A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Before my father was granted Sheen Priory by King Edward, he owned a house in London, near the Tower. Bath Place, it was called, or the Minories, because it had been a convent of nuns – the Minoresses – before the monasteries were dissolved by King Henry. My father had the house for several years, by the favour of King Edward. Previously, it had been owned by the Bishop of Bath, who’d converted part of it into a mansion and renamed it Bath Place. But we always called it the Minories.’

‘Did you lodge there often, my lady?’

‘Yes, Sir Edward, we stayed there many times when we came to London from Leicestershire. It is a goodly property, with many fine buildings around the great house, and the church still standing. It is of the church that I wish to speak. We used it as our chapel. Although all the Popish statues and ornaments had been removed, some of the old tombs remained. I used to be fascinated by the stone effigies of ladies in old-fashioned dress. They looked so beautiful and serene, with their alabaster faces and their hands joined in prayer. And I liked to read the inscriptions on the tombs, although I struggled with those because they were in Latin. But my sister Jane would translate them for me. Sir Edward, I remember now the names on two of those tombs: Mary Tyrell and Elizabeth Brackenbury. Is that not a coincidence? Or maybe it is more than that!’

Sir Edward considers. ‘It may well be. Certainly it bears investigating. My lady, forgive me for asking something that will distress you, but was this house – the Minories – confiscated at your father’s death?’

‘No. He had already conveyed it to his younger brother, my uncle, Lord John Grey, who still owns it today.’

‘I wonder if I might pay him a visit.’

‘I pray you, do not do so on my account,’ I ask fervently. ‘He did not want to know us after my father’s execution. You will get short shrift from him if you mention my name.’

‘Then I shall ask if I may see the church, having heard it has some historic tombs.’ Sir Edward smiles, rising to his feet. ‘I will go this afternoon.’

‘Fare you well, Sir,’ I say. ‘And pay no attention to my uncle’s rude ma

The bells of All Hallows’ Church are striking six when the Lieutenant returns. I rise hastily to greet him.

‘Sir Edward! Did you gain entry to the Minories?’

‘Indeed I did, my lady. I was lucky: his lordship was not there; he has gone to his house in Essex. But his steward willingly admitted me to the church, and left me alone to look around. He even brought me candles when it got dark.’

‘Did you see the tombs?’ I ask.

‘Aye, and I was surprised to see them in such good condition. Many were broken up after the Dissolution. You were right: Mary Tyrell and Elizabeth Brackenbury are there, and there are others too, as you may remember: the grandest tomb was that of Elizabeth Talbot, Duchess of Norfolk, who died in 1506.’

‘I remember that one. Her effigy shows her in widow’s weeds.’

‘Indeed it does. And nearby is the tomb of a young girl, A

‘Duchess of York? Yes, I remember that one too. But how could this A

‘I ca

‘I remember her tomb, because it had a brass showing a lady in nun’s attire.’

‘That is correct. My lady, it is possible – given the coincidence of the names – that you are right and there is a link between some, if not all, of these ladies, and that in some way they are co

‘But how will we find that out?’ I ask, perplexed.

‘There is one chance,’ he tells me. ‘On my way out, I fell to talking with the steward about the tombs, saying how impressive they were; he said they were a fine collection, but not much prized these days. Then he told me that an old lady comes regularly to the church to pray, and often lingers by them. Lord John doesn’t mind her coming, as she’s harmless enough, and they’ve got used to her over the years. They think she was abbess at the Minories, many years ago. That would explain her interest. The steward said she could probably tell me more about the tombs. He said he’d look out for her, and ask if she would meet with me. If she agrees, he’ll send a boy round.’ Sir Edward fixes his gaze on me. ‘My lady, she may be of no help whatsoever. She may not even consent to see me. But it’s worth asking.’

‘Indeed it is,’ I agree. Inwardly, though, I hold out little hope. Even if this woman had been abbess of the Minoresses convent, she was hardly likely to have been there when Mary Tyrell, Elizabeth Brackenbury and the rest were alive, or to have known anything about them. They died more than fifty years ago, their secrets – if they had any – no doubt buried in the grave with them. And the dead keep their secrets very well.

Kate

December 1485–March 1487. Raglan Castle.

The journey back to Wales, in the depths of winter, had been a dreadful one. Since his outburst of jealous rage when he had learned of her love for John and lashed out at her, even as she lay in her bed, weak after her miscarriage, William had cut himself off from Kate. It was as well they had with them that comfortable litter he’d provided to take her to court, because she’d doubted he would have been so solicitous now. She had endured the endless, jolting miles huddled in her cloak and the cushions, with Gwenllian pressing close for warmth, for the weather was icy.

Begrudgingly, William had agreed to frequent stops at i

At Westminster, he had demanded to know how far the affair with John had gone. Had they ever lain together? She told him, quite truthfully, that she had never betrayed her marriage bed. He’d looked at her suspiciously, his face full of rage and pain, but he had not pressed her further. Instead, he had pronounced that the loss of her child, and the King’s displeasure, were a judgement on her for her wicked, foolish behaviour. And she must forget the Earl of Lincoln, because, by God, she would never set eyes on him again.

She had accepted her fate. She did not care what happened to her now, so long as John was safe. She’d prayed he had not fallen foul of the King as a result of her rashness. She’d wished there was some way of finding out if any measures had been taken against him, but that was impossible. William made sure he stayed with her, vigilant and unrelenting, throughout the days of her recovery at Westminster. The only visitor he’d allowed was Kat, who had to return to her house at Harpenden on the day after Kate’s miscarriage, and came beforehand to see how she fared.

‘Write to me, please, if your lord will permit,’ she had said, looking hopefully at William. ‘Remember, if I may do you any service, you have only to ask.’ She’d kissed Kate then, and Kate had clung to her, not wanting to let go of this mother whom she barely knew, and who – like everyone else she held dear – was being cruelly parted from her. That was how it seemed.