A Dangerous Inheritance (57 page)

The more Kate thought about this, the more it made sense, and with that came a welcome feeling of relief that at last she had an explanation as to why her father had never produced the princes alive. But it was still only speculation. She had to talk to John, or get a message to him, as soon as his whereabouts became known.

She wished she knew what had happened to him; not knowing was
killing her. He might even be lying dead somewhere, his beloved body undiscovered. She caught her breath at that.
No! Don’t think that way. He is an astute, resourceful man, and must be in hiding somewhere
. All at once she was seized with an unbearable longing to see him—not just to look once more upon the beauty of his face, and to touch him, but also to ask him that crucial question: Had he had the princes under his charge at Sheriff Hutton?

It was late when William returned that evening, and she was nearly asleep when he came in, doused the candle, and began to undress. She was grateful that her condition precluded his usual nightly attentions.

She turned over to face him. All discourse between them now was limited to necessities; there was no love lost on either side. Yet her curiosity was burning her.

“My lord, I have been wondering. Is there any news of my cousin Warwick?”

William started. He had thought her asleep, and was evidently unprepared for her to speak to him, let alone ask such a question.

“He’s in the Tower of London, if you must know.”

The news shook her. “What?” Another prince in the Tower? “Why?”

“By King Henry’s order. Presumably he feels that Warwick is a threat, being so close in blood to the throne.”

Yes. And he is also a threat because, simple lad that he is, he may blab about the princes being at Sheriff Hutton, and expose the truth: that they may well be alive, though Henry doesn’t know where they are.

“That is terrible. That poor boy could not commit treason to save his life. He has not the wits for it—and he is so young.”

“The King, for all his virtues, is not a sentimental man,” William said stiffly. “He is a political realist, and knows well it is not Warwick himself he need fear, but those who might act on his behalf.”

“But that poor, wretched boy …”

“It is a necessity, alas.”

Kate shed a silent tear for her cousin, who had committed no crime save that of being born his father’s son—and, perhaps, of knowing too much.

“Is there news of my brother coming home from Calais?” she asked, after William had risen from his prayers, used the piss pot, and climbed into bed.

“I heard he was deprived of the captaincy, but he’s still in Calais, for all I know.” How short a time young John had enjoyed his post in Calais, she reflected sadly.

“You should keep your nose out of great affairs,” William reproved, “and don’t go asking questions. It will be marked, surely.”

“I do not intend to. But Warwick and John are my kinsmen, for whom I have much love. I ask only as their relation. And I was also going to ask if there are tidings of my lord of Lincoln.”

“None, and good riddance I say. Now go to sleep.”

She slept; but in the morning, when William—commanding her to stay in her room—had gone to seek out old acquaintances and reestablish himself in the pecking order at court, she got out her papers and wrote down every last detail of her theory that the princes had been taken, safe and well, to Sheriff Hutton. One day, she promised herself, her infant child would be able to hold his head up and say his grandfather’s name with pride.

September 1561, Tower of London

Ned is here, in the Tower. Sir Edward has informed me that he was arrested at Dover, brought here under guard, and imprisoned in the Lieutenant’s Lodging. I do not know whether to laugh or cry, for while I am heartened to know that he is nearby, I am aware that there are now three of us in peril of our lives.

“May I see him?” I ask eagerly.

“I regret not, my lady. The Queen has expressly forbidden it. But my Lord Hertford sends you these, and asks after your health.” He hands me a small posy of violets. Violets, for modesty, delicacy, and
chastity. I feel choked. It is as if my good reputation has been given back to me.

“You are both to be questioned by the Privy Council, separately,” Sir Edward tells me.

“But I have told you all I know,” I protest.

“That remains to be seen, my lady,” Sir Edward says, and makes to depart.

“Please tell my husband I am in good health,” I call after him, and he pauses and nods.

Later, in the afternoon, I am visited by five lords of the council, among them the Bishop of London and the Marquess of Winchester, he who placed the crown on my sister’s head in this very Tower.

“Lady Katherine,” the marquess begins, “why did you not tell the lieutenant everything?”

“But I did,” I declare.

“Let us go over what Lord Hertford has deposed.” He reads Ned’s own account of our wedding day, and I am shocked to hear that my lord has confessed all, even to the most intimate details, and find myself blushing hotly. Nevertheless, he has corroborated everything I myself told Sir Edward, even reciting the lines he composed for my wedding ring. Surely they must believe us now!

“Why did you not give all this information in your first interview?”

For shame, of course; how could they have expected me to say such things to a man not my husband? Even now I cannot bring myself to mention them. “I was in great agony of mind,” I say, “for fear of the Queen Majesty’s displeasure. I was distressed at my husband’s absence, when I thought myself in a desperate case … being great with child …” I cannot speak anymore; I am quite broken down, and weeping uncontrollably. The lords sit in silence as a clerk writes down my words. The marquess nods to the rest.

“That is all,” he says, to my astonishment. “We bid you good day, Lady Katherine.”

October 1485, Westminster Palace

Kate had not gone out with the other peeresses to watch the coronation procession. She had no intention of witnessing the Tudor triumph, pretending to be a king. She had pleaded the sickness of her condition, and stayed in her chamber, resting on the bed, with Sir Thomas Malory’s
Morte d’Arthur
for company.

William looked magnificent in his new purple velvet robe lined with ermine and guarded with three bands of gold lace and miniver, and a silken surcoat of the same hue, sashed in blue velvet. He had departed early, clutching his coronet, to take his place in the abbey. He was still angry with Kate for not telling him what the King and the Lady Margaret had discussed; it was clear he was terrified lest she had let slip something that might impact adversely on him. In the end he had given up, but her silence still rankled, she knew.

The palace seemed unusually still, although outside she could hear the bells of Westminster pealing joyfully and the crowds cheering. She said a prayer for the soul of her father, through whose death this day of celebration had come about. She thought too of John. Where was he now? Still in hiding? Was he even alive? If only she could see him again—just one glimpse was all she asked.

Hours passed. She awoke, realizing she had dozed off. The book lay splayed on the counterpane where it had fallen from her hand. She heard the abbey bells chiming four. They would be at the banquet in Westminster Hall now. Soft footfalls and women’s laughter outside her door told her that the peeresses were returning.

She got up and splashed water on her face, then ventured out into the palace. Most of the galleries and chambers were deserted, apart from the guards on duty. They wore new uniforms, doublets of scarlet cloth with full sleeves and bases pleated from the waist, with black
velvet bonnets, and carried halberds. William had told her that they were the King’s newly instituted bodyguard, the Yeomen of the Guard, appointed to ensure his personal safety. They stood impassive at their posts, apparently unseeing as she passed by. As she entered a cloister, she thought she heard a footfall behind her, but when she waited to see who it was, no one appeared. A few minutes later she heard it again and paused a second time, but still the place seemed to be deserted.

She wondered if someone was following her—someone who did not want to be seen. It stood to reason that Henry Tudor might be having her movements watched, to discover whom she met and conversed with; possibly he believed she could lead him to someone who might know the truth about the princes, for there must be people at his court who knew more than they would ever now reveal. She resolved to be careful, just in case. And yet—there was no one to be seen. She must have imagined it.

She went out into the gardens by the river to get some air. And it was there that she espied someone she knew.

“Pietro!” she cried, and the man reading on a bench by St. Stephen’s Chapel jumped in surprise.

“Madonna!” he exclaimed, but he did not look very pleased to see her.

She walked over to him. “We have come up to Westminster—my husband and I—for the coronation,” she told him. “I did not look to find you still at court.”

“Is that so surprising, Madonna?” Pietro looked a little offended. “A man has to seek his fortune where he must. This new King much liked the poems I wrote in praise of his victory and his virtues. He has asked me to stay on.”

“I understand, Pietro,” she said, although she could not help feeling a little taken aback at the speed with which the little Italian had turned his coat. Not so long ago he had been lauding her father’s accession. But then she supposed that he was just one of many who’d had no real choice but to switch loyalties.

He was regarding her uncertainly. “Madonna, those things we spoke of secretly—you have not mentioned them to anyone?”

“I have never spoken of them,” she assured him, not telling him she had written down all he had said. “Yet I still wonder about them, you know, those poor boys—”

“It is dangerous even to wonder, Madonna. Everyone now says they are dead,” Pietro cut in, looking about him furtively.

“Well, they would. After all, the King is to marry Elizabeth of York.”

“So they say. It is said that he wished to be crowned first, as King in his own right, before sending for her.” No, Henry Tudor would not wish it thought that he owed his title to his wife! Kate knew a moment’s pity for her cousin: imagine being married to that dark, suspicious prince, the Tudor!

“Elizabeth of York is at court now?”

“So I heard, Madonna. The Queen her mother has charge of her, but is not in favor. Do not ask me why—it is a mystery.”

Indeed it was, unless the King was wary of a future mother-in-law notorious for her meddling. Or maybe Elizabeth Wydeville knew more than was good for her.

“Her son Dorset is returned from exile,” Pietro said, his eyes darting here and there. “The King confirmed him in his titles.” But it was unlikely, under the Tudor, that the Wydevilles would enjoy the power that was once theirs, Kate thought.

She took a deep breath. “Your mention of Sheriff Hutton brought to mind the Earl of Lincoln. Is there any news of him?”

“Not that I have heard, Madonna.” Pietro was definitely looking anxious.

Kate felt another pang of anxiety for John.
Had
he fled abroad? Or was he near at hand? If only she could write to him. She did not mean to betray her marriage vows; she just wanted to ask him if the princes had been at Sheriff Hutton.

She wondered if she dared approach the Queen Dowager. But Elizabeth Wydeville was in disfavor. Was it because the Tudor suspected she was withholding information about her sons, the princes? Did she know or suspect that they were not dead? That would explain why she had consented to leave sanctuary with her daughters the previous year. But Kate feared that any contact with the Wydevilles might be noted; and even though they were her kin, they might not want to know her.

If anyone could help her on her quest, Kate thought, it was Bishop Russell. She asked Pietro if he was still in office as Lord Chancellor.

“No, he was dismissed by the King. He went back to his diocese. And Bishop Stillington is imprisoned at York, sorely crazed.”
No doubt for laying that dubious evidence of a precontract
, Kate thought. The Tudor would not deal lightly with a man who had impugned his future Queen’s legitimacy.

“Madonna, forgive me, I must go,” Pietro said awkwardly. “I have work to do.” He had been uncomfortable all through their talk. It was obvious he did not want to know her anymore, and her questions had certainly made him uneasy.

September 1561, Whitehall Palace

Midnight, and Sir William Cecil is closeted alone with the Queen. Elizabeth often likes to conduct private business at night, and is wont to summon her unsuspecting ministers without warning, not caring that she rouses them from their beds. But Cecil has not yet retired, and he is as alert as she. He knows they have something of great import to discuss.

The small paneled room is stuffy in the heat; only a tiny lattice stands open to the Thames. Somewhere outside, an owl hoots. There is no moon tonight.

Cecil, sweating, has just handed his mistress the depositions of Lord Hertford and Lady Katherine. She reads them, frowning.

“No discrepancies, I see. Do the other witness statements tally with these?”

“Yes, they do. The groom Barnaby testified that he saw the Lady Katherine and the Lady Jane arriving at Hertford House that morning. Jenkin, another groom, saw them too, from an upper window, as did the cook, when they walked by the kitchen door. I have discharged all these witnesses, and only Mistress Saintlow remains in the Tower. I assure
you, I should not like to tangle with that lady again: she is trouble! But I verily believe she can tell us no more.”

The Queen’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. “Have her sent back home to Derbyshire to await our pleasure. I am not minded to dismiss her innocence so lightly, even if there is no proof against her.” She pauses. “So, my Spirit—what now? Shall we have the marriage declared no marriage?”

“Not yet,” Cecil says thoughtfully. “You see, madam, Lady Katherine is about to be delivered, and of course many are lost in childbed, mothers and infants both. Dame Nature might solve the problem for us.”