A Dangerous Inheritance

For now, I lay it back in the casket with my other jewels. As I am replacing Katherine’s papers, I notice again the date: 1487. That still puzzles me. What happened in 1487?

Kate

June 1487. Raglan Castle.

Lincoln had landed in the north-west, in Cumbria, with his mysterious protégé, a great army at their back! The news, brought by fast messenger, stirred William to vigorous activity, checking gates, posterns, locks, bolts, defences, weapons and stores, as if he were preparing for a siege. Every day he rode out, arraying men against the invasion, and when he returned he drilled them in the courtyards at Raglan, then sent them to join the royal forces at Kenilworth Castle, where the Tudor had set up his headquarters.

The women of the castle were not idle either. The Dowager Countess took command of the kitchens, requisitioning all the bread her servants could bake for the fighting men, then swooped down on the dairy, appropriating cheeses, and the brewhouse, where she demanded that great barrels be filled with ale. Kate, nearing her time, and Elizabeth helped, tearing up strips of material for bandages and winding them into neat rolls for the soldiers to take with them, and mixing salves for wounds in the still room.

Kate’s heart had leapt when she’d heard that John had invaded. Every day, she kept thinking of him advancing further south, marching to meet the Tudor’s forces. She could not bear to think she was aiding his enemies. What if he really did have with him York, the rightful King? Even if he did not, he himself, come to that, had a better claim than the Tudor. He had the right of this, so God grant him the victory! It was her constant prayer.

William was too preoccupied with his defensive measures to concern himself with a wife in the last stages of pregnancy. That was women’s business, and the women would look after her. He ordered Kate to rest, left her to her own devices, and busied himself with arming all the able-bodied men in his household.

‘Guy is being sent with the rest to join the King,’ Mattie told Kate one morning, as she was brushing her mistress’s hair. She looked worried, and Kate’s heart went out to her.

‘It is always the unfortunate lot of women to wait at home while men go to war,’ she said. ‘We must pray daily for his safety.’

‘He will need it, my lady,’ Mattie muttered, lowering her voice and glancing nervously at the door. ‘He is going to join my lord of Lincoln.’

Kate gaped, and the child leapt beneath her heart. ‘Oh, Mattie!’

‘Yes, he plans to ride some way with the others, then break away in the darkness when they camp overnight.’

‘It is a dangerous thing to do,’ Kate warned. ‘He could be hanged if he is caught. Please urge him to think seriously before he goes so far.’

‘I have,’ Mattie assured her, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve been on at him for days, but he is adamant. The true line must be restored, he says, and the Tudor sent packing. He says he’s not the only one that thinks that way, and he’s right, for I hear there are others flocking to the Earl’s ba

There were tears in Kate’s eyes as she reflected on the staunch hearts of these true friends.

‘I wonder, my lady,’ Mattie said, dabbing her eyes too, ‘if you would like Guy to carry a letter to my lord of Lincoln.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Kate cried. ‘Yes! I should like that very much. I will write a letter now, and you may take it to Guy with more hearty thanks from me.’

‘That I will, my lady. And I’d be grateful for your prayers for his safety.’

‘I will pray for us all, and especially for Guy – and for John. Let us hope that God defends the right,’ Kate said fervently.

To my right well beloved John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Kate wrote as a preamble, thinking it looked rather stiff and formal, yet not knowing how else to begin; but then the words poured out of her.

It is long since I saw you, my own fair knight, and I recommend myself to you in my most faithful wise, and pray you to let me know of your welfare, which I pray God daily to increase. And if it shall please you to hear of me, I can never be in full good health of body nor of heart till I hear from you. I am with child and near my time, or I would have made haste to come to you myself. But in my absence, this good groom of mine has consented to bring this my letter.

I send you my prayers and good wishes for your great enterprise, and look soon to have joyful news of you. May God send the victory to the righteous. I will pray for that to the utmost of my power.

My lord, I did mean to ask you that last time, before I was cruelly prevented: were the sons of King Edward with you at Sheriff Hutton? I am in good hope that they were taken from the Tower and sent there in the wake of the conspiracies. I ask you this that I might know the truth about my father, King Richard. You know it would be the greatest comfort to me in this world to know that he did not put them to death. I have wondered too if the young gentleman you have with you is not what he says but some other of even greater importance. No doubt we shall all know the truth soon, God willing.

No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping. And I beseech you that this letter be not seen by any earthly creature save only yourself. And now farewell, mine own fair lord, and God give you good rest, and a great victory over our enemies.

Written at Raglan on St Barnabas Day in the afternoon.

Your own Katherine Plantagenet.

When ye have read this, I pray you burn it or keep it secret to yourself, as my faithful trust is in you.

At dawn the next day, Kate stood by the mounting block holding the empty stirrup cup, watching William lead his company of soldiers out of the courtyard. Guy was with them, the letter in his bosom. When they had all gone from sight, she knew a moment of panic, for if it were to be intercepted by the King’s men, this would undoubtedly be seen as treasonous; but it was too late to recall it. Yet when she envisaged John reading it, and its contents giving heart to him before he faced his enemies in battle, and the reply he might send when the world had righted itself, she knew for a certainty that she would not recall it even if she had the chance.

Interlude

October 1562. Hampton Court Palace.

‘The Queen is dying,’ Robert Dudley groans, his head in his hands. ‘There is no hope.’

The other councillors in the antechamber exchange glances. This display of grief is as much for Dudley himself as for Elizabeth, they convey, as once she is gone, goodbye, Lord Robert – and good riddance!

However, their minds are preoccupied with more weighty matters. They are all too conscious of the threat of civil war, should the Queen succumb to the smallpox without naming her heir.

‘We must pray that her Majesty recovers,’ Cecil says firmly. ‘And that we be not divided on the issue of her successor.’

‘My vote is for Lord Huntingdon,’ declares Pembroke, who has not forgiven Katherine’s treatment of his son.

‘His claim is weak.’ Mr Secretary dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

‘Then we are left with the Lady Katherine Grey,’ Winchester declares. Several voices, including those of the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Arundel, are heard saying aye. Pembroke snorts in derision.

‘But she has been disgraced and discredited,’ Sussex reminds them. ‘She is hardly fit to succeed.’

‘She is a Protestant, and it’s possible her marriage waslawful,’ Cecil opines. ‘But even if that could be proved, which of us would want Lord Hertford as king?’

There is a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘It would be Philip of Spain all over again.’