A Dangerous Inheritance

She had to know the truth about the precontract. Gathering her papers together, she tied them up with a length of hair ribbon and locked them in her chest, where they would be secure. It would not do to leave such contentious writings lying around, for she could not bear the thought of her father finding out what she was doing. She had already overstepped the mark with her questions as it was.

Locking her door behind her, just to be on the safe side, she made her way around the vast warren of the castle, hoping to find Bishop Stillington, the man who had laid evidence of the precontract before her father. She knew him by sight, a plump, ageing, high-nosed cleric who seemed to be always hovering in the King’s wake. By great good fortune, she ran into him in the chapel.

‘God’s blessing on you, Lady Katherine,’ he said unctuously. ‘You are a little late for Mass, I fear.’

She curtseyed. ‘No, Father, I heard Mass earlier. It is you I seek.’

‘I?’ He smiled. ‘If I can be of any service to such a charming young lady …’ She found his ma

‘Yes, Father. Something troubles me,’ she said. ‘Something I overheard.’

‘Tell me, child,’ Stillington said, ushering her to a pew. ‘Tell me all about it.’

Kate assumed an air of i

The little Bishop’s smile had slipped somewhat. He looked uneasy. ‘Yes, my child, there was, and your father’s title has now been confirmed in Parliament. What can possibly be troubling you?’

‘I overheard two men – I know not who, they had their backs to me – saying that there was no precontract and that it was a false tale used as a colour for my father to take the throne. In faith, I was very upset to hear such talk.’ She was making, she felt, a good job of playing the damsel in distress.

Bishop Stillington appeared discomposed for a moment, then collected himself with an effort, assuming again his urbane ma

Kate tried to look relieved. ‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ she said. ‘I thank you for your words of comfort. That lady – Dame Eleanor Butler, was it? – what happened to her?’

‘She died long ago,’ the Bishop said firmly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend on the King your father.’ And he sketched the sign of the cross over her and departed. She sat there a while, thinking that he was not a man she would trust; certainly he had not wanted to talk about Eleanor Butler.

When she looked up, William, her betrothed, was standing in the doorway, watching her in that disconcerting way he had. ‘Good day, my lady,’ he said stiffly, bowing. ‘I have been looking for you. We are summoned to wait upon the King’s Grace.’

Richard was seated in his closet, clad in deepest black, his only jewel the ruby and jet brooch with the drop pearl that he customarily wore on his hat. He looked shrunken, diminished by grief, his face a mask of sorrow; his voice was hoarse and his ma

‘I have some good news for you both, which shall be a comfort to us all,’ he said. ‘I have decided that you are to be wed before I leave this, my castle of care.’

Married now! Kate knew her distress must be visible in her face. She had thought it would not be for months yet. Desperately, she tried to compose herself, aware that everyone – her betrothed, her father and his courtiers – was looking at her.

‘Bishop Stillington has consented to perform the ceremony in the castle chapel,’ the King was saying. ‘Given the circumstances’ – his voice faltered slightly – ‘it will be a small wedding. But never fear, Kate, we will feast you as becomes a bride, and make merry, eh?’ He gave her a weak smile, which she tried to return. She thought: in his grief, he has forgotten that I love another, and that this news of my wedding can only grieve me.

‘Afterwards, you will ride with the court to Durham, and thence to York,’ the King informed them. ‘I should like to keep Kate with me for just a little longer.’ He looked at her wistfully, and it was all she could do to keep from crying. ‘But then you must go into Wales, and guard it for me, William; guard it loyally. The Tudor skulks in Brittany, and who knows what mischief he is plotting!’

‘I am your Grace’s man unto death,’ William declared, bowing.

‘You will be well rewarded, I promise it. Kate, my child, the Queen is waiting to assist you with your wedding attire. Go to her now.’

Kate dipped in another curtsey. William was giving her that look again, and there was a hint of lust in his eyes that had not been there before.

Emerging from the Queen’s lodgings, weary of trying to look pleased with the fine fabrics that had been displayed before her, and of standing still while the tailors pi

‘Go seek out my lord of Lincoln,’ she directed her. ‘Bid him be in the chapel at midnight, as you love me.’

Mattie looked at her, comprehension dawning. ‘So that’s how it is,’ she said. ‘You are to be wed, yet you are still seeing your young lord. Have a care, mistress!’

‘I love him!’ Kate said brokenly. ‘This will be the last time, I vow it. After that, I will belong to my husband and my life will be over. But I swear he will never have any pleasure of me!’

Katherine

September 1560. Whitehall Palace.

The court is an in uproar, and no wonder! Lord Robert Dudley’s uncherished wife has been found dead, her neck broken, at the foot of a flight of stairs at Cumnor Place, near Oxford. Such a scandal has not erupted in a long time. It is all over the court, and no doubt will soon be all over Christendom too; and the word on everyone’s lips is murder. Tongues wag ceaselessly, and suspicion centres on Lord Robert, but fingers point secretly – and sometimes not so secretly – at Queen Elizabeth. The Dudley scandal is so sensational that it seems she may never recover from it. There is even talk that King Philip is urging her to wed Lord Robert in order to discredit her, so that he will then be able to press my claim to the throne.

But he does not know Elizabeth! I would wager a fortune on her never having allowed Robert Dudley to pass beyond caresses; and I saw for myself how dismayed she was, not only at Amy Dudley’s death, but at the realisation that Lord Robert was now a free man. Him she loves: I do not doubt that; but she will never surrender her body or her autonomy as queen.

Yet there remains talk of my marrying the Archduke Ferdinand or – horrors – even Don Carlos. Bishop de Quadra returns to that theme whenever we meet, and I smile and profess myself flattered, yet remain non-committal, telling him that he must seek my sovereign’s permission for my marriage. Maybe he knows I am stalling – and goodness knows, I have good reason to do so! Because at last, at long last, there is hope for my sweet Ned and me.

Only yesterday, Sir William Cecil approached Ned and informed him it had been noticed that he sought me out whenever he came to Whitehall. Ned was much alarmed, for he feared Mr Secretary was about to forbid him to see me again, but no! He asked Ned if there was goodwill between us – but Ned was so afraid of our being parted that he said there was no such thing.

Cecil told him he knew of the Spanish plot to marry me to the Archduke or Don Carlos. Ned could not hide his astonishment when Sir William said he would like to forestall that plot by arranging my marriage to a loyal Englishman. But, he added, as he saw now that there was nothing between us, he would forbear to pursue the matter further. ‘And good day to you, Sir,’ he had ended.