A Dangerous Inheritance (25 page)

Renard is now speaking about King Harry’s Act of Succession, of which I have heard much this tumultuous year. “The next heir is the Lady Jane, your sister, but she languishes in the Tower, and is of the same religious persuasion as the Lady Elizabeth. The next in line, my lady, is yourself.”

I am struck dumb, yet at the same time filled with elation! Suddenly I recall the whole court bowing, the glorious crown lifted onto that young head … To be named heir to the Queen, and with her approval! It is beyond anything I could have imagined.

“There is another claimant,” Renard is saying. “Mary, Queen of Scots, the Dauphine of France, and she, of course, is a Catholic. That carries much weight with Her Majesty, but the Scottish Queen has no rights under the Act of Succession—King Harry passed over that line—and she is a stranger born out of this realm, which many believe disbars her. The French are naturally supporting her claim to be heir, but France is the great enemy of Spain, so my master, the Emperor, and his son, Prince Philip, are eager to see you, Lady Katherine, named as the Queen’s successor.”

He looks into my eyes. “I see the prospect pleases you, my lady. And you will be heartened to know that the Venetian ambassador is also for you. But above all, it is the Queen’s will that you be named heir presumptive.”

“It is more than I could ever have deserved or looked for,” I breathe, feeling a little light-headed and struggling to find the appropriate words. “I am Her Majesty’s loyal subject, and will humbly bend to her will in this. Yet although it pleases me greatly, I pray that God vouchsafes the Queen many strong sons for the continuance of her line.”

Renard smiles approvingly, and I know I have said the right thing. “There is just one thing, madam,” he says. “The Queen knows that you have been brought up in the Protestant faith, but Her Majesty is hopeful that you, being young, would be willing to be guided by wiser minds in the matter of religion. It would make her the happiest woman alive to know that her preferred successor will carry on her good work.”

I hesitate. I can imagine my parents’ reaction to this, and Jane’s. They are all staunch Protestants and hot for their faith.

“You will think seriously on this?” Renard asks. “I need not remind you how much is at stake.”

“Oh, certainly, sir,” I tell him warmly, not wanting to risk compromising my chances of being acknowledged the Queen’s lawful heir by hesitating—and yet not wanting Her Majesty to think I take matters of faith lightly. “I will think on it most earnestly.”

——

As I go about my tasks in the Queen’s privy chamber, I can think of little else. Above all things, I desire to be Queen one day. It is my greatest dream, and now it could well become reality, with only one ailing woman’s life standing between me and the crown of England.

Yet my ambitions are not entirely selfish. I think of all the good I could do as Queen, how magnificently I could advance my family, and—most important of all—that Harry and I could be reunited and I could make him my consort. How I should love to discountenance Pembroke thus, and see him humbled and chastened, bowing the knee before me!

I vow to do all in my power to live up to Her Majesty’s expectations. I hope never to give my kind mistress any grief over religion. Yes, I have been brought up in the reformed faith, yet it seems to me a mark of gratitude to do the Queen’s pleasure in this crucial matter. I confess I am not as fervent in religion as Jane or my parents, and thus I am the more easily tempted to bow to Her Majesty’s wisdom. If I do not, I fear I will do myself and my family no favors; and if I do, there are many benefits to be gained—maybe even in Heaven itself.

I wonder how staunch in their faith my parents would prove if they knew that my conversion is the price of my becoming Queen. I suspect that their ambition is every bit as great as their love for the reformed faith, if not greater, and that they might consider the price worth paying. But Jane, I know, would never compromise her beliefs, and I fear she might never speak to me again if I become a Catholic. Yet even she might come to see the wisdom of it if it brought her the benefits of freedom and a life devoted to study, which is what she desires above all else.

Should I discuss the matter with my parents? I must think awhile before I do that. To be plain, I am nervous of their reaction. But in my heart I know that the decision is already made.

The September weather is mild, and I am always glad of the chance to take my leisure in the privy garden. Today I have my puppies and my embroidery with me, and am just placing my basket on an unoccupied bench when I see a tall young lady a little older than myself coming
my way, with two attendants walking demurely behind her. She is striking-looking, with long red hair that falls below her waist, and wears a modest cream damask gown with very little in the way of jewelry. She is not beautiful—no one with that thin face and hooked nose could be called beautiful—yet she has presence, and a certain charm, which is evident in the gracious smile she bestows on me, and the graceful carriage of her slender figure. I know instinctively who she is, and rise to my feet and curtsey, aware that she towers over me.

“You are new at court,” she says; it is a statement, not a question. “I have not seen you here before.”

“I arrived only a few days ago, my Lady Elizabeth,” I tell her.

“And you are?”

“Lady Katherine Grey,” I tell her. I nearly add “your cousin,” but think better of it. I am not sure how to take her. Is she friendly, just curious, or even hostile? I cannot tell.

If she is surprised, she does not show it. “Welcome to court, little cousin. I had looked to see you here.”

“I am come to serve the Queen, Your Grace, and to attend the coronation.”

Elizabeth moves toward the bench and I hurriedly remove the basket and place it on the ground. She sits down and stoops to pat my two dogs. At her nod, her attendants walk on and wait for her a little way off.

“I knew your sister, the Lady Jane,” she says. “We were together in Queen Katherine’s household, God rest that good lady. I am sorry for your sister’s trouble.” I notice that when Elizabeth is talking, she has a habit of moving her slender, long-fingered hands into affected but attractive poses against the fine fabric of her gown.

“I thank Your Grace. Her Majesty assures me that Jane is well and in comfort.”

“And she has you here, under her eye, so that you may not get up to like mischief all unwitting!” Elizabeth smiles, watching my face intently with those sharp, hooded eyes. “Did that not occur to you, little cousin? That the Queen has brought you to court because she fears some fool might seek to use you as Jane was used by Northumberland? Jane is out of reach—but you are another matter.”

“I would never do anything to hurt Her Majesty!” I protest.

“Nay, you would not; I’ll wager there is no malice in you. But you do not have to do anything; others might do it on your behalf. It is not what you do that worries my sister, but what you are.”

“Her Majesty has never expressed any concern about that.” I decide to keep silent about the Queen’s wish to name me her heir.

Elizabeth sighs. “We have learned in a hard school, you and I, but you do not seem to fully understand the lesson. Listen.” She leans toward me, and I can smell the spicy scent of her perfume, see the flawless clarity of her fair skin against her fiery hair. There is a gleam of malice in her eyes. “You think yourself in a place of honor, little cousin. In truth, it is a place of surveillance.” But that I cannot believe, especially in view of what Renard told me. I fear Elizabeth is just seeking to discountenance one who might be a rival at court—or for the succession itself.

“We share a common bond in many ways,” she continues. “We should help each other.”

“If I can do any service to Your Grace, I am ready,” I say uncertainly, hoping she will never ask me to do anything that conflicts with my loyalty to the Queen or jeopardizes my hopes for the future.

“I see you are already a courtier!” She laughs shortly. “But listen, little cousin. We are bound together by our close kinship to the Queen. If she bears no heir, I am to succeed her. Then comes your mother, who has waived her claim once and might again; then Jane, who is in the Tower; and, after her, you, Lady Katherine. That is the law, as ordered by my father, King Henry. It is no treason to say it. But because of what happened with your sister, the Queen is suspicious of all those with a claim to the throne. She wants us out of the reach of would-be traitors. That is why she keeps us at court, under her eye.”

I wonder if the Lady Elizabeth has heard any talk of the plan to exclude her from the succession in favor of me. Maybe not, but I imagine she can be a clever dissembler. Is she baiting me, or fishing for information? Or is she genuinely in ignorance, believing her position inviolable? Well, I will not be giving anything away, so I decide to say nothing.

“You pine for your husband,” she says suddenly. I stare at her in astonishment.

“How does Your Grace know that?”

“The Queen told me. She said she grieved for you, but she could not allow the marriage to stand, and will not interfere with its dissolution. You should forget him.” Her eyes are hard. I cannot imagine her ever allowing her heart to rule her head.

A tear trickles down my cheek; I cannot help it. I do not want to hear such brutal advice. My hopes have been dashed for good, it seems. Even if Pembroke changes his mind about annulling my marriage, the Queen herself now stands in the way. I am sobbing openly now, mortified at losing control in front of my tormentor.

Suddenly Elizabeth’s mood softens and she rests one of those delicate hands on mine. “You poor little fool. She said you asked for her intercession. Do you not realize that she does not intend for either of us to marry? Because, little cousin, if you or I take a husband, we become an even more dangerous threat to her. We were both brought up in the reformed faith, which is cause enough for suspicion. And any man that you or I marry might press a claim to the throne. A foreign prince might come with an army at his back; an English lord might foment a court conspiracy. God knows, we do not even have to marry! Anyone could use us, the Protestant heiresses, as the focus for his treasonable ambitions. Wake up! You have the example of your sister before you! What is more, if either of us bears a son, the clamor for a masculine succession will be deafening. People will always prefer a crested prince to a cloven one!” Her tone is bitter.

Her reasoning is clear, horribly clear. It is like a death sentence, being told that I might never be permitted to wed—and that Harry is forever barred to me. There is a lump in my throat, choking me.

“You understand now why the Queen can never trust you, however loyal you may be?” Elizabeth asks me. “It is the same for me.”

“But if she marries and bears a son?” I counter, clutching at my last hope.

“Then things may be different. But there are those who would readily plot to overthrow a Catholic queen, especially if she marries Philip of Spain. Not I, of course, or any of her true subjects. Yet I do
fear that if Her Majesty insists on this marriage, she will forfeit the love of many of her people.”

“Your Grace, may I ask why you are telling me all this?”

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. “Is it not obvious? We share common bonds, of blood—and other things.” She does not elaborate, but I suspect she is referring to religion. She is too clever to say it, though. She has daily to pretend that she is willing and eager to embrace the Catholic faith, and is playing a perilous game. Many doubt her sincerity, but she dare not give herself away; she must convince the Queen that her conversion is genuine, and somehow leave the Protestants with room to hope that she has converted against her will.

Is she trying to enlist my support?

“I am Your Grace’s servant,” I say, for want of anything else. I know I am out of my depth here.

“If you hear anything said of me, pray tell me,” she says lightly. I believe she thinks that I will now be ready and willing to show solidarity with her, two Protestant heiresses united in a common cause and supporting each other. I might be a lamb among wolves, but I am aware she is trying to cozen me into acting as her spy in the Queen’s chamber.

I dare not refuse her outright. I sense that she might make a formidable enemy.

“I thank Your Grace for your kindness,” I say. “Pray excuse me now, as I am needed to help Her Majesty robe for the evening.” And I curtsey, pick up my basket, and hurry off, Arthur and Guinevere yapping at my heels, leaving Elizabeth sitting there with an unreadable look on her face. She is going to be very disappointed when she sees me going freely to Mass every Sunday and realizes I am keeping my counsel about what I overhear in the privacy of the royal apartments.

Elizabeth is distinctly cooler toward me when we meet on the morning of the coronation, as the great procession is forming in Westminster Hall. She has been a distant figure during the past two days of celebrations: the triumphal progress along the river to the Tower, where it is customary for monarchs to lodge before being crowned; and the magnificent progress through a London decked with tapestries,
flowers, and pageants to Westminster, our ears resounding with the salutes of trumpets and cannon. She is not present when we deck the Queen in her purple and ermine on her coronation morning, but she is waiting in Westminster Hall to take her place in the procession, and in the seconds before she executes a dramatic curtsey that shows off the wide white-and-silver skirts beneath her sweeping scarlet mantle, she catches sight of me and gives me a faintly malevolent glance. I am stung by it: it is as if, by sending no word since she asked me to report anything said of her—and she surely must guess there would have been something to divulge by now—I have betrayed her. But she is not stupid: she must know I am in the most invidious position.

Resolving to ignore her, I refuse to meet her eyes as she takes her place next after the Queen and lifts up her train. Behind her, the Lady Anne of Cleves, King Harry’s divorced wife—a very merry lady, and no wonder—moves into position, and then it is my part, as a princess of the blood, to occupy the third place of honor. Mayhap this evidence of the Queen’s favor will serve to stop people avoiding me, as many have done since I arrived at court. For what else could be so plain a token that Her Majesty thinks kindly on me?