A Dangerous Inheritance

I try to make some sense of it. I spend so long poring over this page that there is no time to attempt any more. I try to recall my history lessons and the books that once captivated me. I’m sure it was Richard III who was damaged by rumours, so that part makes sense. And Bokenham must surely mean Buckingham. I seem to remember reading of a duke of Buckingham who supported Richard but later rebelled against him. As for the Bishop of L, that will need a more learned mind than mine. And who were Mancini and Pietro? Italians by the sound of it. How could Italians know anything of the secret affairs of England?

They live yet. The Princes? In 1487? They had been murdered in King Richard’s reign.

But what if they had not?

I remember Master Aylmer telling us about the pretenders who threatened Henry VII’s throne, and how many people believed they were the true heirs of York. Master Aylmer could not sufficiently stress how perilous it is to tangle with princes: ‘For look what happened to those pretenders. Both were exposed as frauds. Henry VII was merciful to Lambert Simnel, and put him to work in his kitchens, but Perkin Warbeck tried the King’s patience too long, and ended up hanged. Henry VII never rested easy in his bed all those years.’

My tutor’s words come back to me now. Why, if the pretenders were only pretenders, had Henry not rested easy? Was it because he did not know for certain that the Princes were dead? Did he fear that they ‘lived yet’?

When Harry, with Sanders in tow, comes to tell me that the Earl is back and commanding us to supper, I try to delay the evil moment I feel sure is coming. Gabbling a little, I ask Harry what he makes of all this, but he is sceptical. ‘I imagine the King did not rest easy because he was worried that people would accept the pretenders as the true heirs to the throne.’

‘Then why did he not just execute them?’

‘He had to catch them first.’

As I tie up the notes and put them back in my casket, my hands shaking, the reference to the Tower leaps out at me. ‘Have you heard of someone called Tyrell, Harry?’ I ask. The name sounds familiar.

‘I think a man called Tyrell was beheaded by Henry VII, but I can’t remember why. Now come, sweetheart. My lord and lady do not like to be kept waiting.’

At supper, Pembroke a

In the morning, the Earl is for the Guildhall with the Privy Council, to wait upon the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the City and witness the proclamation.

‘You must all stay indoors,’ he says. ‘It would not do for the usurper’s sister to be seen in public, especially with my son.’ I open my mouth to protest, but he has gone.

‘Try not to worry,’ Harry says, hugging me, although his voice betrays his own anxiety. I am too frightened to speak. Pleading a headache, I go to my chamber and lie down, falling into troubled dreams in which the girl in the blue gown is ru

After di

The rest of the afternoon is quiet. Beyond the open windows, I can hear the usual traffic and shouts from the river. It is a hot day, but a gentle breeze is stirring the damask curtains. I wish I could sleep again, and escape this misery and uncertainty. I should be with Harry, making the most of what might be my last hours with him, for I fear now that my marriage is doomed. At the thought of losing my love I fall to weeping. I would with all my heart that I could give myself to him just once.

Inspiration comes out of the blue. If we tell the Earl that we are husband and wife in very truth, he ca

My heart is pounding. I flop back on the bed, thinking it through, and decide that this ruse could work. I must tell Harry. But when I go to find him, Sanders tells me that he has ridden to Cheapside to hear the new Queen proclaimed. He has defied his father’s orders yet again! How glad I am to know that he is in such a bullish frame of mind, for no doubt he will be ready to defy my lord further.

I return to my chamber and sit at my table beneath the window. I refresh my face with some lavender water, pick up my comb and tidy my tangled hair. Setting the French hood atop it, and easing the band under my chin, I peer into the mirror and see myself, all white skin and great blue eyes shadowed by anxiety. I look ill. I pinch my cheeks to redden them and bite my lips. I must look fetching for Harry when he returns.

The clock strikes five. There is a great shout from the street, followed by yelling and cheering, and the sound of ru

I race through the house to the landward side and look out of a window. Moments later, the Countess joins me. We watch, in silence, people ru

‘I ca

I open the window and lean out. ‘Look!’

There in the street below me are normally dignified aldermen and merchants, worthy, respected men of substance, casting off their gowns and leaping and jigging with the common folk. And here returns the Earl of Pembroke, to much cheering. I see him smiling expansively, as if he personally has conferred this great blessing on the people who now crowd around him. We watch as he takes off his cap, fills it with gold angels, and tosses it to the crowd.

‘Make you merry!’ he cries. ‘God bless Queen Mary, our rightful queen!’ The citizens roar their approval and scramble for the Earl’s bounty. Then he holds his hand up to gain their attention, and declares in ringing tones: ‘Good people, I would have you know that my son’s marriage to the Lady Katherine Grey, made against my will by Northumberland, is to be a

‘No! No!’ I wail. ‘It ca

‘Hush!’ she admonishes, as the servants come ru

Harry’s face is grim. He kneels beside the chair and clasps me to him.

‘No one shall separate us!’ he declares.

I grasp his hand tightly. I never want to let it go.

‘We have to tell them!’ I urge.

‘Tell them what?’ It is the Earl.

‘Tell your father, Harry, why he ca

Pembroke frowns. ‘Indeed I can!’ he declares.

‘On what grounds?’ Harry asks, defiant now.