A Dangerous Inheritance

‘My grandson Warwick is a backward child, as you will see,’ Cecily said sadly. ‘It is as well that his poor father’s attainder prevents him from ever inheriting the crown, for he would be next in line to the throne after the King and young York. But if anyone wished them harm, they might try to use Warwick for their own ends. Attainders can easily be reversed.’

Kate was begi

‘It is only ten days to the coronation,’ A

Kate and Mattie were walking through London when they suddenly encountered a procession led by none other than the Duke of Gloucester, astride White Surrey. Kate was astounded, not only to meet her father riding abroad, but to see that he had put off his black mourning clothes and was wearing a sumptuous purple robe. Behind him followed a huge contingent of his liveried retainers, all wearing his white boar badge.

‘There must be a thousand of them, as sure as I live!’ Mattie muttered. Realising instinctively that it might be better to preserve their anonymity, the two girls moved quickly to the back of the crowd, such as it was, for few were bothering to line the street, and even fewer to doff their bo

‘Look at him, acting like a king!’ one said. ‘I’ll be damned if he don’t seize the crown.’

‘I’d curse him with a fate worthy of his crimes,’ spat another. Kate was just about to round on the speaker, but Mattie grabbed her hand and pulled her away, diving down a side street. ‘Best not to say anything,’ she said, when they came to a breathless halt at the other end. Kate was angry, with the man for his unjust words, and with Mattie for depriving her of the chance to challenge him, but when she had calmed down, she realised that her maid had been wiser than she. Nothing she said now could disabuse people like that of their fixed opinions. Only her father could retrieve his reputation – and retrieve it he would, given time, she knew it.

London was becoming very crowded, its population swelled by an influx of great lords and their retinues, come for the coronation, along with many other visitors up from the country. I

‘I wonder why it has been postponed,’ Kate mused, fingering the gorgeous blue damask gown that was now finished and hanging from its peg in her chamber, and wondering when she would get the chance to wear it.

‘I have no idea,’ the Duchess said. ‘My lord writes that the King’s coronation robes are ready, and that some dishes have already been prepared for the banquet in Westminster Hall, so probably this is just a minor delay.’

‘I hope so,’ Kate said fervently. She did not want her father’s detractors to be given any more cause to think ill of him.

Katherine

July 1553. Baynard’s Castle, London, and Sheen Priory, Surrey.

Against all the odds, it seems, the Lady Mary has eluded capture. In many shires, men are arming in her favour, not only Catholics but Protestants, loyal to King Harry’s daughter. The only heartening piece of news is of a rising against her in Cambridge, yet we hear no more of that.

‘Northumberland must act now if victory is to be ours,’ Harry says.

But Northumberland remains in London.

‘He dare not leave yet,’ says Pembroke grimly, on one of his rare visits home. ‘He does not have enough men, and is doing his utmost to recruit them. He has drafted a letter for Queen Jane to send to the lord lieutenants of the counties, commanding them to do all in their power to defend her just title.’ His tone is slightly ironic, as if to imply that her title might be anything but just.

I turn my head away. I have nothing to say to my father-in-law. I hate him. But in a few days, God willing, he may have to come craving my forgiveness. I am looking forward to that moment.

In the meantime, I need distractions to take my mind off my anxieties. One morning – much encouraged by the news that Northumberland has mustered an army at least two thousand strong – I open the little silver casket in which I keep jewels, letters, poems and the bundle of papers I found in the turret room. First, I take out the gold pendant. Even though it is of a style long out of fashion, and frowned on these days, I would that I could wear it. It is so beautifully wrought, and the sapphire is a heavenly blue. As I hold it in my hand, it feels alive, vibrant! Guiltily, I hang it around my neck – and immediately am swamped by that awful sense of despair that I had before. It is a terrible feeling – as if all hope has gone and only death remains. Clawing at the chain, I struggle to extricate myself, and my breath is coming in short gasps when I finally succeed in tearing off the pendant. Surely it isbewitched! I must never put it on again. And yet – it is so beautiful, and seemingly harmless when I look at it lying on the table. I stare at it for a bit, then make up my mind. Wrapping it in a scrap of taffeta from my needlework basket, I thrust it to the bottom of my casket, resolving that there it shall stay.

I wonder if sheexperienced those feelings – that girl in the blue dress. I still dream about her sometimes, dream of her reaching out to me, as if she wants something. But I never discover what it is; I always wake up. I have her painting in my bedchamber now – Harry asked the Earl if I could. I am convinced that she is Katherine Plantagenet, Richard III’s daughter. I hope that horrible sensation of despair has nothing to do with her. Who knows how many people have worn that pendant since?

I turn to the bundle of papers. I have been meaning to read them properly, but events have overtaken me. I need time and concentration, for they are written in an ill hand, very cramped and hard to decipher. Because of what I saw on the stairs to that tower room where I found the papers, I have come to believe that someone wants them to be read.

The first few lines are in bigger, clearer script. I can read them easily; I have, indeed, done so several times, and memorised them, for they are startling, and of some import. I read them again, wondering.

These lines I write for posterity. It is said that King Richard murdered his nephews in the Tower of London, so that he could usurp the throne. But that is surely a calumny, put about by his enemies, which in these days may not be denied.

There is more, but the handwriting suddenly becomes minuscule, almost illegible. Given the preamble, I suspect that what I have before me was once highly controversial, even dangerous, and probably kept hidden by its author.

I am sitting at the table in the parlour trying to make out the next line when Harry comes in and flops down beside me.