A Dangerous Inheritance

William came home in a foul temper.

‘I ca

Kate felt a deep tremor of fear. It had come at last, the conflict they had all been dreading.

‘God help me, I failed to prevent those traitors from crossing the Pembroke River to join Henry Tudor,’ William fumed, crashing around the hall in frustration. ‘I was not far behind them too. At least I have blocked the southern route to England, but the bastard is marching north, so I must leave you again, and do my best to intercept him. I just need a few provisions to keep me and my men going, and the arrows in my store.’

‘Take care, my son,’ the Countess enjoined. ‘I shall pray constantly that you come back to us safe with good news.’

‘God speed you, my lord,’ Kate added, with unusual warmth: it was her father whom William was going to defend.

Katherine

August 1561. Ipswich, Suffolk.

Blessed be God – for it puts her in a sweet temper – the Queen has spent a most enjoyable day visiting the town of Ipswich and meeting the local dignitaries and the people; and she has now returned in a high good humour to the magnificent house of Sir Edmund Withipoll, where we are lodged. It is called Christchurch Mansion, and was a monastery before King Harry dissolved it, but there is little left from the monks’ days here. Costly oak panelling clads the walls, the chambers are appointed with richly carved beds and chairs and tables, and we are served our supper on silver-gilt plates. Her Majesty is well pleased with the hospitality, and Sir Edmund expands visibly with pride at her praise. I pray God her good mood lasts until I have a chance to make a clean breast of my heavy matter.

I have eaten barely a morsel. My laces are unbearably tight and I know I ca

As soon as my royal mistress has retired for the night, I hasten to the fine chamber assigned me, and take from my travelling chest the little silver casket that goes everywhere with me. I hunt through the contents, looking for the deed that Ned gave me a few days after we were wed; it is the proof of our marriage that I must show the Queen. To my horror, it is not there. I scrabble frantically through my papers again, but it is still missing. What am I to do?My heart is pounding: I am in terror.

I have thought much lately about what Ned said, weeks ago, about getting influential people on our side. I clutch at the idea as at a straw. In my present state of mind, I fear I am likely to make a mess of things.

Ned mentioned approaching Lord Robert Dudley, but I could not, for very shame, confess everything to a man. It must be a lady of my acquaintance, one who is friendly towards me, although of those there is precious little choice these days.

I opt for someone known to my family for many years: Mrs Saintlow, a Lady of the Privy Chamber, a wealthy, forceful, strong-willed woman who carries much influence with the Queen – ‘a rock within the sea’, as I’ve heard her called. Bess Saintlow – or Bess Hardwick as was – was once a lady-in-waiting and good friend of my mother, and I have known her since I was seven. She is sensible and reliable, even though at times, despite her evident goodwill, I find myself overwhelmed by her personality. Yet she has shown such regard for me as to make me godmother to her daughter Elizabeth, and to keep a motherly eye on me at the court.

Bess will help me, I am sure of it! Why did I not think of her before?

I wait until the household is quiet, then I tap at her door.

‘Who goes there?’ she cries in her strident voice.

‘It is I, Katherine Grey,’ I reply, as low as I can.

‘Pray come in,’ Bess calls.

The room is warm with candlelight. Bess is sitting up in bed in her nightrail, an account book spread across her knees, her long red hair tumbling about her shoulders, and an embroidered nightcap tied under her chin.

‘Lady Katherine,’ she exclaims, ‘whatever is wrong?’ I realise I must look a sad sight, with my eyes red from weeping.

‘Oh, dear Bess,’ I sob, and sink onto a stool. Out it all comes, my woeful story, blurted in fits and starts between much nose-blowing and dabbing of my eyes.

Bess hears me out in u

‘You rash little fool, why have you involved me in this treason? Do you want to get us both sent to the Tower? Think you I would risk my good credit with the Queen for this? God’s blood, Lady Katherine, I am very sorry to hear that you have married without the consent of the Queen’s Majesty and of your friends, and I would you had made her Majesty privy to your trouble from the first, you foolish girl. Pray get yourself gone from my sight! Go to your bed, while I think what should be done with you, and hurry – my husband will be here soon!’

Thus chastised and castigated, with no chance given for argument, I creep back to my chamber, feeling as if the world is about to fall on me.

In the morning, Bess pointedly ignores me, and in church I am aware of certain courtiers whispering and nodding in my direction. I must act, now!

Lord Robert Dudley is my only hope. A year on, the scandal of his wife’s end has died a slow death, and he is again close as can be to the Queen, although all talk of their marrying has been stilled. Some say he shares her bed at night, giving the lie to her oft-repeated declarations that she means to live and die a virgin. But I ca

Remembering that we are brother- and sister-in-law, his own long sojourn in the Tower in the wake of his father’s fall, and his banishment from court last year, Lord Robert might help me. He, of all men, knows what it is to suffer the pains of royal displeasure. I summon my courage and resolve to seek him out.

There is no chance during the day, for we have to accompany her Majesty to dine at the house of a leading citizen, Thomas More, on the high street, and afterwards go to inspect the impressive high tower built by a wealthy merchant at Freston, outside the town – although I am in such a state of trepidation that I ca

Later, after supper, I watch Lord Robert fawning upon the Queen, never straying from her side as the court enjoys an interlude acted by local players and then settles to gambling as usual. When the gathering breaks up near midnight, and I am near dead on my feet for weariness, I have not found a single opportunity to speak privily with my lord.

Retiring to my room, I am on a knife-edge. I hardly know what I am doing. I ca

I tiptoe the last few paces, terrified lest I should waken her Majesty. I listen at Lord Robert’s keyhole. What if I find them together within, in bed even? But all is quiet. There is no sound beyond the sturdy oak doors.

I tap lightly on Lord Robert’s. No response. I tap again. Nothing. As carefully as possible, I try the door and, to my relief, find it unlocked. Summoning all my courage, I lift the latch and slip into the room. Moonlight streams through the open lattice windows; it is a warm, balmy night. A figure rears up in the bed.

‘What the devil …?’