A Dangerous Inheritance (6 page)

“It must have been awful for you,” Kate said.

“It was. I had no idea how to scrub pans or chop vegetables. I had had a gentle upbringing in a castle. The cook was constantly scolding me. He didn’t know who I was, of course. But then”—and now her fair complexion glowed—“Dickon found me. Someone in Clarence’s household talked; I think he bribed them. And he stormed into that house with a vengeance, and demanded that I be delivered into his care. Well, he was the King’s brother, and he was dreadfully angry; they dared not oppose him. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to see him.”

“Did he whisk you away and marry you?” asked John.

“Not immediately. He had to obtain the King’s permission for the marriage. So, like a perfect, gentle knight, he escorted me to the sanctuary at St. Martin’s and placed me in the care of the Archbishop of York while everything was sorted out. And then we did get married. It was a quiet ceremony at Westminster.” A wistful look crept into Anne’s eyes.

“And then did the King chop Clarence’s head off?” asked Edward. At seven, he enjoyed gory details.

“No, my son, that was later, when he was discovered plotting against King Edward.”

“Or is it true that he was drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine?”

Watching Anne blanch, Kate suspected that it was true. “Where did you hear that?” the duchess asked sharply.

Edward looked at her in surprise. “John told me.” John had the grace to look guilty. Anne frowned at him.

“You shouldn’t go telling him things like that,” she reproved.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” he asked, his black eyes holding hers.

“True or not, he’s too young to hear such stories.”

“I am not!” protested Edward. But his mother merely sent them both to bed, silencing their protests with a raised hand.

“Bad boys!” Kate murmured.

“Exhausting,” the duchess sighed, gazing fondly at her beautiful dark-haired stepdaughter, for there was much affection between them. “But you are a good girl. I am blessed in having you for company. It often seems to me that you could be my own daughter.”

“You have been more than kind to me, madam,” Kate replied, touched. “I am deeply grateful for all that you do for me. I owe you so much.” And it was true: as a bastard, she could not have wanted for more. She had been brought up as befit a legitimate daughter of a duke and duchess, learning manners, embroidery, and everything else needful for a nobly born girl who was expected to make a good marriage. And she’d had the great good fortune not to be sent to another lordly household or a convent, as many girls were, but to live with her father, the most tender and admirable of fathers, way beyond the common sort, some of whom hardly even noticed their daughters until the time came for them to make a profit by marrying them off advantageously. And in place of a mother, she had the Duchess Anne, who loved her well.

Yes, she was lucky, Kate often told herself.

Her mother, after whom she had been named, was alive and well. She was the wife of the Queen’s cousin, James Haute. But Kate had no memories of the woman who had borne her because she had been fostered by a wet nurse immediately after her birth, and brought to
Middleham when she was two. Her earliest memories were of Middleham, with its strong walls, its mighty towers, and its sumptuous private apartments where her father and his family lived in great splendor. She had grown up to love the very air of Wensleydale, its high fells sprinkled with purple heather, its riverside meadows, green valleys, rushing streams, and ancient woodlands.

Kate was aware that her father sometimes dealt in business with James Haute’s brother Richard; and she assumed he had met Katherine Haute and her husband socially through Richard Haute. Kate had never liked to ask her father about her mother because it was too delicate a matter, and it was obvious that he was uncomfortable talking about it.

She had not known until she was six that the Duchess Anne was not her mother. When the duchess bore her son that year, she suffered a terrible confinement, and as her screams echoed throughout the castle, Kate had been terrified that Anne would die.

After the screaming stopped, one of the exhausted damsels found her huddled, weeping uncontrollably, at the top of the spiral stairs.

“I don’t want my mother to die!” she was wailing, over and over again.

“She’s not going to die,” said the damsel briskly. She had reasons of her own for resenting the bastards that had been forced upon her mistress; she felt that the duchess had been slighted, and that it showed scant respect on the duke’s part. She knew of the grief that Anne had suffered over John of Gloucester and that strumpet Alice Burgh. Even now … Well, it stood to reason that it was still going on, didn’t it, with that woman’s sister appointed wet nurse to the duchess’s baby? And yet the duchess still loved her lord, in spite of it all. But what would happen now, when the physicians had said that another child could kill her? Men were men, and they had needs, and solace was near at hand. It was her awareness of this bitter truth that loosened Cecily Clopton’s normally guarded tongue.

“Listen, she’s not going to die!” the damsel repeated. “And she’s
not
your mother!”

The world had rocked. Kate stared up at her tormentor in horror, then fled past her to the safety of the nursery, where Agnes, her
nurse, sprang up, surprised, and dropped the small bodice she was stitching. On the floor beside her, John of Gloucester, a sturdy two-year-old, had ceased playing with his puppy and turned up a troubled face.

“It’s not true! It’s not true!” Kate had cried, burying her face in the capacious apron covering Agnes’s soft bosom. “It can’t be true!”

“What’s not true?” the nurse asked, kneeling down and holding the quivering child firmly by the shoulders. She was shocked at this display of uncontrolled emotion, which was so out of character, for Kate was normally a happy, plucky, biddable child. Agnes was also alarmed, but for a different reason. “Look at me. Tell me! Is the child born? Is Her Grace happily delivered?”

“I think so, but Cecily said the duchess isn’t my mother,” Kate wept. “I hate her! It’s not true!”

There was a pause—a fatal pause—and then Agnes cleared her throat and hugged Kate tighter.

“Calm yourself, child. It’s time you knew the truth. No, the duchess isn’t your real mother, but she has been a mother to you in every other way, which is as good as being your mother in very truth.”

Kate, still sniffing, took a moment to think about this. “Then who is my mother?” she asked tremulously.

“Sweeting, I do not know,” the nurse replied, pulling her charge onto her ample lap. “But there is something else I should probably tell you, now that you know this. When a man and a woman marry, their children are trueborn and their lawful heirs. But your father was never married to your mother, and thus you are baseborn and can never inherit anything from him.”

Baseborn
. Kate didn’t like the sound of that. It made her feel second best.

“But,” Agnes was saying soothingly, “the duchess loves you as much as the duke does, everyone can see that, and I have no doubt that they will see you well provided for.”

A thought occurred to Kate.

“What about John?” She nodded at the toddler, who had lost interest in their talk and was now rolling on the rushes with the puppy. “Is he baseborn too?”

“Aye,” Agnes answered, although her mouth had that buttoned-up look that Kate knew so well, which usually meant that she disapproved of something and would not discuss it. “But the duchess loves him too. She is a great lady in more ways than one. You are both fortunate children.”

“This new baby …” Kate began slowly.

“Heavens, child, what are we doing chattering here when we don’t even know how the duchess is—or if the babe is healthy? We must hasten and find out.” Putting Kate from her, Agnes pulled herself to her feet, scooped up John in her arms, and ushered her charges through the deserted rooms that led to the ducal bedchamber. Here, all was subdued bustle, with damsels and maids moving quietly hither and thither with stained towels, smelly basins covered with cloths, soiled bed linen, and empty goblets. The midwife was packing her bag in the antechamber.

At the sight of Agnes, come to claim her new charge, the ranks of serving women and noble ladies parted, and the midwife straightened.

“A boy,” she announced. “Poor lady, she has had a terrible time of it, but she’s sleeping now.” The duchess could be glimpsed, a pale-faced figure lying in her great curtained bed, through the open door. Kate was relieved to see her there, and mightily intrigued as to the contents of the fine oak cradle beside her. Two rockers were gently tilting it, crooning to what lay within.

“Is all well with Her Grace?” the nurse asked.

The midwife hesitated. “The child is small, but he will grow. I’ve sent for the wet nurse.” There was a pause, while her eyes met those of Agnes. “The doctors say the duchess will recover, but there will be no more children, so thank God it’s a son and heir for the duke.”

“Has the duke been sent for?” Agnes asked.

“Been and gone. He could see the duchess was exhausted, so he said he wouldn’t tire her.”

“How did he take it—about there being no more children?”

“I don’t know. The doctors went into the great chamber with him. They spoke in private.”

“Well, we must give thanks that my lord and lady have a son,” Agnes said resolutely. “Shall we go and take a peep at him, Kate? John can come too.”

The duchess slept on as they gazed on the tiny mite in the cradle. He was so little and looked so fragile.

“He favors his mother,” said Agnes uneasily; she could think of nothing else to say. If this little scrap lived, she would be surprised.

“He’s so sweet,” Kate observed. “Can I rock him?” One of the young rockers moved aside to make room for her. Kate found it hard to imagine that this weakly mewling infant would grow up to be a great lord like her father. She did not voice her new fear that this trueborn child would displace her in her father’s affections, and that the Duchess Anne, for all her kindness, would cleave to her own blood far more closely than she had to the baseborn children she had adopted.

But soon Kate would find that her fears proved groundless. Anne loved her son with all her heart, and he was her favorite, of course, but neither Kate nor John would ever have guessed it, so fairly and lovingly did she treat all three of them. And it was the same with Duke Richard: proud as he was of his legitimate heir, he was equally affectionate to his natural children, and had grand ambitions for them all.

Edward of Middleham did live. He survived all the perils of early childhood, grew stronger, and thrived—although he would never be the most robust of children. He had even been created an earl by his uncle, King Edward: he was now my lord the Earl of Salisbury, and proudly bore the title that had belonged to his mighty Neville forebears. One day, with God’s good grace, he would be Duke of Gloucester, like his father before him. But not yet, not for a long, long time, Kate prayed.

For all his exalted rank, young Edward was a boy like any other, and grew up to worship his older half sister and brother. He tried to emulate them in all they did, and learned quickly so as to keep up with them. The three children could often be seen building castles out of toy bricks, or playing make-believe games of knights and dragons, in which Kate was always the princess in distress, John was always St. George, and Edward insisted on being the dragon, ranting around and pretending to breathe fire. Fine weather found them running wild in the gentle dales around Middleham, with their attendants lazing on the grass in the distance. Kate and John always kept a protective watch
on Edward, for while he was lively and full of mischief, he tired more easily than they did, and was younger and much smaller in build.

Life was good. From his great castle of Middleham, their father ruled the whole of the North, almost like another king. He kept great state in his household, a lavish table, and a vast train of retainers who wore his badge of the white boar. His family resided in luxurious apartments, furnished with the best that money could buy, and everything was carved and gilded by master craftsmen, or draped and hung with the costliest fabrics.

The best tutors were appointed to teach the children; the duke even insisted that Kate be taught lessons with the boys, saying a well-born girl should know how to read and write. Those skills would bring her pleasure, he promised, and gave her the run of his library, where she spent happy hours poring over exquisite illuminated manuscripts and some of the new printed books made by Master Caxton on his recently established press at Westminster.

She would also, Richard added, find that a good education would help her in other ways.

“One day,” he said to her, when she was ten, “you will be the mistress of a great household, for I intend to find a wealthy husband for you.” He had said this before, and meant well, but Kate hated to hear him talking about her marriage, because marrying would mean leaving her home, her close kin, and all she held dear, and perhaps living very far away. Her fear was all the greater because the years were passing by and she was well aware that girls of her rank were often married off at fourteen or fifteen, or even younger. But she never said anything for she knew that her father only wanted the best for her. He had often told her that too.

This time, though, he said more. It was growing late; the duchess and the two boys had retired to bed, and Kate was just about to follow them, wishing that the duke had not brought up the subject of her marriage. But he stayed her, and bade her sit opposite him by the hearth, in the duchess’s chair.

“There is something I must tell you, my Kate,” he said, his strong, lean face with its prominent nose and chin looking slightly tense. “You
are old enough now. You must never doubt my love for you, child; you know I would do anything for you. But the truth is … that you were born out of wedlock. You are aware of this, I know: I charged Agnes to tell you as soon as you were of an age to understand.”

“Yes, sir.” She was amazed that he should speak to her of this. In the four years she had known she was baseborn, she had never dared mention it, for she knew that such matters were unseemly, and she could never have summoned up the words to voice her questions to her father. In fact, she had never voiced them to anyone. She feared to upset the duchess, and had no wish to draw attention to the divide between her and John and their half brother Edward. It was enough to know that she had been lucky, for to be baseborn was not a desirable state; and there was a worse word for it too—she had overheard the waspish Cecily saying it behind her back:
bastard, little bastard
. That had hurt. Fortunately, Cecily had since married and moved away, and was no longer there to torment her.