A Dangerous Inheritance

‘God’s will in the matter has yet to be revealed,’ Pembroke growls, ‘and until then, daughter-in-law, you would do well to hold your peace and pray for a happy outcome. In the meantime, do not defy my order. You may have to wait only a few days longer.’

Harry looks as if he is about to cry too, from anger and frustration; he is struggling to control himself. Without a word, he hands his mother and me into the barge and flings himself down on the cushions in the cabin. The boat rocks alarmingly, bumping against the steps.

‘Have patience, my children,’ the Countess counsels. But we’ve been patient long enough. Harry sits there stony-faced, and I ca

Kate

16th June 1483. Crosby Place, the City of London and Baynard’s Castle.

‘Your father has returned from the Tower,’ the Duchess told Kate, as they sat in the courtyard garden, working at their embroidery and enjoying the sunshine. A clatter of hooves, shouts in the street and scurrying grooms confirmed her words.

Gloucester rode into the courtyard and dismounted. ‘Bring wine!’ he called. ‘And keep White Surrey saddled but give her some water.’ Servants sprang to action. The Duke walked across to Kate and A

‘I ca

A

‘It did,’ he told her. ‘I laid the matter of York before the councillors, and insisted it was bad for him and the King to be apart, and to have no one of their own age to play with.’

‘And did they agree?’

‘They did. So I proposed sending Cardinal Bourchier to the Queen, to command her to release her son. I reasoned that the Archbishop of Canterbury’s persuasions would carry much weight with her.’

‘That was well done, my lord,’ A

‘It was Buckingham who saved the day,’ Gloucester related. ‘He told the Cardinal that the Queen’s stubbor

‘Soldiers?’ echoed the Duchess.

‘In case the Queen proves obdurate,’ the Duke said. ‘Never fear, it will only be a show of force.’

That afternoon, the Duchess summoned Kate. ‘Make haste, and get your maid to pack your gear,’ she commanded. ‘Your father has sent to tell me he has taken up residence in the Tower until the King is crowned. He has given orders that we are to move to Baynard’s Castle to lodge with your grandmother the Duchess.’

Kate’s heart sank. She hated the idea of her father being away from them at this time, when his life might be in peril. Of course, the Tower would be the safest place for him, but for her it was indelibly associated with the horrible end of Lord Hastings, and would forever be a sinister place.

That evening, as dusk was falling, the Duchess Cecily received them graciously, greeting them at the top of the imposing stairs that led up from the jetty. But as Kate had stepped onto those stairs, she had experienced a moment of blind panic and despair; so strong was the impression that she caught her breath. The horrible sensation persisted until she was inside the house, and only then did she feel like her normal self again. She wondered what it was that had made her feel so desperately sad and terrified, but she put it down to anxiety over her father, and the moment passed.

The Duchess led them through a series of vast, splendid chambers, each more exquisitely appointed than the last, with tiled floors, stained-glass windows, vaulted ceilings and traceried windows. But there was little furniture, just the odd bench or chest.

‘I rarely use these rooms now,’ the Duchess told them. ‘I observe a conventual regime, and normally confine myself to my chamber and the chapel.’ Later, Kate got to see her grandmother’s chamber, a stuffy, dark room with a simple bed and a portable altar. In fact, the whole mansion was dark, hung with rich, gloomy tapestries that obscured much of the light and gave the lofty rooms a sad, oppressive air.

‘Three years ago, child, I decided to dedicate myself to God and take the Benedictine habit,’ Cecily explained, as Kate knelt at her feet by the fireside. ‘My life is now ruled by prayer.’ Looking at her, upright and frail, seated in her high-backed chair, her once beautiful features framed by a nun’s wimple and veil, and her only adornment and concession to her rank the enamelled cross at her breast, Kate had an impression of strength and piety. She wished she could unburden her fears to this old lady, who was clearly very wise and could see beyond the preoccupations and vanities of the world.

The following evening, as they sat in the solar after supper, she listened avidly as the Duchess Cecily told her stories of the old days, of the civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York, and of an even earlier time, when Cecily had been young and renowned for her pride and her exquisite aristocratic looks.

‘They called me the Rose of Raby,’ she reminisced, ‘and that wasn’t all! The other name they used was Proud Cis, and I deserved it, I tell you. I had a very high opinion of myself in those days.’

York – she always referred to her long-dead husband as York, although Kate knew her grandfather’s name had been Richard Plantagenet – had adored her. ‘Fourteen children I bore him. Your father was the last but one. Nine of them are with God.’ Her face clouded; Kate thought she was thinking of Edmund, Earl of Rutland, dead in battle at seventeen, and George, Duke of Clarence, drowned in Malmsey wine in the Tower by order of his brother, King Edward. How terrible it must have been for the Duchess to have had one son killed by order of another.

Kate did not like to say anything; indeed, did not know what to say.

‘They put a paper crown on his head,’ the old lady went on, toying absent-mindedly with her rosary beads. Kate was nonplussed, but the Duchess A

Kate realised that the Duchess Cecily was talking about her husband York, who had been slain at the Battle of Wakefield more than twenty years earlier.

‘It was a terrible thing to do, my lady,’ she said gently. The elderly Duchess patted her head.

‘You’re a good girl, Kate,’ she said, ‘and I fancy you have a look of him about you. Your grandsire, I mean. Your father is more like him than any of my children.’ Her eyes were wistful. Then abruptly she turned to A

‘The Duke my son sent word that young York has joined his brother in the Tower,’ she said.

‘I know,’ A

‘Strange about Dorset disappearing,’ Cecily observed. ‘But he will have heard what happened after the Battle of Tewkesbury, when Richard had the Lancastrian leaders dragged out of the abbey to summary execution, saying it was his right as Constable of England.’

If her father had said he had the right, then he must have had. Yet her stepmother was looking uneasy, and her grandmother’s face was grim.

A