A Dangerous Inheritance

Ned did not know what to do. He feared a trap, that Cecil’s words were a lure to ensnare him into admitting that there has been talk of a marriage between us, against the Queen’s express wish. So he detained Cecil and told him that he had long admired me from afar and should be honoured to marry me, if it were the Queen’s pleasure. And Cecil said he would be our friend and speak with her Majesty! We could not have a better or more influential advocate! At last I can dare to hope that our long wait will soon be over.

Days, then weeks, have passed – and nothing, no word, no sign from Mr Secretary. When I saw him this morning, he merely nodded courteously and hurried on, his arms full of scrolls. I am going mad with frustration, desperate to know if he is still our friend, and if he has spoken to the Queen on our behalf.

And now there are fresh rumours, that the Scots want me as a bride for the Earl of Arran, another imbecile half-wit who is Queen Mary’s heir, unless she bears a son. Perchance the lords of Scotland see this marriage as a means of uniting the two kingdoms, in the event of both Mary and Elizabeth dying childless. They say de Quadra has bet a hundred crowns that it will come to pass. Well, they can negotiate all they like, but I will not have the lunatic Earl, nay, not even if the Queen herself commands it – which she will not, I am certain.

There is talk too – will it never cease? – of another Spanish bid to entice me away to Spain, by means of some loyal Catholic English gentleman acting for King Philip. What especially vexes me about these continual plots to marry or carry me off is that I, the person most concerned, am never consulted! It’s true: my royal blood is a curse.

But now some good news! Against all expectations – although some say it is because she is at present vexed with my rival, the Queen of Scots – her Majesty has suddenly decreed that I be restored to the post of Lady of the Privy Chamber that I had held under Queen Mary. And she has received me there today, right graciously, in the presence of Bishop de Quadra.

‘I look upon the Lady Katherine as a daughter,’ she tells him, raising me from my curtsey and embracing and kissing me. For an instant, the Bishop looks as amazed as I, but we both recover ourselves quickly.

‘Now that she is an orphan, I am considering formally adopting her,’ the Queen continues, smiling at me – although her eyes remain cold. I can barely express my thanks. What game is she playing at now?

I am not surprised when, later, after I am dismissed from my new duties, which are little more than to bear the Queen company when she wants it (which I suspect will not be often), de Quadra is waiting for me.

‘Any feeling between her Majesty and yourself, Lady Katherine, can hardly be that of mother and child!’ he observes with a smile. ‘Methinks she is making much of you in order to keep you from intriguing with the likes of me and the Scots.’

‘Do you think it might presage my being acknowledged heir?’ I ask, unable to restrain my exhilaration at the prospect.

‘Who can say?’ The Bishop shakes his head. ‘Knowing this Queen, it could mean anything. I will make some enquiries.’

Two days later, de Quadra is waiting for me again.

‘I have spoken with Sir William Cecil,’ he tells me. ‘I asked him if the favour shown you by the Queen heralds any particular a

It seems I must settle for a compromise: marriage, rather than the throne. For me, the choice is an easy one. I would rather have my sweet Ned than be the greatest queen crowned.

Kate

May 1484. Nottingham Castle.

John was waiting for her in the chapel. She could see him in the shadows beyond the dim light cast by the single lamp on the altar, signifying the eternal presence of God. He came and clasped her hands, gazing into her eyes without speaking, then his arms went around her.

‘You are sure about this?’ he breathed in her ear, threading his fingers through her hair.

‘Never more,’ she whispered. ‘But we ca

‘No, but I have found us a place.’ He smiled at her: she loved his smile; it was open and boyish, and it always made her melt. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Before we go there, my love, there is something I want to do, something important.’

He led her to the altar, with its golden crucifix and the statue of the Virgin with her Babe, and stood there beside her, still holding her hand and looking into her eyes.

‘Hear me, Kate. I will give you my promise. I, John, take thee, Katherine, to be my true lady before God, and I vow I will love you always, until death and beyond.’ She looked at him wonderingly, tears starting in her eyes, for she was overcome by the awe of the moment.

‘Now you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Your turn …’

‘I, Katherine,’ she swore, ‘take thee, John, to be my true lord in the sight of God, and hereto I pledge thee my love, until death and beyond.’ The words came strong and clear, impelled by the conviction that, whatever was to come, this was her proper wedding, even without any witnesses to make it valid.

And then, hand in hand still, they crept out of the chapel, through the sleeping castle and along a dark stone passageway lit only with one dying torch in a wall bracket. At the end of it John unlocked a door and led Kate into a small chamber sparsely furnished with a tester bed hung with green curtains. And it was in that bed, presently, that they lay together; and it was as if God had sent His angels down to smile upon them and hallow their union.

Katherine

October 1560. Whitehall.

My bosom companion, Jane Seymour, has been at court with me through all the late tortuous shifts of fortune, solidly supporting me and Ned, and going back and forth between us, passing messages, notes and love tokens, and helping to arrange snatched meetings, which are few and far apart, for we know now that we have been watched by Mr Secretary Cecil.

But Jane is not well. Her cheeks, once rosebud pale, are now flushed with an unhealthy hue; her gowns hang loosely upon her; and there is blood on her kerchief when she coughs. She gets out of breath easily these days, and suffers terrible sweats at night.

Jane loves Ned more than any other human soul; and it is her dearest wish to see him well and happily married.

‘There could be no better wife for him than you, my dear Katherine,’ she tells me, hugging me fondly. ‘I will do all I can to help you two achieve the happiness you deserve. God knows, you have waited long enough for it!’

‘The time is now right, at last,’ I say. ‘There was never a better moment to press for her Majesty’s consent.’

Ned frowns. ‘Will there ever be a right moment? I fear she will never give that consent. We have to be realistic. Look at the way she keeps her many suitors dangling – this waiting could go on for years!’

Jane is thoughtful. ‘Why not present the Queen with a fait accompli?’ she suggests. ‘Marry in secret now, then throw yourselves upon her mercy. If the thing is done, she must relent.’

‘Of course!’ I agree, excitedly. ‘When the Queen realises that it is purely a love match, and that we intend no threat to her, she will surely forgive us. And we have Sir William Cecil on our side, remember. He will support us, you may count on it!’

Ned shakes his head. ‘I think not. I met him by chance today. He asked me how I did, the usual pleasantries, and then he said he was still hearing rumours that I was in love with you and hoping to wed. He advised me to cool my ardour, and walked on.’