A Dangerous Inheritance

Jane and Guilford are to be tried on the fourteenth of November. Although the Queen has assured me that the trial is merely a formality, and that a pardon will follow when the time is right, the a

I wish I could see Jane and comfort her, and tell her that all will be well, that her Majesty is warmly disposed towards our family and bears her no malice. But I have not seen her for four months, and she is allowed no visitors.

I am in great fear lest this trial prejudice my own future. I told Renard that I, for my part, would be content to embrace the Catholic faith, but that, in all duty, I had to discuss the matter first with my parents, and I was sure he would understand that I needed to choose my moment. He warned that I must not say a word to my lord and lady about the possibility of my being named the Queen’s heir, which of course leaves me in a dilemma, because how else do I justify to them my sudden conversion?

Renard was deferential, yet he did not court me as before. Mayhap I have taken too long in making up my mind. Perchance he is not as warm in my cause as he was in September. And maybe this coming trial is too vivid a reminder that my close kin were traitors to the Queen only a few short months ago.

My life is a continual tempest. I am tormented by my need for Harry, and the devastation I feel in the wake of his snubbing me at the coronation, but somehow our paths never cross at court. I am sure he is avoiding me. Then there are new rumours that I and my sisters are to be declared bastards, on the grounds that my father was already wed when he married my mother. It’s nonsense, but rumour-mongers care naught for the truth! I suspect that the tale originated with the French ambassador, who probably knows by now that Spain and the Empire are putting their weight behind me in regard to the succession. It is all too much, and I find myself continually on the verge of tears, with only Arthur and Guinevere to comfort me.

My mother seeks me out one rainy day as I am taking some exercise in the long gallery with my dogs, brooding upon my woes.

‘I have to talk to you,’ she says, and leads me to the lodging she shares with my father; it is deserted just now, for he is at the cockpit, watching prize birds tear each other to pieces.

My mother seats herself in her chair. ‘I will not waste words,’ she says. ‘They are putting pressure on us, your father and me, to convert to the Roman faith. I think you know something about this. They said you are willing.’

‘Monsieur Renard did approach me about it,’ I say carefully. ‘He told me it was the Queen’s wish. I said I would consider it, but that I wanted to discuss it with you.’ It is not quite the truth, but it is near enough.

‘Indeed. It was the Privy Council that approached us,’ she tells me. ‘We told them it was out of the question, but they tried to bribe us, saying that great benefits would follow.’

‘And they will!’ I blurt out.

My lady stares at me in astonishment. ‘What do you mean? Out with it, girl, and tell me the truth!’

‘The Queen wishes it, I know that,’ I say, aware that I must dissemble well if I am to deceive my hawk-like mother. ‘She has said so, therefore it must follow that she will be generous to those who do her will. I can think of nothing that would please her so much as the conversion of her close kin.’

My lady gives me a long, penetrating look, then relaxes a little. ‘I did discuss with your father the possibility of our converting back to the Roman faith. I said it would go better for Jane, with her trial looming, if we complied with the Queen’s will. But he is unshakeable.’

A week later, though, I learn that, bullied by my mother, my father has at last agreed to be received once more into the faith of his youth. It is all over the court that they have both recanted the Protestant religion; it is a feather in the cap of the Catholics.

*

Jane and Guilford have been tried and condemned to death.

‘Rest assured, Lady Katherine, I am resolved to be merciful,’ the Queen told me kindly when she broke the news in the privacy of her closet. ‘However, the formalities had to be observed. My councillors demanded it. I promise you it was a fair trial, and the witnesses were allowed to speak freely. I warned my judges that I would have no intimidation, and that it was my pleasure that whatever could be produced in your sister’s favour should be heard.’

‘I thank your Majesty for your great mercy,’ I said and, falling on my knees, kissed her hand fervently. Tears were spilling down my cheeks.

‘Do not distress yourself, child,’ the Queen said, lifting me up. ‘In a short space, I will order the Lady Jane’s release. When I have a son.’ Her eyes took on that dreamy look we are all coming to know so well, as she turned away to gaze for the thousandth time at Master Titian’s splendid portrait of Prince Philip, to whom she is now betrothed.

‘It will not be long until he is here,’ she breathed, sounding like a girl in love.

‘Oh, I do wish for your Majesty’s happiness!’ I cried.

‘Bless you, dear child,’ she smiled.

Not everyone likes the idea of this marriage. Go out into London, and you will hear outraged protests about it. The people do not want ‘Jack Spaniard’ in England. They say openly that they would rather die than have the Spanish rule here; that Philip will be a harsh master, and bring in the Inquisition to torture and burn Protestants; and that this marriage will make England just another province of the mighty Habsburg empire. At court, there are lewd jokes about the Prince’s debauchery and whispers about his thieving nature. The Queen does not hear them – or chooses not to acknowledge them. Her mind is made up, and she fancies herself in love; she will not hear of any opposition to her marriage.

Personally, I think Prince Philip looks an attractive man, with his full lips and proper features; I can see why the Queen is so smitten with his portrait. I pray that he will be kind to her, for she is eleven years his senior, and looks it – and she is so full of maidenly modesty that it was some while before she could even bring herself to say the word ‘marriage’ in the presence of her councillors. She told us that herself, blushing furiously. I ca

The Lady Elizabeth is much discountenanced by the news of the Queen’s marriage. Her long hooked nose is much out of joint, for she is her sister’s legal heir, and if her Majesty bears a son, she – like me – will never succeed to the throne, which I am sure is what Elizabeth desires fiercely.

Maybe she should not have made so much fuss about going to Mass, for if she had put herself out to please the Queen, her Majesty would trust her far more, and would look more kindly on her as her successor. But Elizabeth has dissembled once too often, and now she sulks about the court, intriguing with the French ambassador, or urging Queen Mary to let her go to Hatfield or Ashridge, or another of the many houses she owns. But always the Queen refuses. She remains suspicious of her sister, and understands the necessity for keeping her where she can be watched.

There has been little love lost between Elizabeth and me since my actions made it clear to her that I was not going to spy for her or support her stand on religion. When we meet, she is polite, even talkative, but never warm. Yet today, when I am standing all forlorn in the deserted maidens’ dorter, having fled here to try to calm down after receiving the news of my sister, she seeks me out.

‘I heard about the Lady Jane’s condemnation,’ she tells me. Her voice is gruff; she seems unusually moved.

‘The Queen herself told me the news, your Grace,’ I say, trembling. ‘Even though she has promised mercy, it is a terrible thing to hear. Burned alive or beheaded, at her Majesty’s pleasure …’