A Dangerous Inheritance (28 page)

“What of the other lords? Norfolk, Northumberland, Stanley, and the rest?” Anne asked worriedly.

“Loyal, as far as I can tell. Stanley will always be suspect because of his Beaufort wife, but so far he has kept her ambitions in check.”

“Her ambitions?”

“The woman is obsessed with her son, Henry Tudor. Those two like to keep up the fiction that he is the Lancastrian claimant to the throne. Can you believe that? The Cousins’ Wars between Lancaster and York were over and done with twelve years ago. Someone should tell them!”

“But how can Henry Tudor be the Lancastrian heir?” Kate asked.

“He cannot,” her father said. “He is of bastard stock. John of Gaunt’s Beaufort bastards were the children of his mistress, Dame Katherine Swynford, born before their marriage. They have no right to inherit the crown.”

“What of his father?”

“He was Edmund Tudor, the son of some unknown Welshman—and Henry Tudor, as far as I am concerned, is another unknown Welshman, and not worth bothering about. Lady Stanley is welcome to her fantasies, but that’s all they can ever be. No, my Kate, the true heir is your brother, Prince Edward. And Anne, I mind, when we are at York, to have him brought there from Middleham so that I can invest him as Prince of Wales.”

“Oh, that is good news!” Anne exclaimed. “I have missed Edward so much. I long to embrace him.” Richard laid his hand over hers; such gestures of tenderness were rare between them these days.

“That is not the only piece of good news I have for you.” He smiled. “This day, there arrived at my court ambassadors from King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, come to negotiate a marriage for our little prince with a Spanish infanta. Edward will have a fit mate to match his royal status as England’s heir.”

“A Spanish infanta?” Anne echoed, delighted. “Any daughter of the Spanish sovereigns will be an excellent match for Edward.” She paused. “Speaking of marriage, there is something I must ask you, my lord.”

Kate’s spirits wavered. This was the moment she had been dreading. At least her father was in a better mood, beaming at the thought
of those proud little infantas. She reached for the ewer and refilled his goblet, hoping to mellow him further.

“It concerns Kate’s marriage,” the Queen said.

“Indeed?” the King asked, his grin fading. “Has someone asked for her hand?”

“No, but your nephew Lincoln has been paying her his addresses.”

Kate quailed as her father looked piercingly at her.

“He has done nothing wrong, sire!” she hastened to say. “He just pays court to me, reads me poems, and tells me I am beautiful.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “As indeed you are, my Kate.” He reflected for a moment. “In truth, I had not thought to see any man come courting you so soon, but now I perceive that I have been thinking of you only as a child. I see I must come to terms with your growing up. How long has this been going on?”

“Since the day of the coronation.”

“Indeed. Has my nephew spoken of marriage?”

“No, sire—only of love.” Kate blushed. “But we have not known each other very long. And I have not seen him since you left Windsor.”

Her father appeared to consider the matter, as Anne sat silent and Kate waited in trepidation. Never before had it been made so plain to her that her future happiness lay in the hands of one man, who had absolute power over her fate.

“Lincoln is a fine young lord, the best servant a king could have,” Richard said at length. “However, you are not the first damsel to whom he has paid court like this, although I have never heard that his behavior has ever been dishonorable. We must wait to see if he intends marriage.”

“And if he does?” Kate breathed.

“I will consider it. The idea does not displease me, but there is no haste. You are not yet fourteen, and I would keep you with me for a while longer.”

“Then I may go and find him?” she asked excitedly. “I will not forbid it, so long as, for now, you think of him only as your cousin and conduct yourself accordingly. There is to be no more talk of love, still less of marriage. Such decisions are best left to those who are older, wiser, and not blinded by their passions to all good
sense. So, yes, you may enjoy my lord of Lincoln’s company, but never alone. Do you heed me?”

“Yes, sire,” Kate replied, a little crestfallen.

Her father smiled. “I am not so old that I cannot remember what it was like to be young. Youth needs the friendship and company of its own kind. Long before your stepmother and I were betrothed, we spent every moment we could together at Middleham and Warwick—not that her father knew about it.” He smiled at Anne. “But we never overstepped the bounds of friendship, and that is as far as it can go with your cousin of Lincoln, Kate. I am trusting you to behave virtuously and with decorum.”

As soon as supper was over, Kate made her curtsies and sped downstairs to the great hall, which was packed with the King’s nobles and liveried retainers, carousing and singing. There was no sign of John among them, so she hurried out into the bailey and looked for him there. To her delight, she spotted him in a little garden at the foot of a grassy mound in the far corner, lounging on the sward with two other men. They were deep in conversation, and she hesitated to intrude, but when one of John’s companions—whom she recognized as the sly lawyer, Sir William Catesby, now her father’s Chancellor of the Exchequer—espied her and rose quickly to his feet, the rest followed suit. John’s face broke into a radiant smile when he beheld her, and he made a courtly bow and kissed her hand. The other man, she saw, was Lord Stanley. He was much older than the first two, with long, straggly graying hair and creased brows that made him look permanently troubled. “My lady,” he said, and bowed too.

“Come join us, Kate,” John invited, and she sank down onto the grass, her mustard-colored skirts spread out about her. “We were just enjoying the evening air—it’s hot and noisy in the hall.” He offered her some marchpane. “We were saying how concerned we are about the late conspiracies,” he said.

“My father the King has just been telling us about them,” she said. “I cannot believe that the Duke of Buckingham has abandoned him.”

“Strange business, that,” said Stanley. “No rhyme or reason to it.”

“It’s possible, of course, that he was bound up in the conspiracies,” Catesby said. “Before he went off to Brecon, he told us they’d tried to involve him in one of the plots, so I suppose he could have been playing a double game. But he did inform the King of the approach that had been made to him, and that information certainly led to some of the conspirators being caught. So we might wonder just why he turned on the King, after being one of his staunchest supporters.”

“What could the conspirators offer him beyond what the King has given him?” John asked.

“They quarreled over the Bohun estates,” Stanley said. “The Duke accused King Richard of not keeping his promise to grant them to him.”

“That’s strange too,” Catesby mused. “The King made him a provisional grant of them last month.”

“Maybe Buckingham didn’t like the fact it was provisional,” John suggested. “Although he must have known he’d get them in the end.”

“The fact remains that he may now make mischief for our liege lord,” Stanley pointed out.

“While the sons of King Edward remain in the Tower, King Richard can never be secure on his throne,” Catesby said. “The late conspiracies proved that.”

“But the Tower is a safe place,” John chimed in. “They cannot leave, nor can would-be traitors get at them. They are well guarded by our trusty Constable of the Tower. No one could get past Brackenbury.” That was comforting. Kate had known the kindly, popular Robert Brackenbury when he served in her father’s household at Middleham, and knew him to be devoted to his master. He would be a gentle jailer for the two princes.

“But it’s not just a question of keeping the boys under guard,” Catesby was saying, his voice lowered. “Even though the Lord Bastard is innocent of any involvement in those conspiracies to put him back on the throne, he is a danger to King Richard—and his brother too. Some still persist in regarding them as the rightful heirs of York.”

It was a warm evening, but Kate suddenly felt chilly.

“What is your thrust, William?” John asked. “How should my uncle deal with that threat?”

Catesby shrugged. His expression was unreadable.

Stanley spoke with some vehemence. “Ask yourselves what happened to other deposed monarchs. What became of Edward II and Richard II? Why it is that the princes have not been seen since before the coronation? They were out shooting at the butts in the lieutenant’s garden several times before that. But since then, to my knowledge, no one has seen them.” Kate noticed, to her dismay, that Stanley was weeping.

“Good my lord, take comfort from the fact that my uncle the King would never harm his nephews,” John said.

“No, he would not!” Kate cried. “He was loyal to King Edward. He will be a protector to his sons.”

“I am not the only one to voice fears for their safety,” Stanley muttered. “Listen about the court; hearken in the streets. Men are asking what has become of them. I do not accuse the King of any crime, or of bearing ill will toward his nephews. I just wonder why they have been withdrawn from men’s sight. Surely His Grace has heard the rumors? He has but to show the boys to the people and they will be quelled!”

“Rest assured I will speak to him about it,” John said.

“I thank you, my lord,” Stanley replied, rising to his feet. “And my Lady Katherine, forgive an old man for worrying too much, and for spoiling this beautiful evening. It was intended for dalliance, not for politics.”

“Yes, my lord, of course.” Kate nodded, but she was still reeling from the enormity of what Stanley had implied.

“I must go too,” Catesby said. “Good evening, Lady Katherine.”

John turned to Kate and placed his arm about her shoulders. “Do not heed malicious gossip,” he advised her. “I’ll wager Stanley’s wife has been pouring poison in his ear.”

“He
was
very upset,” Kate observed. “And it seemed that Sir William was trying to insinuate something.”

“He’s a cold fish, and I could easily believe that he would urge the necessity of doing away with the princes,” John said, frowning. “But that the King would sanction it—that I cannot, and will not, believe.”

He moved closer to her. “Forget all this, Kate, my sweeting. Let us talk of more pleasant things. I have been saving a poem for you.”

But Kate’s mind was in a turmoil. Her mind retained that shocking image of Lord Stanley weeping; his distress had not been feigned.

“I can’t bear the thought of people thinking such dreadful things about my father,” she said.

“Sweetheart, I make no doubt that, once I have spoken to the King about those rumors, he will ensure that they do not. Now, be at peace, and listen to this.” He began to recite, but Kate was not listening. She could not forget what Lord Stanley had said. Her father must refute those rumors. He must!

January 1554, Whitehall Palace

The palace is in an uproar. It is terrifying! Some of the women are saying we shall all be murdered in our beds, and the Queen too! There have been rumbles of discontent for weeks—since the Queen’s forthcoming marriage was announced, in fact—but now a Kentish gentleman with a grievance, the hotheaded Sir Thomas Wyatt, is advancing on London at the head of a great army of rebels, in protest against the Spanish match. Only days ago he raised his standard at Maidstone, and the people flocked to him. Now word has come that they have taken Rochester Bridge and the royal fleet moored in the Medway and are marching this way. There is much panic among the ladies of the court—and indeed in London itself. Who knows what the rebels intend?

There have been concerns expressed about the Lady Elizabeth, who was finally allowed to leave court last month after bringing much pressure to bear on her sister. Relations between the Lady Elizabeth and Queen Mary had become uncomfortably strained, and no doubt Her Majesty was glad to see the back of her. Yet now people think it strange that she departed the court not long before the rebellion.

The Queen, unlike most of the rest of us, is calm. Not for nothing is she a Tudor. I wish I could be like her, for the same blood runs in my
veins, but I am of poor courage, wanting to run as far away from here as I can. Yet I must stay where I am, where I can be seen to be loyal to my sovereign. I am spending much of my time at prayer, fearfully imploring God for a speedy deliverance from these traitors.

The most terrible news has come. There have been further uprisings in Devon and the Midlands, both linked to Wyatt’s rebellion, and orchestrated by the same traitors. Fortunately they have proved abortive, but the worst news—for me—is that the revolt in Leicestershire was led by my father. He even went so far as to declare for Jane, proclaiming her Queen once more. I am mortified when the Queen herself breaks these tidings to me, and she can see how covered with shame I am, for she speaks kindly to me and assures me she knows I am loyal and true to her, even if my father is not.

Words fail me when I think of the duke my lord. Even though I have been brought up to respect and honor him, and never to question his word, I have to acknowledge that he has acted with great stupidity and lack of judgment. Did he not think how his rash and treasonable acts could rebound on us all, especially on poor Jane, innocently biding her time in the Tower, waiting to be freed? Everyone knows she had nothing to do with this.

As I do my best to look invisible, the Queen commands the Lady Elizabeth to return to court. Back comes the reply: Her Grace has a cold and a headache, and is too ill to travel. The Queen frowns as she puts down the letter. “I do not believe it,” she says. “She is intriguing with the French; I have proof of it. She is no sister of mine!” She rises and angrily raps out an order that the Lady Elizabeth’s portrait be taken down from the gallery.

My mother, in the foulest of tempers, seeks me out at court on the day that my father and other rebel leaders are publicly proclaimed traitors.