A Dangerous Inheritance (58 page)

Elizabeth rests her gimlet gaze on him. “I trust, William, that you are not intending to give Dame Nature any assistance.”

“I, Your Majesty?” He is a little shocked. “I but leave her to take her course. And if the Lady Katherine and her child survive, we will think again about what is to be done with them. I bear in mind that she is your kinswoman.”

“Would that she were not!” fumes the Queen.

October 1485, Westminster Palace

After Pietro had gone, Kate wandered along the paths between the fenced flower beds for a little while, but a stiff wind was building up, and she began to retrace her steps to the palace. William would be furious if he returned to their lodging and found her absent.

As she turned into the passage that ran beside the chapel, she glimpsed the tail of a black gown disappearing into the cloister. Was it the person she had imagined following her earlier? She sped along the passage, but when she got to the cloister it was empty. Warily, she walked on, past the guards in their red livery, up the spiral stairs, and so to her lodging, seeing nothing out of the way.

She lay down to rest, loosening the laces across her stomach, but
her mind was agitated. Was she becoming too fanciful? Women in her condition did sometimes. She yearned for Mattie’s sound common sense, but Mattie was far away in Raglan; she had been suffering too much morning sickness to accompany her on this journey, and Kate had been obliged to bring with her mousy little Gwenllian, one of her Welsh maids. She’d chosen her because the girl was unobtrusive and gentle, but today she was not here because Kate had given her permission to go out and watch the procession; by now she would no doubt be joining in the revelry that was going on in the streets. The din of it could be heard distantly.

Dusk fell. As Kate lit the candles she heard a scratching noise. What was that? It came again, from the keyhole. Someone was trying to open the door! Gingerly she pulled the key out, grateful that she had locked the door on her return earlier.

She was conscious of the sudden silence outside. And then she heard footsteps, stealthy and barely audible, retreating in the distance. Someone had definitely been trying to break into the room. As soon as they realized someone was within, they had retreated.

She sat on the bed, shaken, and tried to think about it rationally. She wished she had opened the door and challenged whoever it was, but the moment was gone now—and she’d been too fearful anyway.

What had they wanted? Had it been the person whose black gown she espied earlier? Had they come to search her room, or frighten her? She was chilled to her very marrow at the thought.

Had someone been spying on her as she spoke with Pietro this afternoon? Surely no one could have been near enough to hear what was said, although if they had been … She had seen not a soul nearby, but she recalled that Pietro kept looking about him. Had he glimpsed someone? Was that why he had made his hasty excuse and left?

If that person picking at the lock had gotten into the room, and she had not been here, what would they have found that was incriminating—or that could throw light on the mystery of the princes? There was nothing, surely … Ah, but there was: her papers! She flew to the table and lifted the lid of her casket—and there they were, undisturbed. She stood there, breathing heavily in relief.

What should she do with them? The lock-picker would be back, as
surely as night followed day, so she must find somewhere safe to keep them. They must never fall into the wrong hands. She looked at the traveling chest. It had a secret compartment, but that was easily opened—even a child could work it out—and the King’s spies would be skilled at such tricks. And they would search thoroughly too. There was nothing for it. She would have to keep the papers on her person.

She set to work at once, stitching two white kerchiefs into a small bag, through the top hem of which a long ribbon could be threaded. That she tied about her waist, under her gown, with the papers inside it. That her waistline was expanding daily made no matter: she and William would be away from here soon.
No one would ever suspect
, she thought as she surveyed herself in the mirror. The heavy folds of her skirt concealed the slight bulge of the bag completely.

The papers were safe now. And the Tudor’s henchman could search her chamber as thoroughly as he wished.

September 24, 1561, Tower of London

My labor began this morning as I lay abed. The midwife, a stout, no-nonsense body, had explained to me what the pains of travail would be like. I had also heard women’s tales about the agonies and perils of childbirth, and for a while I was inclined to dismiss them, for these pains were easily bearable. Only as the morning wore on did they become fiercer, and then the midwife bade me lie down on the bed and pull, when I needed to, on a length of thick-woven material she had tied tautly between the bedposts. Then she sent Honor off to fetch Holland cloth, hot water, bread, cheese, and wine, and herself laid ready the cambric swaddling bands and rollers, the tiny shirt and coif I had embroidered, the taffeta coat with satin sleeves, the little bib and apron, the lace mittens. An old oak cradle, provided by Sir Edward, was placed beside my bed and made up with sheets and a miniature
counterpane of crewelwork. Then the midwife closed the window, drew the curtains together, and hung a sheet over the faded tapestry.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “It’s so hot in here—I need some air.”

“The air of the City is noxious and bad for your babe,” she told me, “and the child might be affrighted by the figures in the hanging. Best to be on the safe side!”

Stifling and perspiring, I have labored for what seems like hours, my pains growing stronger all the time, until I have to acknowledge that most of the gossips spoke truth. It is all I can do not to cry out. But then comes a change, an overwhelming urge to push downward—and when I do so, I find that I push the pain away.

“Nearly there!” the midwife pronounces, looking between my splayed legs. “I can see the head crowning.” And suddenly here he is—my son. England has a Protestant male heir at last.

He is healthy, thanks be to God, and beautiful too. I cannot cease admiring him. When he tugs at my breast and blinks at me with his milky blue eyes, I am lost, my heart given over entirely. And it is a strange feeling, because I had thought I could never love anyone as much as I love Ned. Yet this is different, and I know now what women mean when they say they would lay down their lives for their children. It is a fierce love, a love that would protect at all costs, a love that is the complete negation of self for the tiny being who is utterly dependent on you for everything. And as I sit here in bed, my son in my arms, I vow he shall never suffer because of his parents’ offense. I will make sure of that. And I assure us both that when all this trouble is far behind us, my little one will be a king one day.

Sir Edward Warner comes to see me. His face creases in a tender smile when he sees the swaddled babe lying contentedly beside me in his cradle.

“Allow me to offer you my congratulations, my lady,” he says. “You have a fine boy there. I pray God give him long life and health. I have brought him a gift.” His voice is gruff as he places a silver rattle, which must have cost him a goodly sum, on the counterpane.

“I thank you for your kindness, Sir Edward,” I say, touched. “It is a very pretty toy; he will love it. You are most generous.”

I perceive some emotion working in the lieutenant’s rugged face.

“To have a healthy son like yours is a great blessing from God,” he says. “My late wife bore me three boys, but they all died in infancy.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” I tell him, genuinely moved. Now that I am a mother, I find I am inordinately sensitive about harm befalling little children. In fact, I can now hardly bear to think of the princes.

“I have married again this year,” the lieutenant tells me. “My wife and I—well, we live in hope.”

“I will pray for you both, that your hopes are fulfilled.”

“That is kind, my lady. I am painfully aware that my duty to the Queen’s Majesty requires me to be stricter than I would wish on occasion; but I want you to know that you have my goodwill, and that I will do all in my power to make your stay here as easy as possible.”

“It gladdens me to know that,” I smile.

“The midwife has asked me to engage a wet nurse and rockers,” Sir Edward continues. “My lady, I am minded to ask Her Majesty if she will graciously agree to a suite of rooms being appointed in my lodging here for you, the child, and your attendants, and I also intend to request that you be provided with the comforts of your rank. There may be a charge for such privileges, but if there is anything you require brought to you, you have only to ask.” I have heard that jailers and turnkeys supplement their fees by doing favors for prisoners, and that a man or woman can live well in prison, if they have the means.

“I thank you, good Sir Edward,” I say. “But although I have some money of my own, I do not know how to get hold of it, shut up as I am here.”

“That can safely be left to the Queen’s Council,” he tells me. “They will arrange everything. Would you like me to put forward these requests?”

“Yes, indeed!” I exclaim, eager to be out of this miserable chamber, which is no place for my child—my little prince, as I am already calling him secretly. A suite of rooms in the Lieutenant’s Lodging! That is where Ned is held. We will be near each other.

“We will see what Her Majesty has to say,” my good jailer is saying.

“Sir Edward!” I call him back as he prepares to leave. “Does my lord know of the birth of his son?”

“He does, my lady. I myself told him the good news, and he recorded it at once in his Bible, adding a prayer beseeching God to bless your child and to move the Queen’s heart to pity.”

“And did he show himself joyful at becoming a father?”

Sir Edward hesitates. “I am sure he felt it inwardly. But he seemed a little cast down, no doubt because he cannot see you or the child; and he observed that in human affairs, nothing is certain.”

“A strange thing to say when a child is born.”

“It is the circumstances, of course,” he replies.

Why does Ned feel cast down? Inexplicably weepy, I lie fretting about it. Then I pick up my babe and hold him tight to my breast, marveling at his soft skin and downy head, his rosebud lips and milky blue eyes. How could anyone wish harm to such an enchanting, defenseless creature? The whole realm should be rejoicing in the birth of such a prince! It is the one blessing the Queen has not bestowed on her people.

But, insidiously, unwelcome thoughts fill my head. If I am to protect him, I must face the fact that there are those who would not see my son as merely an innocent, adorable baby, but as a deadly rival, young though he is. Thus did Richard III regard his nephews, though they were but children. And while I cannot believe the Queen could entertain one hostile thought against this little mite were she to meet him, we are both her prisoners in the Tower. What if they should take him away from me? What if I never see him again, and hear only rumors about his fate? It has happened before—and I am struck with terror lest it should happen again. I find myself brooding much upon the fate of the princes. I am desperate to know if they escaped, as Katherine Plantagenet believed. Could she still be alive? If she wrote with an adult hand in 1487, she would be very ancient now, so it is unlikely.

I drift off to sleep, and find myself dreaming about her, as I have not done in years. In my dream, I see the girl in the blue dress, the one whose portrait I saw hanging in the old wing in Baynard’s Castle. I know it is her, the King’s daughter. She is young and beautiful, a fine dark lady. She seems to be reaching out to me once more, mouthing words I cannot quite comprehend. She is pleading with me, as she did before …

I wake up suddenly. The dream was so real, more vivid than normal. It is night; the moon is up beyond my window. All is still.

And then, once more, that strange shifting of the air, and a distant cry—

Help me!

Help us!

I huddle, terrified, under the bedclothes. I wanted to believe I had dreamed what I’d heard before, but I am certainly not sleeping now. A dog barks. Has he heard the voices too? There they are again!
Help me! Help us!
The dog barks once more. Then silence.

I poke my head above the covers and sit up, looking about me fearfully. Everything seems normal. Had I really heard them? Or am I so weighed down with troubles that I am beginning to imagine things?

Eventually I drift into sleep, and in the morning I decide I could not have been dreaming.

“Sir Edward,” I say, when the lieutenant comes to inquire after my health, and we have admired the baby, snug in his swaddling bands, “do you believe that the Princes in the Tower really were murdered here all those years ago?”

For a moment he looks uneasy, and I realize that it may still be unwise to speak of such things. For if the princes had survived, then the Tudors must be usurpers. Thinking of Queen Elizabeth, it is a heartening notion! But Sir Edward’s qualms, if he has any, are fleeting.

“I have often wondered that myself,” he confides. “In fact, I’m very interested in the subject, my lady—and have been for years. I know all the world thinks they were killed, but they never found them, you know. It’s well known here that King Henry VII ordered several searches of the Tower, all of which revealed nothing. And without the bodies, there is no proof. Yet it is invariably said that Sir James Tyrell had them killed, on King Richard’s orders.”

Tyrell! That name again. I remember now. It was in Vergil’s history that I read of him murdering the princes, seeking preferment as a reward. Yet I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere else.

“Is it known how they were killed?” I ask.

“No one knows for certain, but many have guessed. Some say they
were run through with a sword, some that they were suffocated or drowned in wine like the Duke of Clarence; others say they were poisoned, or walled up, or buried alive. The fact is, no one knows. I read that their bodies were chested and taken on a ship down the Thames, then thrown into the Black Deeps at the estuary. That would explain why they were never found here, in the Tower—but I have often wondered if it was a rumor put about to convince folk that they were dead.”