A Dangerous Inheritance

I accept her apology graciously, thank them for their concern for me, and go on my way, but my breath is coming fast and uneven, and the child in my belly is squirming in what must be discomfort. I ca

I have said nothing lately of my lord of Pembroke, but he has been hovering on the periphery of my vision for some months now, either paying me extravagant compliments or dropping heavy hints about how desirable a second marriage between myself and his son would be. In the wake of those threats of my being abducted by either Spain or Scotland, he thinks it would be seen by the Queen as a safe course.

Pembroke is quite open about his ambitions. He wants a royal bride for his son, a bride with a good claim to the throne. He foresees a royal dynasty of Herberts regenerating down the centuries. And now that Lord Hertford is out of the way, that royal bride might welcome his son’s attentions once more. Harry, I must concede, has grown into a very personable young man; if I were not in love with Ned, or wed to him, I should welcome this match. But although it would once have been the answer to all my prayers, it is no longer.

Now Pembroke comes again, imploring me to accept his son’s suit.

‘I ca

‘May I remind you of something, my lady?’ Pembroke asks smoothly. ‘When, all those years ago, I spoke of a

I am chilled listening to his words. ‘It was not true,’ I say. ‘We made that up so that we could be allowed stay together.’

‘You were vehement enough about it back then,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.

‘We were desperate at the prospect of being parted. I assure you, my lord, it was a lie.’

‘There is gossip that you love the Earl of Hertford these days. Perchance that is colouring your remembrances.’

‘It is only gossip,’ I snap, ‘and I resent the implication, my lord.’

‘Then pray accept my apologies, my lady,’ he says, bowing, and takes his leave. Yet I suspect he will not go away.

The stomacher is tighter than ever. And, to my utter distress, although I have sent many letters addressed To my loving husband, I have had no word from Ned since he left England.

The Queen still shows a great misliking towards me. Her ma

Each morning finds me wan and weary. I do not sleep at night. I lie awake in terror lest Ned has abandoned me, praying that a message or letter from him will arrive soon. Does he love me still? Or have they ordered him not to communicate with me, or even intercepted his letters? I would not put anything past them. In truth, I have been such a mope that I could hardly blame Ned if he chose to abandon me.

I resolve at last to write to him about my condition. He promised he would not tarry in France if I found myself with child, and assured me I should not face the consequences alone. Whatever his feelings for me now, I must hold him to that. This is his child too, and I am his wife.

It is near midnight. I light my candle and find pen and paper. I am quick with child, I write, my handwriting straggly because I am trembling. I pray you therefore to return and declare how the matter stands between us.

In the morning, I seek out Master Gly

Nor is that all. The latest talk is that my husband, having attended the coronation of the new French King, and seen all the sights, has tired of Paris and is seeking new pleasures in Italy. It is said he has corrupted young Cecil with his idleness and dissipation, and that they have both been wallowing in filthy pleasures and spending like water the money provided by careful Cecil.

My world collapses in ruins. Hope shrivels and perishes. To die in childbed would be a blessing.

Weeping uncontrollably, I seek solace in the kind arms of Mrs Ellen.

‘Hush, child, you should not give credence to rumours,’ she counsels, stroking my damp hair back from my fevered brow. ‘And think: was your young lord ever given to fornication and the kind of life of which these rumours accuse him? Is it in character?’

I have to admit it is not. ‘I was ever one to fear the worst,’ I murmur.

‘Then pay the gossip-mongers no heed! Their calumnies may be spread deliberately to discountenance you and drive a wedge between you two.’

A little heartened, but not really reassured, I retire to my lonely bed. Even if Ned is true, I reflect miserably, I have a more immediate problem to solve.

What am I to do?I am waxing ever greater with child, and time is ru

Then one day, on my way to the privy chamber, I come face to face, after so many years, with Harry, my former husband. He bows courteously – how different from when we knew each other in our youth – and when he rises and smiles at me, I see how tall and comely a man he has become. He ca

I smile back, and we go our different ways. But later, I fall to thinking. Desperate problems require desperate remedies. Pembroke, who has great influence with the Queen, wants me to marry Harry, and Harry, by the warmth in his smile today, is not averse to that. Were I to take him, I could have my revenge on Ned and find a father for my child.

Yes, there are difficulties. I am wed to Ned. But that is a secret; Jane Seymour, the only witness, is dead, and I have no means of tracing the minister, who is unlikely to come forward and confess he married us in the face of the Queen’s displeasure. If I deny that the wedding ever took place, it would be only Ned’s word against mine; and sadly, I think he will not dare to make any protest.

I make a decision, then change it. Then I make another, and waver about that too. I go round and round in circles, trying to anticipate how I would feel in every circumstance. Even if I can find the courage to repudiate Ned, dare I accept Harry’s suit? I am too far along in pregnancy for him ever to think the babe might be his. I can feel it kicking lustily now, can even see the outlines of its tiny hands and feet, pressing against my belly. Yet I know Harry to be kind and chivalrous. If I tell him about my terrible predicament, he might help me. It is asking a great deal, though, expecting a lord of high rank to father another man’s child, yet I think Harry is rare among that breed, and that he would do it. The legal niceties could be sorted out, I am sure.

The decision is made. I have no choice, I tell myself. I write to Harry. I say I am ready and contented to renew our acquaintance and look favourably on his suit.

Back, by return, comes a joyful letter, accompanied by a miniature portrait of himself enclosed in a locket, and a ring set with a small sapphire, symbolising fidelity. Harry writes that we must stand by our tale that our marriage was consummated, for there is the Queen’s consent to be obtained; he adds that he looks forward to our being reunited as husband and wife.

The Queen’s consent! But will she give it?

I am pondering my terrible dilemma when the order comes for me to attend her Majesty on her a