A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Make way for my Lord Hastings!’

The sentries looked at each other, shrugged, and opened the gate. Immediately, a small band of angry men burst through it. One, an official in a black gown with a rod of office, was dragging a well-dressed nobleman who was putting up some spirited resistance, although his face was twisted in what looked like terror. Behind followed a furious priest.

‘In the name of God, stop!’ he was bellowing. ‘This is outrageous! You have allowed this poor wretch no time for any long confession or any space for remembering his sins.’

‘Spare me! Oh my God, spare me!’ the nobleman was pleading.

Kate did not wait to hear more. She grabbed Mattie by the hand and ran back to the passage, where they could hide behind the wall. She prayed no one had noticed them.

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other helplessly.

‘What’s happening?’ Mattie cried. ‘What are they going to do to that poor man?’

‘Shhhh! I don’t know,’ Kate whispered. ‘I wonder which one is Lord Hastings. Surely he will not allow anything bad to happen.’

‘Where have you been all these years?’ Mattie hissed. ‘That poor nobleman isLord Hastings!’

‘Oh, sweet Holy Mother,’ Kate breathed. ‘I think they are going to kill him. Oh, what can we do?’

Gathering every ounce of her courage, she peered around the wall. The men were now on Tower Green, in front of the chapel. They had set up a stock of wood from the astonished workmen’s pile, and were forcing Lord Hastings to his knees in front of it. He was praying aloud, and although she could not hear what he was saying, she could detect the desperation in his voice. His tormentors were arguing, and a man-at-arms was waving his hands and protesting angrily about something. Then another was summoned, one of the soldiers from the bench. A man in a rich gown turned and she suddenly recognised the Duke of Buckingham, who seemed to be in charge; he barked an order and the second man-at-arms drew his sword. At this, Hastings’ prayers grew frantic. The furious priest was on his knees beside him.

Kate drew back behind the shelter of the wall, shuddering. It was horrifyingly clear what was to happen next, and she shrank from witnessing it. Behind her, Mattie was sobbing silently, hugging herself in distress, and she put her arms around her, as much to comfort herself as Mattie, wondering how people could treat an execution as a public spectacle, a holiday even, as it seemed they did in this alien city – and no doubt elsewhere.

There was a sickening thud, then a short silence, broken by Buckingham’s hoarse shout: ‘Behold the head of a traitor!’ This was greeted by desultory cheers, and sounds that the gathering was breaking up.

‘They might come this way and see us!’ Mattie whispered, quivering. Kate feared she might be right, and guessed that those wicked men would not have wanted witnesses to their dreadful deed. There had been something furtive and underhand about it. What had the priest said? That poor Lord Hastings had been allowed no time to make a proper confession. The cleric had been indignant, and rightly so.

But how had this happened – and why? These questions struck her as she grabbed Mattie’s hand and hurried back with her through the winding passage. There was no one about but the sentries on the gate. The two girls fled past them, ignoring their cheery farewells.

‘Don’t bother to say goodbye!’ one sentry called after them.

Why?Kate kept asking herself as she half ran through the streets of London, and then again as she hastened up the stone stairs to the door of Crosby Hall, where she dismissed Mattie and went alone to her chamber. Why?It was a question she could not, would not, pose to her faithful maid, because it concerned her father.

No one else had such compelling cause to wish Hastings dead. Hastings had disloyally suspected her father of scheming to seize the throne from the lawful King. He had treacherously plotted against Gloucester, even allying with his enemies the Wydevilles. Her father believed they had been compassing his death. And he had gone this day to that council meeting at the Tower.

She sat down in the window embrasure. The stones behind her back were painted with bright trefoils and borders, and the glass panes between the mullions were stained in jewel colours, blue, yellow, red … rich red, the colour of blood. She could not help thinking of Lord Hastings kneeling in terror on Tower Green, and of what she had shrunk from seeing. There would have been blood … rivers of it.

She was twisting her russet curls tightly around her finger, unaware that she was doing it. She was imagining her father – her beloved, kindly father – sending Lord Hastings to his death. For who else could have done it? Her father was the Lord Protector; it would not have happened without his sanction or order. And the Duke of Buckingham, who had been in charge of the beheading, was his staunchest ally.

It was all beyond her comprehension and her competence. She could not deal with it herself. She hoped that all would become clear when the Duke returned home.

*

There was shouting outside in the street. Agitated male voices were crying, ‘Treason! Treason!’

‘Oh, dear Holy Mother!’ Kate whispered, as it dawned on her suddenly why Hastings might have been executed. ‘No! Not my father!’

She flew out of her chamber, and in the great hall collided with the Duchess A

The Duchess A

‘A word, please!’ she cried in his ear. He was about to race on, but realised that it was his liege lord’s wife who had accosted him, and paused, with obvious reluctance.

‘What is the meaning of this? Why are you shouting “Treason”?’ A

The retainer, realising that many expectant faces were turned in his direction, and that a hush was descending, cleared his throat.

‘My lady, good citizens, you should know that an ambush had been prepared for my Lord Protector when he went to the Tower today. His enemies, led by Lord Hastings, had plotted his destruction.’ Kate went cold at that; bracing herself to hear the worst, she saw A