A Dangerous Inheritance

‘You’ve had a sound sleep, child,’ she said, ‘and a good thing too.’

‘William – where is he?’ Kate whispered. ‘I must ask him …’

‘He is out, visiting our neighbours to tell them the news and ensure their silence,’ A

‘My father the King … what happened? I would rather know.’

The Countess took her hand. ‘Very well, then. It was a most savage battle, William said, although it lasted but two hours. Henry Tudor did not engage in the fighting but stood behind the lines beneath his standard. That wily knave Lord Stanley waited with his forces to see which way the battle was going. King Richard’s army fought fiercely, but neither Stanley nor Northumberland came to his aid, although Norfolk was killed fighting for him. In the end, Richard made a desperate, furious charge, aiming to cut down Henry Tudor, and he would have succeeded, but at that moment Stanley and his men bore down on him. William said he fought like a noble soldier, and went down crying “Treason!”, dying manfully in the thick press of his enemies.’

She crossed herself, and Kate did likewise. So he had died valiantly, fighting to the last. But what a dreadful death it must have been, with all those soldiers falling upon him. It did not bear thinking about. If she did, she would surely be sick.

‘What happened to him … afterwards?’ she faltered.

‘When William reached Bosworth, your father’s body had been carried back to Leicester, on horseback, and he heard it was to lie exposed to the public for three days in the Grey Friars’ church; after that, no doubt, it would have been buried by their charity.’ A

‘One day I will visit the place where he lies,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, I will pray for his soul. He was my father and I loved him.’ She bit her lip. ‘My lady, I must ask you: do you believe that he was the tyrant they are saying he was, and that he ordered the murder of the Princes?’

The Countess did not answer immediately. She seemed thrown by the question and it appeared that, again, she was searching for the right words. ‘A tyrant is one who governs without recourse to the rule of law,’ she began. ‘I have heard that Richard carried out some questionable deeds when he was Lord Protector. I have heard it said he had the Princes killed, and now, of course, it will be hard to find any that say otherwise. It is always the victors who write history. I honestly do not know the truth of it all, my daughter; and I hope I am just and wise enough to weigh fairly what I hear. It is possible, that’s all I can say; but it is by no means certain.’

Kate realised that that was not very far removed from what she herself thought, although she had hoped and prayed all along that her father was i

She could not stay secluded in her room for ever. When her tears had dried, she felt only anger, and with that came indignation. Why should she hide, when she had done nothing wrong? She had nothing to be ashamed of. So she do

The room was full of men, booted, spurred and cloaked. They had come, she learned later, to show solidarity, for all had been steadfast to King Richard, and now they were falling over themselves to demonstrate their loyalty to the Tudor – she could not bring herself to think of him as King Henry. William was directing his page to offer them drinks. When he saw Kate, his face froze into a glare.

‘What do you think you are doing coming here dressed like that?’ he spat.

Anger flared in her. Her grief was too raw for her to care what she said. ‘I am in mourning for my father, the late King,’ she asserted. The men stared at her, embarrassed and looking not a little fearful. Of course, they would not want to be associated in any way with King Richard, or his daughter.

‘Do you so far forget yourself as to mourn a tyrant?’ William roared. ‘Get back to your chamber, woman, put on some brave attire, and then come back and join these gentlemen and me in a toast to our new King.’

‘My father was not a tyrant!’ she flung at him. ‘And even if he was, he was a tyrant whom you were pleased to serve, and whose bounty to you was lavish!’

In two bounds William had crossed the floor, and, before she could put up a hand to protect herself, had slapped her cheek hard. ‘Are you mad?’ he growled. ‘Don’t you know it might mean death to express loyalty to your father now?’

‘Your husband speaks truth,’ put in an elderly man standing by the fireplace. ‘King Henry has dated his reign from the day before Bosworth, so that all who fought for Richard are now deemed traitors. Some are already punished, some are fled; and who can blame them? I hear my lord of Lincoln is among those who will be called to account, when he can be found.’

Her heart turned ice-cold at that. So John had fought for her father at Bosworth. He had been loyal to the end, unlike this craven oaf of a husband of hers. But where was John now? If they were looking for him, he must have gone to ground somewhere. Were some good folk succouring him in hiding, or had he managed to escape abroad? She sent up a silent prayer for his safety and comfort. God grant that there was good news of him soon!

‘Even this new King must have a heart,’ she said bravely, her face smarting. ‘Surely even he would not deny a daughter the right to mourn her father? And if he were to appear here now, I would challenge him on that.’

‘I won’t be allowing you within a mile of him,’ William vowed. ‘Do you think he’d even allow you into his presence, the bastard spawn of his enemy?’ His brutal words stung, but Kate was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

‘I will withdraw, my lord, but I will not be returning,’ she said. ‘Since the sight of me in mourning offends you, I will remain within my chamber. Goodnight, masters.’ And she swept out.

Back in her room, her composure deserted her, and all her grief and hurt and anger exploded in yet another outburst of heart-wrenching crying. This time she weathered it alone, weeping her heart out into her pillow, with no one to see or to comfort her. It was only later that Mattie came to her, at the usual hour; and then she found her in an exhausted sleep, the ravages of pain etched upon her young face.

Katherine

August 1561. The Tower of London.

The great forbidding fortress of the Tower of London looms into view, and within me my child stirs. He must sense my terror. Poor, unknowing little lamb – he can have little idea of the trouble his presence in my womb has caused. What has he ever done to deserve imprisonment? Nothing! He is an i

I shift uncomfortably. The barge that has conveyed me to the City glides smoothly across the black water, but I am great with child now and ca