A Dangerous Inheritance

‘I knew your sister, the Lady Jane,’ she says. ‘We were together in Queen Katherine’s household, God rest that good lady. I am sorry for your sister’s trouble.’ I notice that when Elizabeth is talking, she has a habit of moving her slender, long-fingered, hands into affected but attractive poses against the fine fabric of her gown.

‘I thank your Grace. Her Majesty assures me that Jane is well and in comfort.’

‘And she has you here, under her eye, so that you may not get up to like mischief all unwitting!’ Elizabeth smiles, watching my face intently with those sharp, hooded eyes. ‘Did that not occur to you, little cousin? That the Queen has brought you to court because she fears some fool might seek to use you as Jane was used by Northumberland? Jane is out of reach – but you are another matter.’

‘I would never do anything to hurt her Majesty!’ I protest.

‘Nay, you would not; I’ll wager there is no malice in you. But you do not have to do anything; others might do it on your behalf. It is not what you do that worries my sister, but what you are.’

‘Her Majesty has never expressed any concern about that.’ I decide to keep silent about the Queen’s wish to name me her heir.

Elizabeth sighs. ‘We have learned in a hard school, you and I, but you do not seem fully to understand the lesson. Listen.’ She leans towards me, and I can smell the spicy scent of her perfume, see the flawless clarity of her fair skin against her fiery hair. There is a gleam of malice in her eyes. ‘You think yourself in a place of honour, little cousin. In truth, it is a place of surveillance.’ But that I ca

‘We share a common bond in many ways,’ she continues. ‘We should help each other.’

‘If I can do any service to your Grace, I am ready,’ I say uncertainly, hoping she will never ask me to do anything that conflicts with my loyalty to the Queen or jeopardises my hopes for the future.

‘I see you are already a courtier!’ She laughs shortly. ‘But listen, little cousin. We are bound together by our close kinship to the Queen. If she bears no heir, I am to succeed her. Then comes your mother, who has waived her claim once and might do again; then Jane, who is in the Tower; and, after her, you, Lady Katherine. That is the law, as ordered by my father, King Henry. It is no treason to say it. But because of what happened with your sister, the Queen is suspicious of all those with a claim to the throne. She wants us out of the reach of would-be traitors. That is why she keeps us at court, under her eye.’

I wonder if the Lady Elizabeth has heard any talk of the plan to exclude her from the succession in favour of me. Maybe not, but I imagine she can be a clever dissembler. Is she baiting me, or fishing for information? Or is she genuinely in ignorance, believing her position inviolable? Well, I will not be giving anything away, so I decide to say nothing.

‘You pine for your husband,’ she says suddenly. I stare at her in astonishment.

‘How does your Grace know that?’

‘The Queen told me. She said she grieved for you, but she could not allow the marriage to stand, and will not interfere with its dissolution. You should forget him.’ Her eyes are hard. I ca

A tear trickles down my cheek; I ca

Suddenly Elizabeth’s mood softens and she rests one of those delicate hands on mine. ‘You poor little fool. She said you asked for her intercession. Do you not realise that she does not intend for either of us to marry? Because, little cousin, if you or I take a husband, we become an even more dangerous threat to her. We were both brought up in the reformed faith, which is cause enough for suspicion. And any man that you or I marry might press a claim to the throne. A foreign prince might come with an army at his back; an English lord might foment a court conspiracy. God knows, we do not even have to marry! Anyone could use us, the Protestant heiresses, as the focus for his treasonable ambitions. Wake up! You have the example of your sister before you! What is more, if either of us bears a son, the clamour for a masculine succession will be deafening. People will always prefer a crested prince to a cloven one!’ Her tone is bitter.

Her reasoning is clear, horribly clear. It is like a death sentence, being told that I might never be permitted to wed – and that Harry is forever barred to me. There is a lump in my throat, choking me.

‘You understand now why the Queen can never trust you, however loyal you may be?’ Elizabeth asks me. ‘It is the same for me.’

‘But if she marries and bears a son?’ I counter, clutching at my last hope.

‘Then things may be different. But there are those who would readily plot to overthrow a Catholic queen, especially if she marries Philip of Spain. Not I, of course, or any of her true subjects. Yet I do fear that, if her Majesty insists on this marriage, she will forfeit the love of many of her people.’

‘Your Grace, may I ask why you are telling me all this?’

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. ‘Is it not obvious? We share common bonds, of blood – and other things.’ She does not elaborate, but I suspect she is referring to religion. She is too clever to say it, though. She has daily to pretend that she is willing and eager to embrace the Catholic faith, and is playing a perilous game. Many doubt her sincerity, but she dare not give herself away; she must convince the Queen that her conversion is genuine, and somehow leave the Protestants with room to hope that she has converted against her will.

Is she trying to enlist my support?

‘I am your Grace’s servant,’ I say, for want of anything else. I know I am out of my depth here.

‘If you hear anything said of me, pray tell me,’ she says lightly. I believe she thinks that I will now be ready and willing to show solidarity with her, two Protestant heiresses united in a common cause and supporting each other. I might be a lamb among wolves, but I am aware she is cozening me into acting as her spy in the Queen’s chamber.

I dare not refuse her outright. I sense that she might make a formidable enemy.

‘I thank your Grace for your kindness,’ I say. ‘Pray excuse me now, as I am needed to help her Majesty robe for the evening.’ And I curtsey, pick up my basket and hurry off, Arthur and Guinevere yapping at my heels, leaving Elizabeth sitting there with an unreadable look on her face. She is going to be very disappointed when she sees me going freely to Mass every Sunday and realises I am keeping my counsel about what I overhear in the privacy of the royal apartments.

Elizabeth is distinctly cooler towards me when we meet on the morning of the coronation, as the great procession is forming in Westminster Hall. She has been a distant figure during the past two days of celebrations: the triumphal progress along the river to the Tower, where it is customary for monarchs to lodge before being crowned; and the magnificent progress through a London decked with tapestries, flowers and pageants to Westminster, our ears resounding with the salutes of trumpets and ca