A Dangerous Inheritance

‘How did your father come to be called Herbert?’ she ventured, hoping to prolong the conversation by showing some interest.

‘He chose the name himself,’ William said. ‘He felt an English name would do more for him than a Welsh one. After that, the Welsh called him Black William. It did not bother him. He was the King’s man, through and through.’

They were nearing the fortress now. The approach road led up through patches of woodland to an ornately battlemented gatehouse, and Kate could now see that what had looked from a distance in the late afternoon sun like reddish stone was in fact a blend of purples and browns. The castle was huge and formidable, surrounded by a mighty curtain wall intersected by six strong hexagonal towers, the whole dominated by a great keep. She would be safe here. She doubted that anyone could breach those defences.

‘That is the Yellow Tower,’ William said, following her line of vision and pointing to a lesser keep, tall and octagonal, that stood solidly outside the walls to their left, surrounded by a wide moat. ‘It was built for defence, but there are spacious chambers in there, which are kept for guests. And that range of lodgings to the left of the gatehouse, where you can see the shields carved in the stone, is where our apartments are. They are handsomely appointed.’

They were. Raglan was like a palace inside. ‘It is the greatest castle of our age,’ William said proudly, and Kate had to agree. Even Middleham, luxurious as it was, was not so fine; and beside such modern splendour, Westminster Palace itself seemed old and outdated.

Her new home was built around two vast courtyards, with a great hall and chapel in the centre, each boasting a wondrous fan-vaulted roof. William had mentioned guests, but Kate thought it unlikely that they would be entertaining often, with the countryside so hostile roundabouts. She wondered if there were local lords whose wives were disposed to be friendly.

The apartments she was to share with William were up a grand stair that led off the south court, where a fountain spouted jets of water. Their great chamber was magnificent, the parlour next to it small and intimate but sumptuous. Beyond it was a gallery hung with tapestries and armorial bearings. The Herbert lions on their blue and red ground, surmounted by the family crest of a green wyvern breathing fire, were prominent everywhere.

William was a different man on his home ground. He took pleasure in showing her the castle, and it was obvious that his household officers and servants admired him. Seeing this more expansive side of him, she found herself liking him more, although she was certain that she could never feel love or desire for him. There was not that in him to inspire it.

He presented her to the other women in his life. His mother, the Dowager Countess of Pembroke, the former A

Elizabeth Herbert was six years old. William had never mentioned his first wife, so Kate thought she must favour her, as she resembled him not at all. Elizabeth was fair, with more than a look of the Wydevilles; we are cousins, Kate realised, through the Hautes. She was prettily pale, with ash-blonde hair, and dressed in a simple gown with a garland of daisies on her head. She curtseyed formally at her father’s bidding.

‘This is your new mother,’ he said. It was a daunting prospect to Kate, having a stepdaughter thrust upon her when she herself was only fourteen, but she anticipated already that the Dowager Countess would continue to care for the child. That would be the best arrangement; and Kate would play the part of a big sister.

As she lay down exhausted in her soft, richly curtained bed that first night at Raglan, she reflected that life in this great castle might not be as terrible as she had imagined, although still it seemed to her a gilded prison, the symbol of her bondage, isolated as it was in this wild and dangerous land. There was Mattie’s wedding to plan for, and a household to run; she had much to learn, she knew, and with the help of the Dowager Countess, she meant to make a success of it all; and in time, God willing, there might be children – already, William had started quizzing her as to whether his nightly labours had yet borne fruit. Her days would be busy and full of distractions, and for that she was grateful.

Katherine

December 1560. Whitehall and Hertford House, Westminster.

I have barely been able to contain myself, these past days. My betrothal ring, now hanging on a chain concealed beneath my clothing, is a constant pressure on my heart. Yet at last comes the longed-for a

Fate has been kind to me. Jane and I were going to plead illness as an excuse to stay behind, but this very day, I have developed such a bad toothache that my face has swollen up. I can with all conscience say to the Queen that I am unwell. And Jane, too, is ailing, although sadly that is no new thing, and it is now generally acknowledged within the privy chamber that she is delicate and needs special consideration. She will plead that she is not feeling well enough to travel.

We go together to the Queen, I with a kerchief tied around my face, and ask to be excused from our attendance upon her on the morrow. She looks at us sharply, with those piercing black eyes, but there is no denying that we both look poorly: I with my puffed-up cheek, and Jane with her hectic visage.

‘Very well,’ she says, probably relieved to be spared my company for a space. ‘You have my permission to remain behind. We will not be gone long, just a matter of days.’ Long enough! I think gleefully.

Back in her closet, Jane scribbles a note to Ned, telling him to expect us early the next morning. Now everything is set, and all we have to do is wait.

After the Queen departs, in a great procession and amidst much bustle, I stay in her deserted apartments until all is quiet, my mind feverish with agitation. What I am about to do is dangerous and probably rash; but my love for Ned is stronger than my fear of Queen Elizabeth. Still, I am filled with a sense of dread, fearful in case we should be discovered.

It is early, not far past seven o’clock, and I am being laced into what will serve as my wedding dress: a square-necked black velvet gown that shows off my breasts to advantage; it has a tight bodice and a wide, round skirt, and sleeves slashed with white silk; an elaborate ruff is tied around my neck.

I pick up my white French hood with the gold-and-gem braiding, wondering whether to put it on: a bride should go loose-haired to her wedding, as a sign of her virginity, but I dare not even hint to the world what my purpose is today, so I hand it to Mrs Leigh and she places it on my head. I have decided that it would be wiser not to involve Mrs Leigh in my wedding plans: the fewer that know of them, the better, and the minister can serve for a second witness. And so, when she is done, I dismiss her.

I am determined to dress as becomes a wife after the ceremony, even though I can only do so for the short time I am with Ned in private – that time of which I have dreamed these many years. Opening the little chest in which I keep my jewels, I draw out a coverchief, a triangular-shaped piece of linen that I have fashioned, hemmed, folded and pi