a lifetime. Make shift to come to me tomorrow, I pray you. I will be by the fountain in New Palace Yard at nine o’clock in the morning. Let it look as if we are meeting by chance, and pray give me some hope that I may know the sweet joy of our loving again.

Kate’s heart beat fast as she read and re-read the letter, then clutched it joyfully to her bosom. John had taken a tremendous risk in pushing it under her door, yet he would surely have known that William was otherwise occupied. Probably he had been at the King’s supper himself.

He had been here at Westminster, probably for weeks. He had even played a part in the coronation! Secluded as William had kept her, she had not known of it.

She would go to him, of course she would. Neither William nor Henry Tudor, nor the whole company of Heaven, was going to stop her.

Interlude

October 1561. Whitehall Palace.

‘Her Majesty is not pleased to hear that many of her subjects – and some of her courtiers to boot – are sympathetic to the Lady Katherine Grey,’ Mr Secretary Cecil fumes. ‘Here are the reports – read them!’ And he indicates a pile of papers on his desk. He and the Earl of Sussex have arrived early for the council meeting, and as yet are the only ones seated at the long table.

Sussex, a fair, florid man, leafs through the reports, grunting. ‘They remember Protector Somerset, “the good Duke”, as they called him. Hertford is his son, so it’s only to be expected, I suppose.’

‘To them, he is a gallant hero, defying the Queen’s unkindness and wrath to marry the lady he loves,’ Cecil sniffs.

‘Some see the Lady Katherine as another like her sister, the Lady Jane,’ Sussex murmurs, reading on. ‘They view her as a brave Protestant heroine.’

‘They forget she has been plotting with the Spaniards,’ Cecil says drily. ‘But what most people seem to be asking is why a man and his wife should be put asunder and imprisoned!’

‘I see there’s a lot of speculation that they will be attainted or even put to death; or that the Queen will have Parliament declare their child a bastard; many say the Lady Katherine should be named heir to the throne; and I see that you, my lord, are suspected by a few of being privy to her marriage.’ Sussex grins.

‘Pure nonsense!’ Cecil retorts.

‘But tell me, are any of these other rumours true? Does the Queen still intend to have the child declared baseborn?’

‘I believe so. Yet she is disturbed to find that there is a tide of opinion in the Lady Katherine’s favour, and anxious lest she herself appear in an unsympathetic light, when in truth, she is the person most injured by this pretended marriage. So she will do nothing just yet. In the meantime, her Majesty is disposed to show some avour towards the couple, to placate public feeling.’

Katherine

October 1561. The Tower of London.

Sir Edward Warner arrives at five o’clock, just as supper is being served. He orders an extra place to be set, then dismisses the servants and himself serves the baked meats to us both and slices the pie.

‘What I have to tell you is for your ears alone,’ he says.

‘You saw the book, then, Sir Edward?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Yes indeed,’ he answers, his angular face looking unusually animated. ‘It was a manuscript chronicle I had never heard of or seen before, from the abbey of Croyland, which was near Lincoln; and whoever wrote it had much to say about Richard III!’

Could this be the truth at last? I pray it will be. It’s irrational, I know, but I ca

‘The author described himself as a member of the King’s Council, so he was at the centre of affairs and clearly well informed,’ Sir Edward tells me. ‘He wrote his chronicle during a visit to the abbey, nine months after Bosworth. As it was written under Henry VII, it is only to be expected that the writer was hostile to Richard III. Yet it’s plain he had no good opinion of him anyway.’

‘Then why was his book suppressed? Henry would surely have approved.’

He frowns. ‘My lady, that exercised me and Alderman Smyth somewhat. We perused the chronicle together closely; as I said, he has become interested in the matter, although he thinks it is still dangerous to speak openly of certain things. You see, the Queen’s Grace’s title is inherited from Henry VII, and Henry married Elizabeth of York, who had been bastardised by Richard III. Henry must have had her legitimacy confirmed by Parliament. Yet I have never read anywhere that he did so.’

‘I don’t understand.’