A Dangerous Inheritance (67 page)

“That is encouraging news!” I exclaim. “I never thought to hear more of her.”

“Well, you shall. I will invite her here, and you may meet her. My orders are to allow no one but your attendants to see you, but I know I can trust you, my lady—and I myself will be present to ensure you behave yourself!”

“Of course, Sir Edward!” I say warmly. “I will speak to her only of the tombs, I promise.”

“Her name is Elizabeth Savage. The steward was right—she was the last abbess of the Minoresses’ convent. Naturally, she does not like that to be known, so we will not mention it unless she does.”

Can this old lady help us in our quest? She thinks she is coming to discuss some old tombs, not the disappearance of the princes. And she will surely be startled to meet me, probably one of the most notorious prisoners in the kingdom right now!

June 1487, Raglan Castle

News came regularly to the castle, by letter or word of mouth, and the news nowadays was momentous—but, for Kate, distressing. John was in Ireland with a Flemish army. Under his auspices, Lambert Simnel, despite being branded an imposter by the King, had been crowned as Edward VI in Dublin Cathedral late the previous month. Henry Tudor had mobilized his forces against an invasion.

Rumors and speculation were rampant everywhere, and the country, which had been in a ferment of uncertainty for weeks, now erupted in panic at the imminent prospect of invasion.

Even though Kate had been careful to express no word of support for John and the rebels, and had voiced her own fears about the conflict to come, William remained cold toward her, acting almost as if it were her fault that her sometime lover was in rebellion against the King. As if she could do anything to prevent it, she thought resentfully. She had
not seen John in more than a year and a half, and there had been no communication at all between them. She wondered if he still cherished her memory, as she did his, or if his marriage had jolted him into reality and caused him to put his youthful passions behind him. She wondered too if he had spoken out in her defense after her arrest. The fact that he had stayed in favor with the Tudor argued that he had not. But she could not believe he had forsaken her. He would have reasoned that pragmatism was the safest course for them both.

Why was he backing the claims of Simnel so vigorously, and at such peril to himself? He must have heard that the Tudor had exhibited the real Warwick to the people—something her father should have done with the princes to quell the rumors that were destroying him. But perhaps her father had known what John’s actions had now proved: that producing the princes alive wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. Because people believe what they want to believe, she concluded. Even now, there were many, their number increasing, who held that the boy in Ireland really was Warwick.

It crossed Kate’s mind that John had set up the whole charade as a pretext for claiming the throne himself. People would be more likely to rise up for Warwick, Clarence’s heir, than for himself, whose claim came only through the female line. Even Henry Tudor had not accounted John a threat in the way he accounted Warwick.

Something Kat had written suggested to Kate that there was more to this matter than appeared on the surface.

But what if Simnel was in fact Richard, Duke of York? What if poor Edward V had died of the illness that was eating up his jaw, and his brother had survived in secrecy? It made sense that he had been taken to Sheriff Hutton and entrusted to John’s guardianship—and that John, with his strong sense of honor, should have resolved to restore the true heir to the throne. Maybe pretending that York was Warwick was
meant to dupe Henry Tudor into thinking he was dealing with a silly claim by an imposter. It was convoluted thinking, she knew, but there was so much that was mysterious about this affair of the pretender; and Kate had a strong hope that she might be nearing the end of her mission to clear her father’s dishonored name. Her excitement conveyed itself to her child, which stirred within her, heavy now under her heart. The answer lay with John, she was sure. She had a strong feeling, in her bones, that Simnel was York in disguise.

July 1562, Tower of London

I never thought I would ever come to regard the Tower as a bower of bliss, but that is what it became for a short time, even for us poor prisoners; and here I have enjoyed two of the happiest nights of my life, for Ned came again four nights later, and we consoled each other in the same loving ways, and were husband and wife in very truth. For that short space too we were a family, with our little boy to gladden us and take pride in. He thrives, sweet Edward, which is a joy and relief to us both.

In between those visits, we sent each other letters, expressing our pleasure to find each other still in health and unbowed after all the long months of anxiety and fear.
I long to be merry with you!
I wrote to Ned, signing myself
your most loving and faithful wife
, which I truly am, whatever the Archbishop may say.

“You could not know how I missed you too, darling, how I worried about you when I was in France,” Ned told me as we lay entwined together that second night, all passion spent. His words ignited a painful memory. It was as if a cloud passed over the sun.

I could not help myself. I had to ask. “Those bracelets …”

“Bracelets? Those French ones the Queen asked me to commission? There were two for you. Did you get them?”

“The Queen commissioned them?”

“Yes, so that she and her ladies should be gay on the progress. That’s what she wrote.”

“Yes, I did get them. I just wanted to thank you.” There was no need to question him. All had become clear. Elizabeth, to spite me, must have given her ladies to believe that Ned had sent them the bracelets as love tokens. So all was well between my love and me.

But last night Ned arrived to find my door locked and me weeping with frustration inside.

“Mayhap your guards have taken fright,” he called softly, and verily I believed they had. But this morning Sir Edward presents himself, looking grave. There can be no more clandestine trysts. A new order has just come direct from the Queen, forbidding Ned and me to meet.

I miss Ned desperately. But at least our letters are not forbidden.
I long to be with you again, my sweet bedfellow
, I write. Ned responds in kind and sends me a book.
This is no small jewel to me
, I tell him.
I will read it at once, with my heart, as well as with my eyes
.

He writes of his fears that I will be constrained to forget him. Oh, no, no, my sweet lord, I breathe—that could never happen. I ask in reply:

Our brief idyll has ended, but soon I am dismayed to discover that there will be consequences. For I am with child again, and once more in terror lest I be found out. Some may think me a fool, but I had been so overjoyed to be reunited with my love that I let caution and reason fly into the wind.

When first I suspect my condition, I confide my fears to Ned, and he writes back, expressing defiant joy at the news.
This will be the true proof of our marriage
, he asserts.

I confess my state to my women—Mrs. Ellen, who deals with my linen, has already guessed—and then to Sir Edward. The poor man is utterly horrified.

“Great God in Heaven, we are all undone!” he declares, wringing his hands. “When this gets out, it will most grievously offend the Queen’s Majesty, and with even more cause this time.”

“I fear we will be punished heavily for it,” I say, trembling and nauseous.

“Aye, and myself too.”

I hang my head. This is not a fit reward for his kindness. Then an idea comes to me—an idea that might just work!

“Sir Edward, could this pregnancy not be kept a secret? Only my women and my husband know. I am straitly confined here, allowed to see no one, and once the babe is born, it can be sent out to nurse privily, and no one the wiser.”

The lieutenant thinks about this, scratching his head in distress. “It is the only safe solution,” he agrees, his ruddy cheeks pale. But we both know we are running a terrible risk.

After supper, Sir Edward appears again, ushering in an elderly lady wearing a plain gray woolen townswoman’s gown with a white linen coif. Elizabeth Savage at last! Her face is pale and thin, the eyes light blue, the lips drawn down by fine lines, and her hands are clasped tightly before her.

She curtsies to me. She knows who I am. Her face is impassive, her eyes downcast, unreadable. It is easy to see that she was once a nun.

I take the chair by the fireside and invite her to be seated.

“Mistress Savage, the Lady Katherine is also interested in the tombs, so I thought we could discuss them together,” the lieutenant explains.

Elizabeth Savage nods but says nothing. Maybe she was taught in her convent only to speak when necessary.

“My father once owned the Minories,” I explain, “and I stayed there often when I was younger. There are some great ladies buried in the church. I remember seeing their tombs as a child, but cannot recall all their names.”

A shadow crosses Mistress Savage’s already wary face.
She knows something
, I think.

“They are particularly interesting monuments,” Sir Edward puts in.
“Yet it is not just the tombs we wish to know about, but the women who were buried in them. We know you visit these tombs often. We wondered if you had any knowledge of those ladies.”

“I know nothing, sir,” the woman says, too quickly. I notice that her accent is refined, indicating gentle birth. She looks like a cornered deer.

“Please, mistress,” I intervene. “This matter may concern a great wrong that was done many years ago to two kinsmen of mine. You will have heard of the Princes in the Tower …”

Mistress Savage sucks in her breath. Her involuntary response gives her away, and she knows it. “What is this about?” she asks. “Why are you asking me about that?”

“You know something about the matter, don’t you?” the lieutenant says gently. “We had a suspicion you might.” It is easy to see that he is experienced in the business of questioning people. “Come, there is nothing to fear, I assure you. This is no official inquiry. I, and my lady here, merely have an interest in finding out the truth. We have been investigating the matter privily for some time now. The fate of the princes is a mystery that has long intrigued us both.” He leans forward. “You were the last abbess of the Minories. You visit those tombs often. I wonder why. I also believe that if anyone can tell us if there is a connection between them and the fate of the princes, it is you.”

“I know nothing,” says Elizabeth Savage again, flushing.

“Is that so?” Sir Edward asks. “Then why are you on the defensive? Why did you look so discomfited just now when the princes were mentioned? Madam, I know you can help us. And we would respect your confidence.”

“We read Sir Thomas More’s history,” I add, “and I made the connection between the names Tyrell and Brackenbury and the tombs in the church. I recalled seeing the same names there when I was a child, and it seemed more than coincidental that they appeared in More’s account.”

“It is, my lady!” Elizabeth Savage blurts out. “But what I know I have kept to myself for many years now. It does a body no good to get tangled up in the affairs of the great. I reckon I managed pretty well when King Henry closed down the Minories, making sure the sisters
left without any fuss and the surrender went smoothly. I got my pension, and since then I’ve kept quiet. If I were to tell you the secrets I have harbored all these years, I would need your absolute assurance that they would go no further than this room.”

“I give you that assurance,” I promise her.

“You have my word on that too,” Sir Edward declares. “We have no cause to discuss this with anyone else.”

Elizabeth Savage seems still to be struggling with herself, but then her resolve stiffens. “Very well,” she says. “I will tell you what I know—and what no one else but me knows, the others having long since gone to their rest.” And she tells us her extraordinary story.

“I was born at the turn of the century; my father was a courtier—we were gentry from Worcestershire. My cousin Nan served Queen Anne Boleyn, and later became Lady Berkeley. My father was a younger son with no inheritance to look forward to, and his minor court office paid little, so there was only a small dowry for me.”

“I was a plain girl, and no one offered for me anyway, so it was decided that I should enter the Minoresses’ convent at Aldgate. I was eighteen, and unhappy at the prospect, but in time I finally settled to the life, although that of a Poor Clare nun was no easy one. At the time of my profession, Alice FitzLewes was abbess; she died in 1524, when the community elected Dame Dorothy Cumberford. She ruled for five years until her death, and then I, by the grace of God, was chosen to be her successor. I was not quite thirty, and young for such a high office, but I had a good head for business, which is always a useful asset in a religious. I remained abbess until the friary was dissolved in 1539, and since then I have been living nearby in Hart Street. I do not go to the Minories now just to see the tombs. I like to maintain my links with the convent where I spent so many years, and the church where so many of my sisters lie buried. It is a miracle that it has escaped destruction. So many religious houses have gone.”

She smiles wanly at us, and for the first time I see a sweetness in that sad, narrow face.

“I’m sorry, I am apt to wander in my mind,” she says, “and I am not used to company. The tombs. Yes. It is of Abbess Dorothy Cumberford
that I must speak. She had been here for many years before she was elected abbess; she was chosen for her age and holiness. She was an angel—and an inveterate gossip, like many nuns. But the tale she told me was no common gossip. Indeed, it was highly sensitive information, and she only imparted it when she knew she was dying—of a canker, bravely borne without complaint, I might add. She wanted to pass on the secrets of our house to someone she could trust. And so she confided them to me, as she had guessed I would be her successor; indeed, she had expressed her wishes in that behalf to the sisters.