A Dangerous Inheritance

‘But why?’ I ask. This news may have pleased her, but it dismays me.

‘I do not know, and I do not care. They are just using us. They made these marriages for their own benefit and profit, not ours. Are you to come home too?’

‘No!’ I say, more sharply than I had intended. ‘The Earl says I am to go to Baynard’s Castle with them.’

Jane smiles and embraces me. ‘Well then, I wish you joy of your marriage bed, Sister. I can see you are eager for it.’

After hugging and kissing Jane and kneeling with Harry to receive my parents’ blessing, I climb into the Herberts’ gilded barge and seat myself in the cushioned cabin for the short journey to Baynard’s Castle. I have passed it often, that massive white stone building with tall towers that rises majestically from the river; and as we glide past the gardens of the Temple, Bridewell Palace and the mouth of the Fleet River, it lies before us, with the tower of the church of St Andrew by the Wardrobe behind it. But tonight, when I see Baynard’s Castle, I feel an odd frisson of unease: eerily pale in the moonlight, it has something unearthly about it, as if it has taken on a different aspect with the coming of night. What secrets do its walls contain? I wonder. Who has lived here, laughed here, loved, suffered and died here in the hundreds of years it has stood?

The impression of strangeness is fleeting, the result of too much wine, no doubt. I am with Harry, and this is his home, and it is one of the greatest houses in London. And now it is to be my home too. I should count myself fortunate!

Imposing stone stairs ascend from the lapping water to a first-floor doorway, and torches burn brightly to light our ascent. As the barge draws alongside, Harry takes my hand; we follow his parents up the steps, cross the balustraded bridge and pass under the lintel on which is proudly displayed, carved in stone and painted, the arms of Pembroke, three lions on a red and blue ground. I feel the grasp of Harry’s hand on mine, and catch his sweet, loving looks in the moonlight glimmering on the river below us. The night seems magical, filled with promise.

Servants wearing the green dragon badge of Pembroke hasten to take our cloaks, unload my gear from the barge and attend us to our chambers, and then Harry leads me through room after room appointed with lavish splendour. Yet the fine furnishings, the costly carpets, the brilliant tapestries are as nothing compared to the young man at my side. Soon we will be alone together. The thought of that makes me catch my breath.

‘This is a very old house, but you will grow to love it,’ Harry tells me, squeezing my hand again. His eyes are merry, warm and inviting.

‘The first building on this site was built in the time of William the Conqueror, for defending the City of London,’ the Earl adds, ‘but later it was sold to our former neighbour, the Black Friars’ monastery. This house was built early in the last century, on land reclaimed from the river. It was the London residence of the royal House of York.’

‘It was a fine mansion then, by all accounts,’ the Countess A

‘Indeed, many illustrious royal persons have lived here,’ the Earl says with pride, as we pass into a vast, opulent chamber graced with tapestries threaded with gold that glitters in the torchlight. ‘It was in this hall’ – he waves an expansive hand at the cavernous timbered space – ‘that Edward of York was acknowledged as King Edward IV after his victory over the House of Lancaster. And it was here too, regrettably, that his brother, that villainous crookback Richard of Gloucester, was later offered the crown.’

‘You mean Richard III?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Katherine. He had no right to it, of course, but nevertheless he accepted it. He had meant to have it all along. He stood in that gallery up there, pretending reluctance.’ I look up, suddenly chilled.

I have heard this tale from several people over the years: how, seventy years ago, Edward IV, dying long before his time, had appointed his hitherto loyal brother, Richard of Gloucester, as Lord Protector of England during the minority of his twelve-year-old heir, Edward V. Our tutor, Master Aylmer, told us the story, for there was some talk of these events in my childhood, after King Edward VI succeeded to the throne at just nine years old, and the kingdom again came under the rule of a protector. That was the late Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, brother to Queen Jane Seymour, and therefore uncle to King Edward, my cousin: ‘the Good Duke’, the people had called him. I’m not sure just how good a duke he was, for there were those who resented his rule. Overthrown by Northumberland, he met his end on the block last year.

Richard of Gloucester had fared rather better in his struggle for power – at least to begin with. According to Master Aylmer, he was an ambitious man, a tyrant even, twisted in body and soul, and Aylmer held him up as one of the worst moral examples in history. Having ruthlessly eliminated all opposition, Richard had deposed the young Edward V and usurped the throne himself. By then, the poor little King and his brother had been imprisoned in the Tower of London, and soon afterwards they were secretly murdered, although even to this day no one knows for certain how. Because of this, their fate has never ceased to fascinate me. Certain it is that King Richard ordered their deaths, and Aylmer told us that, in the end, his ill-fame was such that his supporters deserted him and switched their allegiance to the rightful Lancastrian heir, Henry Tudor. And everyone knows what happened at the Battle of Bosworth …

I gaze about me, awestruck, suppressing a shudder. This was where the usurper had stood, reading a prayer book to boast his piety, as his henchman, the Duke of Buckingham, recited his virtues and his right to the crown to the leading citizens of London. And here – their pockets no doubt lined with bribes – the city fathers had been persuaded to press Richard to accept what they were so humbly offering.

There is someone in the gallery looking down on us: a man in dark clothing, I think, although he is in shadow. It’s a servant, no doubt, standing still and silent, awaiting his master’s pleasure or – more likely – sneaking a peek at me, his future mistress. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, although the Earl, the Countess and Harry ignore him. My mother would have reprimanded him for staring at us so insolently, and told him to lower his eyes when his betters passed. But maybe not all masters and mistresses are as particular as my mother.

Tonight, there is little time to stand and admire this magnificent hall where history was made. It grows late, and Pembroke is leading us onwards, as his servants pull open the great double doors and light us through. We enter an antechamber; beyond, he tells me, are the private apartments of the family. There too, of course, will be the bedchamber we are to share, my young lord and I.

‘I have something of import to say to you, my children,’ the Earl says, turning to face us and regarding us intently. ‘Now heed me well …’

Kate

April–June, 1483. Middleham Castle, Yorkshire, the City of London and Crosby Hall, London.

Katherine Plantagenet – known to all as Kate – looked up in surprise as a mud-spattered courier, smelling of horse sweat, ran into the great hall at Middleham, threw himself on his knees, and presented her father the Duke with a letter. It bore the seal of Lord Hastings, whom she knew was a trusted friend of her uncle, King Edward. Kate and her father were seated at table, where they had been enjoying a game of chess. Her half-brother, Edward of Middleham, was kneeling by the hearth, playing with his model soldiers, watched by her stepmother, the Duchess, that had been born Lady A