A Dangerous Inheritance

‘No. We did not tell her.’

‘You are sure? You would be prepared to swear an oath on that?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Can you show me your marriage lines?’

I falter again. ‘I never had any.’

Sir Edward raises his eyebrows. ‘Then have you any proof at all of your marriage?’

‘I did! I had a deed of land granted me by my husband after our wedding. It was in that casket before you. But I lost it.’ The Lieutenant frowns. ‘I assure you, Sir, the Earl of Hertford did deliver such a deed to me! It was written on parchment, and he gave it to me six days after our marriage. But what with removing from place to place, it is lost, and I ca

When I am done, there is a long pause while he looks over what he has written.

‘How would you describe the minister?’ he asks.

I tell him as accurately as I can, aware that I may be bringing a heap of trouble on the priest’s head. ‘He wore no surplice,’ I recall. ‘But Sir, my husband gave me a wedding ring. Look!’ I show him the elaborate band on my finger, and open the links so that he can read the inscription. He looks at it without comment.

‘Are you sure you ca

‘I never did hear it.’

‘Would you know him if you saw him again?’

I consider for a moment. I do not want the minister’s punishment on my conscience. ‘I am not sure.’

‘Would Mrs Leigh know where to find the deed of gift?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘I know not.’

‘Tell me what you remember of the morning of your wedding.’

I recount that hasty walk to Ca

The Lieutenant clears his throat. ‘Tell me of the love practices between you and the Earl of Hertford.’ I look at him, shocked and embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, I am instructed to ask,’ he says, a little shamefaced, for I can sense he is a decent man.

‘I ca

‘I will not press you, for shame,’ Sir Edward says. Sighing, he rises to his feet and gathers up his things. ‘Thank you, Lady Katherine,’ he says. ‘That will be all for now.’

‘Sir,’ I cry, a little wild. ‘Have you any word of my husband?’

‘I am not at liberty to discuss him with you,’ the Lieutenant says, as, bowing, he leaves me.

Again, I rummage through my casket – as I have done several times before now. Ned’s deed really is not there. I am distraught, realising I have mislaid the only proof of my marriage.

My first night as a prisoner. I go to bed early, as I am exhausted. Honor helps me into my nightgown, then turns down the bed and departs, and I am left alone with my terrifying thoughts. I try not to think what it must be like to feel the steel of the axe slicing into one’s neck. It is something I used to dwell on much, of course, but now the imaginings I try to ward off are beyond horrible.

Outside my window, the glorious sunset has given way to a velvety blue night. I have lit my single candle now, having sat here without light for a long time as the dusk deepened, lost in my ceaseless fretting. Forcing myself not to think of worse things, I have been imagining myself arguing my case with the Queen. It galls me that I have had no chance to convince her of my i

Lying wakeful in this horrible place, far from my beloved, I ca

It has grown late, and chilly, and there are dark shadows beyond the bed where demons may well lurk, and night owls hooting in the trees outside. Their eerie cries send shivers of unease down my spine and make my skin crawl. If an owl were to land on the roof of this tower, it would be an omen of death. Suddenly, I am praying for the owls to fly away, but they keep up their unearthly din, and that seems ominous too.

I wonder how many other poor wretches have been shut up in this room, weighed down with fears as I am. How many of them left it only to go to their doom? Were any allowed to go free? And if not, have they really departed this place? Might it be that some unquiet souls yet linger, and that they walk at night? In the gloom, my imagination is alive with horrifying possibilities. In this dark watch of the night, I can easily convince myself that I may face the same fate as my sister – and that the ghosts of those who have gone before are about to materialise.

I am shaking, desperate for the warmth of human company, but it is late and everyone must surely be asleep by now. I call out: ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ but there is no answer. I rattle the door, which remains stubbornly locked, and call out louder, but no one heeds me. I stumble to the window and look out, expecting to find guards on duty below. I see no one but two girls walking below. One looks disturbingly familiar, but they are gone before I can get a proper look at her, and now it feels as if I am utterly alone in the middle of the Tower of London, a prey to my fears and the phantoms that must lurk in this place.

As the candle sputters and dies in a draught from the window, the room takes on a strange aspect. It looks different in the gloom; I ca

I must calm myself and try to think of my child. I do not want it to be affrighted by my terrors. Shivering in my chemise, and not entirely from cold, I climb into bed, ease my bulky body down between the sheets, and pull the heavy coverlet over my head, shutting out the menacing world. I lie tense, fending off frightening thoughts and feverishly reciting my prayers, but the words come haltingly.

And then I hear it, so softly at first that I think it might be the wind sighing in the trees, or some poor creature preyed upon by an owl. But no, there it is again – a child’s voice, barely audible.

Help me.

It is pitiful and plaintive, and very well bred.

Help us!

There it is again, stronger now! I lie rigid, not daring to move, and too terrified to come out from under the coverlet.

Help us, please!

The voice, higher in pitch, breaks on a sob. It seems to be disembodied, coming out of the night beyond my window. And now there are two voices. I am petrified. I could no more go and investigate than grow wings and fly.

‘Who calls?’ I whisper.

Silence.

‘Is anybody there?’ I cry, more boldly this time.

Nobody answers. I wonder if this is some kind of plot to frighten me to death. Was that what they did to the Princes? It would not be difficult in my case, I fear, for I am eight months gone with child, by my reckoning, and it is well known that a fright can precipitate a woman’s travail. And it would, of course, be most convenient for some I could mention if I died.