A Dangerous Inheritance

‘Second, there is a matter with which you might be able to help me, my lady,’ the King went on, and Kate was aware of William tensing beside her. She swallowed, being unsure how to respond, and worried that her hostility might be apparent. But William dived in.

‘You must answer the King’s Grace, my lady.’

‘Yes, Sire,’ she said. Henry Tudor was looking at her speculatively, his eyes darting down to the barely perceptible mound of her stomach. He too would be aware of whose grandchild she carried. Her hatred of him hardened.

‘This is a sensitive, secret matter,’ he said. ‘My lady, I want your word that it will go no further than this room.’

‘Yes, Sire,’ she said again, trying to keep her voice dispassionate.

‘You are with child,’ he said. ‘Pray be seated. This may take a while.’ He indicated that she should sit on the polished wooden settle before the fire, and sent a clearly unwilling William to wait without. Then he sat down beside her, keeping a respectable distance between them.

‘My lady, you may be aware that gossip about the sons of King Edward has flared up again,’ he began. ‘It is bruited in London that they died a cruel death by order of the usurper.’ He regarded her sternly. ‘Madam, I must ask you: what have you learned privily of this matter?’

This was the last subject she would have expected the Tudor to raise with her. But she collected her wits, hoping she might learn something herself. ‘I know nothing, Sire,’ she told him.

‘Your late father, the usurper Richard, never spoke of the Princes?’

She wanted to refer to her father as King Richard in her reply, but thought better of it. Suppressing her anger, she answered, ‘No, Sire, never in that respect.’

Henry regarded her suspiciously. ‘You were aware of the rumours of their deaths?’

‘Yes, Sire. But I always set little store by them, seeing that they were just rumours. I imagine I know no more than anyone else.’ She was surprised at her own boldness.

‘You imagine. But what doyou know!’

‘I heard that the Princes were alive last year,’ she revealed, then wished she hadn’t said it.

‘From whom?’ Henry barked.

‘My lord of Lincoln told me they still lived.’

‘And how did he know that?’

‘He said he believed it, Sire. He was at the centre of affairs and I assumed he was well informed.’

Henry frowned. ‘I do not think so. Madam, I myself had it on good authority, two years ago, that the Princes had been murdered. They are not in the Tower now, so I believe that to have been the truth.’

He had given away too much! If they were not in the Tower now, and he was quizzing her like this, he did not know for certain that the Princes were really dead. And he was looking for proof that they were, because without it, his hold on the throne must be tenuous indeed, and he could not rely on their sister being the true heir to the House of York. If the Princes yet lived, they might rise up at any minute – from the dead, as it were – and claim his throne! And he, by vowing to marry their sister, would himself have endorsed their legitimacy. He did not know where they were. Oh, she saw his dilemma very clearly now! There was some justice in this world.

And there was something else too. They are not in the Tower now. Had she cause to hope that they had not been murdered?

‘Has a search been made for their bodies, Sire?’ she ventured.

‘Yes, and will be made again. Assuredly, they will be found. But I thought your father might perhaps have offered some explanation of their disappearance to you,’ Henry said.

‘No, Sire, he never spoke of it. And I never believed the rumours because I did not think my lord my father capable of such a deed. There isno proof of murder, is there, Sire?’

Henry threw her a sharp look. ‘The shedding of infants’ blood is a dreadful matter,’ he pronounced. ‘It is the foulest of crimes, and I will have the truth!’

‘Sire, I would like to know the truth too,’ she said quietly.

He looked hard at her. His eyes were cold and calculating. ‘So you have nothing else to say to me?’

‘No, Sire. I am sorry.’

He dismissed her, commanding her again to say nothing of their conversation to anyone, and she went away, her knees trembling. She knew she had made an enemy, but he had been one already, given who she was. She had revealed herself to Henry Tudor, much as he had given himself away to her, and no doubt he had thought her defiant and provocative; well, she had been, deliberately: she would not let him drag her father’s name in the mud by his hateful insinuations. She had had to speak out. Yet she thought he had believed her when she said she could not help him.

Katherine

August 1561. The Tower of London.

I ca

But now I must return to my prison, and my spirits are once more crushed, and I am a very sorrowful woman for the Queen’s displeasure, even though a good di

The Lieutenant comes to ask if all is to my liking and comfort. Am I mistaken, or is his ma

‘Good Sir Edward,’ I blurt out, ‘what will they do to me?’

He pauses – ominously, I fear, for he seems to be searching for the right thing to say to me. ‘As far as I know, my lady, nothing has been decided. My orders are to keep you here, in such estate as beseems your rank, until I receive further instructions. I am told that the Privy Council will interview you, and I have some preliminary questions for you now. The Queen’s Majesty has commanded me to say that you shall have no favour from her unless you tell me the truth about which lords, ladies and gentlemen of the court were privy to your union with Lord Hertford. For it does appear to her that several persons have dealt in the matter. And if you do not declare all, I must warn you that it will increase the Queen’s indignation against you.’

That sets me shivering. ‘Sir, I do protest, there was no conspiracy, and only a few persons knew of my marriage.’

‘Who were they?’ The Lieutenant seats himself at the table, produces writing materials from his pouch, dips a pen in the inkwell and waits.

‘The minister.’

‘His name?’

‘He did not tell it.’ Scratch, scratch. He writes this down.

‘In which parish does he serve?’

‘I know not, I fear.’

‘The witnesses?’

‘Lady Jane Seymour, but she is dead.’

‘The other? There must be two for a marriage to be valid.’

‘There was no other,’ I falter. ‘We took the minister for a witness.’

‘Who else knew?’

‘No one beforehand. Afterwards, I took my maid, Mrs Leigh, into my confidence.’ I am resolved not to mention dear Mrs Ellen.

‘What became of Mrs Leigh?’

‘She went to the country to nurse her sick mother. She did not return.’

‘Was there anyone else who knew of the marriage?’

‘Mr Gly

‘And that is all.’

‘Yes.’

‘No other noblemen or ladies?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘Not even the Duchess of Somerset?’