A Dangerous Inheritance

Katherine

August–October 1553. Sheen Priory, Whitehall Palace and Westminster Abbey.

Queen Mary has entered London to unprecedented rejoicing. She kept her word, for my father was freed, after only three days in the Tower. Northumberland, having cravenly converted at the last to the Catholic faith in order to save his neck, died on the block.

Soon afterwards we hear talk of a marriage for the Queen.

‘She must wed,’ my mother says. ‘A woman ca

‘You could, my dear,’ my father observes wryly. He is listless these days, and knows not how to occupy himself while waiting in vain for a summons to court. It rankles bitterly that Mary has forgiven the entire Privy Council for supporting Jane – except him.

‘She must get an heir to succeed her,’ my mother says, ‘although I doubt she will find it easy at thirty-seven.’

My sister Mary is playing with her kittens on the carpet. I have one on my lap, and it is ripping my embroidery apart. I chide it severely and lift it down to the floor, where Mary grabs it. ‘Gently!’ I admonish her. She is a plain child, which is unfortunate, as some pretension to beauty would compensate for her poor humped back and small stature, yet her mind is lively and questioning.

‘What would happen if the Queen doesn’t get an heir?’ she pipes up.

‘Then we would have the Lady Elizabeth to rule over us,’ my lady says.

Mary and I have never met the Lady Elizabeth, but we both know that, although she is only the bastardised daughter of King Harry by A

‘I doubt that would please her Majesty,’ my lord declares, ‘for Elizabeth is a Protestant, although I dare say she will turn her coat now that the Mass has been restored.’

‘Ah, but the Queen has said she would not compel or constrain any man’s conscience,’ my mother reminds him.

‘True, true, which is as well, because mark ye, I will never embrace the Catholic faith. Never! But can you see Mary remaining so tolerant if she marries Prince Philip of Spain?’

My lady shrugs. ‘I doubt she will achieve that unless it be at the cost of her popularity. A Spaniard for king? And a fanatical Catholic at that, one who has been a champion of the Inquisition? Nay, she would do better to look closer to home for a husband!’

‘And invite faction fights at court?’

‘Then who canshe marry?’ my mother asks, tart.

I leave them to their wrangling and wander out into the gardens. This talk of marriage makes me sad. The fresh breeze on my face feels like a bitter caress, reminding me of what I have lost. I have had no word or token from Harry, and my heart is heavy.

I trail my fingers in the clear water of the fountain and peer into its depths. My distorted reflection stares back at me, a slender, tragic-faced girl in a yellow gown, with her fair hair straggling about her shoulders and her blue eyes watery with tears. Oh my Harry, where are you? What are you doing right now? Are you thinking of me with as much grief as I think of you? Are you thinking of me at all?

Not knowing is torture. Not being able to do anything to change the situation is even worse. If only I could be given some sign, some hint even, that he still loves me, I would abandon the rest and die content. What have I done to deserve this misery, except be born with royal blood in my veins?

I walk along the lime alley, nursing my sorrow, and then I see, riding towards me, a messenger in the Tudor livery. He salutes me, and rides on. Suddenly I feel the stirrings of excitement. What can his arrival mean?

I am summoned to court, appointed to the exalted office of Lady of the Privy Chamber to the Queen! I ca

The news is cause for a great celebration, and I recall joyfully what my mother said to me that night I returned to Sheen. If I am seen to be in royal favour, Pembroke may think again about a

My mother, much restored in spirits, displays her usual energy and ambition in preparing me for my debut at court. The dress I am to wear for the coronation is scarlet velvet, by the Queen’s command and gift, so I am swathed in yards of the stuff, stuck with pins, and prodded and tugged about by the dressmaker. When the gown is finished, the effect is stu

To match them, there are kirtles, sleeves, petticoats, French hoods, cauls, snoods, shoes of soft leather, jewelled girdles and an assortment of precious pendants, brooches and rings. Small wonder my father grumbles about the exorbitant cost of kitting me out for court, but my mother insists I go there royally attired, as befits my rank.

Amidst all the bustle, I stifle pangs of guilt over Jane, who should be coming to court with me, but languishes still in the Tower. Not, I think sadly, that she would think much of these fine clothes. But if she could be restored to us, my happiness would be complete. I still pray for that daily.

For the first time in months, though, my heart is lighter. I will repay the Queen’s kindness by serving her to the utmost of my ability; I will set myself to earn her favour; and then – newly confident in my gorgeous attire – I swear I will win back my bridegroom and my sister!

I depart for the court tomorrow. Today, I must pack those personal possessions that I wish to take with me. My mother says I will be assigned a small chamber of my own off the maidens’ dorter, where the Queen’s female attendants sleep – those who are under the supervision of the Mother of the Maids, although as a Lady of the Privy Chamber, I will not come under her jurisdiction. Yet my bedchamber is certain to be small, so I must take only essential items. Into the iron-bound wooden travelling chests go my beribboned lute, some books, a manuscript of poems, my sewing basket and embroidery, a vial of rose water, my toilet set, brushes and silver mirror. I am just about to stow away the casket in which I keep my jewels and letters when I remember that it contains the Herbert pendant and that bundle of papers that were probably written by Katherine Plantagenet – whose portrait I was not, of course, allowed to bring with me from Baynard’s Castle. I have not dreamed about her since I left that house.

I take out the pendant and the ribbon-wrapped bundle and stare at them, engulfed in a great wave of pain. They are cruel reminders of that other life that I have lost, and I can hardly bear to look at them. The last time I did that, Harry was with me. Suddenly, my interest in Katherine Plantagenet and the mystery surrounding those illegible papers seems tainted by the ruthlessness and brutality of Pembroke. They are too poignant a reminder of that time, and I thrust them to the bottom of the casket, beneath all the other papers and jewels. I know I will not be able to look at them again for a long time.