A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Yes, Madam, you are ignorant,’ he said scathingly. ‘Poor men are put on trial. Great lords can be tried by their peers or attainted by Parliament. And Acts of Attainder can be passed retrospectively. It seems to me, my lady, that you think me the villain of this piece, not Hastings. You seem to be insinuating that I executed a man without trial, on unsound grounds, and with no good evidence. Well,’ he concluded, rising to his feet, ‘I am touched by your faith in me. I know not what I have done to deserve this. It is bad enough to be deserted by a man I thought my friend – but to be thought ill of by my wife, who should be supporting me, is intolerable!’

He stalked from the table towards the stairs.

A

‘I wish you both good night,’ he said, and was gone.

Kate could not sleep. She lay fidgeting, her mind in turmoil, remembering that stark tableau on Tower Green. And when she did finally drift off, her dreams were of a soldier with a drawn sword, the final terror of a dying man, and dark blood soaking into the grass.

Katherine

July 1553. Baynard’s Castle, London, and Syon House, Middlesex.

It has been unbearably hot and thundery. Two nights ago there was a terrible storm, with raging thunder and hailstones red as clotted blood raining down. Harry and I, like most of the household, were unable to sleep, and as we moved from window to window, watching the tempest, we could hear our fearful servants warning that it was an omen.

The air has been thick with rumours. It’s even being bruited on the streets – and indeed, in the nether regions of Baynard’s Castle – that the King is dying, or even dead. It’s true, he has hardly been seen in public for weeks, but my father-in-law Pembroke was sanguine when Harry asked outright if his Majesty was ill.

‘No, he is recovering,’ he said. ‘He is able to walk in his galleries and gardens at Greenwich.’

But that’s not what A

Not long after my exchange with the Earl, A

‘Well, this gentleman came out and spoke to us,’ A

She pauses for effect. Her audience is riveted, and she is savouring keeping them in suspense. Such dramas do not often enliven the daily lives of servants.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘I was that shocked. We all were. I mean, he was so thin and wasted. He had two attendants with him. I swear they were holding him up. You should have seen the change that come over that crowd. When the King waved and bowed to us, there were a few cheers, but you could tell most people was thinking the same thing. And when he’d gone, men were saying he was doomed. Well, you could see it, plain as day. Poor little King.’ She dabs her eyes with her apron.

I hasten away to tell Harry.

‘I thought there was something badly amiss,’ he says, taking my hand as we stroll in the brilliantly blooming gardens with Sanders keeping a respectful distance. ‘His Majesty has not set foot outside his palace for ages.’

‘But he is so young – not much older than I am,’ I comment sadly.

‘Death strikes young and old alike,’ Harry observes. ‘We should live our lives to the full, and dread God. Heavens, I am begi

I know this. I have often heard my parents deploring the Lady Mary’s fervent Catholicism. But I have also felt sorry for her. Declared a bastard after King Harry’s divorce from her mother, Katherine of Aragon, she has clung stubbornly to the faith of her childhood, even after it was outlawed when King Edward embraced the true Protestant religion. Since then, she has lived quietly in the country, rarely visiting the court, a sad spinster who spends her barren days telling her beads and praying to her idolatrous images – or so my mother told me.

I do not need Harry to explain to me what will happen if Mary becomes queen. Any fool could foresee that the whole country will be forced to turn Catholic again, and where will that leave Northumberland and those who have supported him, not to mention the reforms of the past six years? What of his ally Pembroke? Indeed, what of my own father and mother, stout Protestants both? And it dawns on me that we are all – even the little, unimportant people like myself and Harry, Jane and Guilford Dudley – enmeshed in this web of loyalties and convictions.

*

On this balmy summer evening, the sky has a golden tinge, and the setting sun is reflected in the rippling water as the Earl’s gilded barge glides upstream on the Thames. Everything looks tranquil and peaceful. Would that my mind could be too.

My lord of Pembroke has told us only that we are going to join the court at Syon House, and ordered us all to wear black. Has the King died? Surely, then, we would be going to Greenwich, in the other direction?

Seated in the plush cabin, doleful in our mourning garb – so at variance with the golden beauty of the day – Harry and I exchange glances. My lady the Countess speaks of pleasantries only; even if she is aware of the purpose of our outing, she gives no clue, for she obeys her husband unquestioningly. Pembroke grunts in answer to her prattle; he is much preoccupied with his secret thoughts.

At Syon, we leave the barge at the landing stage and walk up to the former nu

People bow as we pass, and some stare or nod in our direction and murmur to their neighbours. Then I espy my parents waiting for us near the dais. I have not seen them since my wedding, nearly two months ago, and kneel to receive their blessing. They raise and kiss me, more affectionately than they have ever done, and exchange warm but muted greetings with the Earl and Countess.