A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Oh well, in that case it can’t be true,’ I retort. ‘Richard III was a deceiver and a murderer. How could he have said that about his own mother?’

‘Indeed, especially if it wasn’t true.’

‘I’ll wager he just made it up.’

‘No, hedidn’t,’ Harry tells me. ‘Apparently his older brother, the Duke of Clarence, had said it first, many years before, when he wanted to impugn Edward’s title so he could get the crown for himself. He was a villain too, by all accounts. He was executed by drowning in a butt of Malmsey.’ I had heard that old tale many times.

‘They were all villains, by the sound of it,’ I laugh.

We wander on, through several more interco

‘Who is that?’ I ask Harry.

‘I have no idea,’ he replies. ‘It’s probably been here for years. It’s not anyone I recognise.’

I peer closer. ‘There is no clue, no coat of arms or date or age. But she must have been someone important to have had her likeness painted.’

The girl seems to stare back at me: her face is skilfully painted and unca

Harry slides his arm around my waist, and just at that moment there is a muffled footfall not far behind us. We are being watched again. It’s a horrible feeling because the watcher is keeping himself just out of sight in the next room. But Harry seems unaware. He is looking at the painting.

‘Those clothes are very fine, but very old-fashioned. This must have been done years ago, possibly back in the Duchess Cecily’s time.’

‘Maybe it’s a princess,’ I venture.

‘Aye, one of the daughters of Edward IV perhaps. They were Duchess Cecily’s granddaughters, and what more natural for her to have a picture of one of them? I wonder if there is anything on the back.’ He lifts the painting off its hook, scattering enough dust to make us cough, and turns it around. There is nothing to see but the date ‘1484’ inked in spiky faded script.

‘Well, I was right!’ he declares. ‘It does date from the Duchess Cecily’s time. She died in 1495, I recall. Possibly it’s Elizabeth of York.’

I know it ca

Harry slides the picture back on its hook, and I take one last, wistful look at it before following him into the next chamber. I am much taken with the young girl in the portrait. If only I could discover who she was.

*

There is little of interest to me in the rooms beyond, although Harry is intrigued by a rusted sword that rests suspended on hooks above a fireplace, and stops to examine it.

‘This was a fine weapon once,’ he murmurs. But I am not interested in swords. I walk ahead, into a narrow windowless passage leading only to a spiral stairway. It is dark here, but from above a bright shaft of sunlight illumines the stairwell. I stop, my blood ru

I start trembling. Is there someone up there, playing a trick on me? A ghost? Surely not, I pray: it is broad daylight, and ghosts are creatures of the night, or so I have always been told. But there is something horribly sinister about the summoning shadow, and although it is a hot day, the passage has suddenly turned freezing cold. With the chill fingers of fear creeping up my neck, I stand shaking, unable to move but compelled to watch.

Then suddenly the beckoning hand disappears, and Harry is behind me. The spell is broken and I turn to look at him, relieved beyond measure to have him near me.

‘By God, what’s the matter, sweetheart? You look as if you’ve seen—’

‘I have! A ghost! There was a shadow – a hand beckoning me upstairs. There, on the wall. It’s gone now. It was there, and then it just wasn’t there any more.’ I realise that it is considerably warmer now.

Harry’s face darkens. ‘So help me, if anyone has played a cruel prank and affrighted you, they will answer to me and my father for it!’ he assures me. ‘Wait here. I will go up and investigate.’

‘No, don’t leave me!’ I plead.

‘You are not alone,’ Harry says comfortingly. ‘Sanders is not far behind us. Aren’t you, Sanders?’ His voice rises on the last words.

His father’s groom – our unwanted shadow – immediately appears in the doorway. ‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Stay here with my lady,’ Harry commands. ‘No doubt you overheard all that. I won’t be a moment.’

The sight of Sanders, solid, dour and for once strangely welcome, has steadied me. I am happy for him to guard our rear.

‘I’m coming with you,’ I say to Harry. ‘Let Sanders keep watch down here.’

‘Very well,’ says Harry. ‘I’ll go first.’

‘My orders are to attend on you both at all times, my lord,’ Sanders protests.

Harry looks furious. ‘We will not be gone long; we’ll only be up the stairs. And I have reason to believe that there is someone up there who is bent on making mischief. If I need you, I will call you, or send my lady down to you. Someone has to stay here to make sure that the culprit has no possible means of escape.’ He speaks with an authority he has never before asserted in my presence, and although Sanders looks unhappy, he nods and acquiesces.

Harry grips my hand and leads me up the twisting stair. We climb higher and higher, me bunching up my skirts so as not to trip, and emerge at last in a circular turret room lit only by a narrow window overlooking the broad width of the busy Thames. There is no exit – and no one here. The room is empty, apart from an old iron-bound chest below the window.

‘You must have imagined it, my love,’ says Harry, and then in one swift movement he gathers me in his arms, kisses me hard on the mouth and pushes me against the cold, whitewashed wall before I can catch my breath. He is breathing heavily, grappling with my skirts, and whispering hotly in my ear, ‘We must be quick, dear heart! It’s not the way I wanted it to be, but I must have you …’

He is panting so hard I ca

‘No one was up here,’ he tells the groom, as calmly as if he had not been in the throes of desire only seconds before. ‘My lady must have imagined what she saw. There is nothing of note here, just that old chest. We checked inside, to see if someone was hiding in there, but there are only a few old papers. Does that satisfy you?’