A Dangerous Inheritance (38 page)

Yet this idyll cannot last, and not long after our return to Whitehall, Ned comes to me with a long face.

“It is not good news,” he blurts out. “I have sounded out several on the council now, and the answer is always the same. It is not the right time to consider our marriage.”

“But why?”

“Prince Erik of Sweden is here to pay court to the Queen. Until the outcome of that is known, we are advised to wait. In the meantime, I will do my best to win favor with Prince Erik. I hear he enjoys tennis.”

“In that case, he must approve of you. He could not have a better
opponent. But it is hard to have to wait. I would I were a private person and could marry where I pleased!”

“Come, you would not like that, Katherine!” Ned snorts. “And nor would I. Just be patient awhile longer—and then, God willing, we can have it all!”

February 1484, Palace of Westminster

Kate fretted about Dr. Argentine’s flight. Might he have known more than was good for him about the fate of the princes? Had he meddled too far in matters that did not concern him, or had he simply been an incompetent doctor?

The thought struck her that her cousin Edward might have died of natural causes, or at the hands of the doctor who was trying to cure him. She had heard of many cases where the remedy had proved more fatal than the disease. That would have been reason enough for Dr. Argentine to have fled. And it was easy, in this present climate, to see why her father would never have announced the death of his nephew, for people would surely have laid the blame for it at his door. They had been quick to call him murderer as it was!

It was all a tangled puzzle, and she found it hard to think straight. How could she make sense of the many loose ends? Could she keep on believing that her beloved father had done no wrong? Truly, she did not know anymore.

When Kate sat down at the chessboard in the King’s privy chamber on the evening after her talk with Pietro, she found herself looking at her father afresh.

“You are not paying attention, Kate,” he chided. “I said, watch your knight. What ails you?”

She summoned her courage. “Sire, I have been much disquieted by foul rumors about my cousins in the Tower.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You should not pay attention to pernicious rumors,” he reproved.

“Then my cousins are well?”

“Why should they not be?” His tone was defensive and sharp. Queen Anne, seated by the crackling fire, looked up from her sewing. She shook her head almost imperceptibly at Kate.

“No reason at all, sire,” Kate said quickly. Her father frowned and said no more.

The next morning, after Mass, Kate stayed on her knees in the empty chapel, trying to make sense of everything. But it was all too much for her, and she found herself weeping uncontrollably. And that was how the Lord Chancellor, the Bishop of Lincoln, found her when he entered the chapel a few minutes later.

“Why, my dear child, what is wrong?” he asked in his mellow, cultivated voice. Kate lifted a tearstained face in which her misery was written clear. She was relieved to see Bishop Russell standing beside her. She knew him for a just man of great learning and piety, a man of integrity who had sometimes been a guest at her father’s table. The sight of his strong, serene face calmed her.

She stood up, wiping her eyes. “I have done my father the King an injury,” she sniffed. “But I would not have hurt him for all the world.”

“I am sure that a young lady like yourself could not have done anything that was so very bad,” the Bishop said kindly. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

Kate realized that she would, very much. She needed reassurance about the dark matters that had been gnawing at her for weeks, and her talk with Pietro had only added to her torment. She was painfully torn: she could not bear to have those horrible things said about her father—and yet she was tortured by the possibility that there might be some truth in them. Every time she had tried to talk to John about her fears, he’d offered some comforting explanation; yet she suspected he was biased, immovably her father’s man. And then she would feel guilty about being so disloyal herself. But these terrible suspicions would not be stilled!

Bishop Russell was an experienced politician, well acquainted with
the workings of the court, the council, and Parliament, and an honest man at the center of affairs. If anyone knew the truth, it was he.

She sank down in the royal pew and His Grace seated himself comfortably beside her.

“Now,” he said, “there is no one to hear, and you may speak freely. Do not think that anything you say can shock me, for in my calling I have heard the whole panoply of the human condition; and this will be between ourselves only.” He paused and waited, contemplating his episcopal ring.

“There have been dreadful rumors these past weeks,” Kate began, then faltered. Even now, she hated to give voice to them. “They accuse my father of murdering his nephews.” There—it was said.

The Bishop was silent at first. He appeared to be considering. Kate was holding her breath in trepidation.

“The King was ambitious, there can be no doubt of that,” he said at length. “He wanted the throne, although when he first conceived that desire I cannot say. And he removed those who stood in his way. I know for a fact that Lord Hastings never conspired against him. So yes, he displayed a certain—shall we say—pragmatism. He may well have believed there had been a conspiracy. But innocent blood was shed.”

“Innocent blood?” Kate whispered.

“I meant Lord Hastings—and Rivers and Grey,” the Bishop replied, then fell silent.

“And the princes?” She could hardly speak.

“When the Duke of York was taken from sanctuary, his mother was assured that Gloucester intended no harm toward him,” the Bishop recalled. “With that guarantee, she assented to the boy’s going. But from that day, the duke openly revealed his plans. It was clear he was aiming for the throne itself. My dear child, you must forgive me for speaking too freely, but I am telling you the truth. Never think I am disloyal to my King. I serve him faithfully, and think no ill of him. Our Savior teaches us that we must not judge our fellow men.”

“I know that, Father,” Kate assured him.

“Sometimes, in matters of state, the end justifies the means,” the Bishop said.

“The precontract between King Edward and Lady Eleanor Butler—did it ever exist?” Kate ventured.

Bishop Russell sighed. “No, my daughter, it was a false tale put forward by Bishop Stillington, which the duke chose to believe. It gave him the pretext he needed to take the throne.”

“Then the princes are truly legitimate?”

“Some would say so.”

And they might also say that her father had usurped the throne and had no right to be King, she realized. But surely he had believed the precontract to be lawful?

“But my father
is
the rightful King?” she asked.

“Indeed he is. He was recognized as such by the estates of this realm at his coronation, and Parliament has just passed an Act,
Titulus Regius
, confirming his title.”

That was some comfort. But she needed more.

“It is said that the princes were killed before the coronation,” she ventured.

“That is untrue,” the Bishop said. “At that time they were living in the Tower under special guard, and I know they were still there when the Prince of Wales was invested at York.”

That gave the lie to Brother Dominic’s hints and suspicions.

“But what happened to them after the investiture?” she persisted.

The Bishop’s gaze rested on the great jeweled crucifix on the altar.

“I cannot say,” he said. “They may still be in the Tower now. I promise you I have not heard otherwise.” He stood up, somewhat abruptly. “I hope I have given you some consolation, my daughter. Now I must leave you. I am due in the council chamber shortly.” And he placed his hand on her head in blessing before departing.

Walking back to her lodging on the Queen’s side, Kate considered what the Bishop had said. Certainly his account of events was at variance with Dominic Mancini’s, and that alone cast doubt on Mancini’s sources of information. Malicious persons, to be sure, she said to herself, resolving never to doubt her father again. Whatever means he had used to come by the throne, he must have believed them legitimate. And the princes were still in the Tower: Bishop Russell himself thought it.

It was only later, when she was lying wakeful in bed, staring unseeing at the firelight flickering on the walls, that she recalled the Bishop’s answer when she’d asked what had become of the princes after the investiture. “I cannot say,” he had replied. Had that meant he could not say because he did not know—or because it was politic—and safer—not to say? And then another terrible notion came to her: if the princes
had
been murdered in the Tower, they—or rather, their bodies—
would
still be there, and of course Bishop Russell would not have heard otherwise.

John, meanwhile, had been busy putting pressure on his father to permit him and Kate to wed.

“He is thinking about it, that’s all he will say,” he fumed when next they met. “God’s blood, why is it that older people forget what it is like to be in love? They think they can push us into this betrothal or that to suit their own advantage, but they have no idea what it is like when your blood is racing through your veins and you have eyes only for one special person. And for me it is you, my Kate!” And he swept her up and twirled her around, her green skirts and long hair flying.

“John! People will see!” Her eyes scanned the frost-rimed garden anxiously. Lincoln set her down and followed her as she walked to the riverbank. Below them the Thames glowered dark and sullen in the February gloom. It matched her mood. She had been utterly miserable since her talks with Pietro and Bishop Russell.

“What is wrong with you these days, sweetheart?” John asked, looking at her anxiously. “Tell me honestly—are you tiring of me?”

“God, no!” she cried, shocked that he should think it, and that she had become so self-absorbed as to not notice his concern. “I love you, John! I always will. I long for you to be my husband. No—you have nothing to do with my melancholy; rather, you are the one thing that lifts it.”

“I am not doing very well today, then.” He smiled ruefully.

“In truth, I do not know how to help myself,” she confessed.

“Just tell me what is wrong, or I shall go mad with worry.”

“It is my father … the rumors about the princes …” She shook her head helplessly.

“Not that again!” John sighed. “Just forget it. You are chasing demons that don’t exist. The princes are in the Tower, alive and well.”

“You know that for certain?”

“I am sure of it. And the good news today is that the Queen and her daughters have agreed to leave sanctuary. The King has sworn an oath to protect and care for our cousins. Queen Elizabeth would hardly entrust them to a man who had murdered her sons. Think about it, sweetheart.”

“But he had her other son, Grey, executed without trial,” Kate had to say.

“There was justification for that, as you know. Queen Elizabeth must know it too. And the King has offered a pardon to her eldest son, Dorset, if he will abandon Henry Tudor and return to England. So you see, my Kate, there is no cause for melancholy, I promise you.” He bent and kissed her long and hard, his cheek rough and cold in the freezing air. It was the most passionate kiss he had ever given her, and when he broke away, she was gasping.

“I trust you feel better now,” John said, and winked at her.

She thought she did, as she hastened back into the palace, her thick cloak pulled about her, her hands blue with cold. And then she was accosted by a fresh-faced page in the King’s livery.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, my lady,” the boy said. “The King is asking for you. He desires that you attend him in his privy chamber.”

“Of course,” she said, and hurried on her way, unsuspecting.

October 1559, Whitehall Palace

God, Fortune, or the Fates—call it what you will—have not been kind to us, my love and I. To my grief, my lady mother has grown weaker
and taken to her bed, and there she has remained ever since, her condition steadily deteriorating. Once more, our hopes of her intercession with the Queen have been cruelly dashed.

Today, stiff in my tight-waisted embroidered damask gown with the high, ruffled neck and wide, pearl-encrusted sleeves, and bursting with resentment, it is my turn to wait upon Her Majesty. I am aware of the covert, hostile glances of my fellow Ladies of the Bedchamber, the bristling disapproval of Mistress Astley, and the icy demeanor of my royal mistress. Elizabeth could be angry with me for any number of reasons—but why does she not speak her displeasure, or even tell me what my punishment is to be?

I burn with the unfairness of it all. I have done nothing—
nothing
—to deserve this!

Anger boils inside me. So when the Queen slaps me for dropping her glove, I explode like a cannon.

“Your Majesty is most unkind!” I cry. “It is not my fault that others have plotted in my name, entirely unbeknownst to me, and yet you have blamed me for it. That is unwarranted, and most unbecoming in one who is supposed to be the fount of all justice!”

As soon as I have uttered the words, I wish my tongue had been cut out of my mouth. One look at the astonishment and fury in Elizabeth’s face, and I know I am irrevocably lost, and bound for the Tower, at the very least. With a few ill-chosen words let fly in wrath, I have wrecked all my hopes of the succession, yea, and of marriage and all that is precious to me.

“Well, Lady Katherine, you have made yourself very clear,” the Queen says acidly. “Even if there was none of your malice in that evil conspiracy, you have made it plain now.”

“But madam,” I keen, falling to my knees, “I but pleaded my case. I meant no offense, truly.” The women are looking down on me with unconcealed contempt.

“Have I accused you of aught, that you should have any case to plead?” Elizabeth barks.

“No, madam, but you have never shown kindness to me, and it is clear that I am now held in derision by everyone in this court, they following
your lead, for you have made it plain you think me a guilty party, when I am not. But I have been sorely tried, especially considering I have not been named as your successor, as is my right—”