A Dangerous Inheritance

‘This is the only entrance,’ he explains, as if he anticipates that, heavy with child as I am, I will try to escape. ‘Her Majesty’s orders, you understand. It is a secure place.’

‘I am no threat to her Majesty,’ I ca

He frowns. ‘Come, my lady,’ he says.

The Bell Tower is very old. The Lieutenant informs me – as if we were enjoying a tour of the place – that it was built by King Richard the Lionheart many centuries ago. I can well believe that. The downstairs chamber, octagonal in shape, has great thick, rough walls pierced by tall glazed windows. Today, they admit shafts of sunlight, but even so, the place is cool and dank, and I know it will be freezing in winter. Please God, let them not force me to give birth to my child in here!

But the Lieutenant is moving on, leading the way up a steep spiral stair.

‘Sir Thomas More was imprisoned down there thirty years ago,’ he tells me, ‘and the cold was a martyrdom to him.’ So had his execution been, in many people’s eyes, as I have read. He too defied his King, and paid the ultimate price. I shudder at the thought.

‘You, my lady, will be more comfortable,’ Sir Edward assures me.

He opens a door, indicating I should enter, and I am relieved to see that the upper chamber, which is circular in shape, is much better appointed than the room below, with wooden shutters at the windows and clean rush matting on the floor. A threadbare tapestry hangs on the whitewashed wall, its colours so faded that I can only just make out a battle scene. There is a carved wooden tester bed made up, thankfully, with good bleached sheets, a battered-looking draw-table, two stools and an empty iron brazier. But I will not be here when winter strikes, I promise myself, calmer now. By then, I will have protested my i

I am not alone, for I am allowed the services of a maid, Honor, on account of my rank. My lady the Countess of Hertford – for so I am, whatever they may say – ca

The infant inside me kicks lustily. God grant it will be a son; that would please Ned, for all men want an heir to succeed to their titles and lands – if, of course, there are any, after this dreadful business is concluded. And suddenly I am fearful for the little one’s sake as well as my own. For if my child is a son, then from his birth, he will pose a greater threat to the Queen than my sisters and I ever could.

Kate

August 1485. Raglan Castle.

The next morning, when Kate awoke, Mattie was bustling around, pouring water into a basin and laying out fresh body linen. The black dress Kate had discarded the night before had been hung up and brushed, and was hanging on its peg. She struggled to regain her wits. Her head felt terrible, and her eyes were stinging.

‘What time is it?’ she muttered.

‘Good morning,’ Mattie responded. ‘It is nigh eight o’clock. How are you today, my lady?’

‘Wretched,’ she sighed. ‘My head aches and I feel sick. God knows I wept a storm last night – and I had cause. My lord was hateful to me, hateful! In faith, I do not know how I can bear to live with him any more. And he doesn’t want me now that my father is dead. I am an embarrassment to him, an obstacle in the way of his gaining favour with the Tudor. I tell you, Mattie, I shall go into a convent, and then he and I can be rid of each other.’

‘I’d hold your horses a bit if I were you,’ Mattie said, folding some clean linen. ‘When did you last bleed, my lady?’

Kate thought back. In the anxiety and turmoil of the past weeks, she had not taken much notice of her body’s rhythms. But now it dawned on her that she had not seen her courses for some time. She looked at Mattie in dismay.

‘I reckon it’s seven weeks since I had to wash your clouts,’ Mattie said. ‘I think you’re with child – and that makes two of us!’

‘Mattie!’ Realisation was dawning. ‘Yes – it must be. I feel a little sick today, just like before. Dear God, what shall I do? My lord hates me. He will be angry to think I am pregnant with King Richard’s grandchild.’

‘Him? No, like all men, he wants an heir. You tell him you’re expecting, and he’ll perk up, see if I’m right.’

‘This is unreal,’ Kate said. ‘And you too, Mattie! Are you pleased?’

‘Delighted, and Guy too. And I’m pleased for you, my lady. When God closes one door, He opens another. This will help to blunt the edge of your grief.’

Kate thought that nothing could do that, but it was true that a baby would give her something else to think about. And whatever anyone else might say, she rejoiced in the knowledge that it was her father’s grandchild she was carrying, and that something of him would live on, something she could cherish.

She rested in her chamber that morning, and Mattie gave out that she was indisposed. When the sick feeling had passed, she got up and had her maid dress her in her mourning gown, then she seated herself at the table. In her portable writing desk – a curiously wrought box with painted panels, a velvet lining and secret compartments – lay her bundle of jottings about the Princes. She sat there thinking about them, poring over them, trying to make sense of them. She wondered if she should try to write down her findings so far. She wanted to be able one day to tell her child the truth about his grandfather. But how could she do that, when she did not know the truth herself?

Yet maybe – just maybe – her doubts would be resolved soon. Henry Tudor had sworn his intention of marrying Elizabeth of York, and no doubt he would make good that vow shortly. For he held his throne only by right of conquest, not through right of blood. There were others of Yorkist descent who had more right – Warwick and his sister, and John, of course. It was clear that Henry Tudor believed that the precontract story was a nonsense, otherwise he would not have vowed to wed Elizabeth of York. Soon he must honour that vow, and it was possible that he would make some proclamation about the fate of the Princes – although, Kate thought dismally, it was bound to be injurious to her father’s memory, which could only be to the Tudor’s advantage. Even if Henry had no proof that Richard had killed his nephews, he would find it politic to say he had.

She wondered again how Henry Tudor had been sure they were dead. He must have learned something from Buckingham, probably through his mother, Lady Stanley. She made herself face the possibility that Buckingham had learned that her father, alarmed by the plots in the boys’ favour, was pla

They had been close, the King and the Duke: her father might well have confided his intention to his friend. That was sufficient to explain Buckingham’s disaffection. But did Buckingham, or Henry Tudor, ever find out that the Princes were actually dead? Maybe Buckingham had known nothing of their fate after all.

She laid down her pen. She had written nothing. She supposed she would have to wait to see what transpired now, although she knew she might wait a long time for news to filter through to Raglan. For certain it was that her husband would not willingly enlighten her.

She tied the papers up again and was just about to put them away when the door opened and William walked in. Their eyes met: hers flashed with hurt and anger at the remembrance of his cruelty the night before; his alighted on her black dress.