A Dangerous Inheritance (43 page)

Ned did not know what to do. He feared a trap, that Cecil’s words were a lure to ensnare him into admitting that there has been talk of a marriage between us, against the Queen’s express wish. So he detained Cecil and told him that he had long admired me from afar and should be honored to marry me, if it were the Queen’s pleasure. And Cecil said he would be our friend and speak with Her Majesty! We could not have a better or more influential advocate! At last I can dare to hope that our long wait will soon be over.

Days, then weeks, have passed—and nothing, no word, no sign from Mr. Secretary. When I saw him this morning, he merely nodded courteously and hurried on, his arms full of scrolls. I am going mad with frustration, desperate to know if he is still our friend, and if he has spoken to the Queen on our behalf.

And now there are fresh rumors, that the Scots want me as a bride for the Earl of Arran, another imbecile who is Queen Mary’s heir, unless she bears a son. Perchance the lords of Scotland see this
marriage as a means of uniting the two kingdoms, in the event of both Mary and Elizabeth dying childless. They say de Quadra has bet a hundred crowns that it will come to pass. Well, they can negotiate all they like, but I will not have the lunatic earl, nay, not even if the Queen herself commands it—which she will not, I am certain.

There is talk too—will it never cease?—of another Spanish bid to entice me away to Spain, by means of some loyal Catholic English gentleman acting for King Philip. What especially vexes me about these continual plots to marry or carry me off is that I, the person most concerned, am never consulted! It’s true: my royal blood is a curse.

But now some good news! Against all expectations—although some say it is because she is at present vexed with my rival, the Queen of Scots—Her Majesty has suddenly decreed that I be restored to the post of Lady of the Privy Chamber that I had held under Queen Mary. And she has received me there today, right graciously, in the presence of Bishop de Quadra.

“I look upon the Lady Katherine as a daughter,” she tells him, raising me from my curtsey and embracing and kissing me. For an instant the Bishop looks as amazed as I, but we both recover ourselves quickly.

“Now that she is an orphan, I am considering formally adopting her,” the Queen continues, smiling at me—although her eyes remain cold. I can barely express my thanks. What game is she playing at now?

I am not surprised when, later, after I am dismissed from my new duties, which are little more than to bear the Queen company when she wants it—which I suspect will not be often—de Quadra is waiting for me.

“Any feeling between Her Majesty and yourself, Lady Katherine, can hardly be that of mother and child!” he observes with a smile. “Methinks she is making much of you in order to keep you from intriguing with the likes of me and the Scots.”

“Do you think it might presage my being acknowledged heir?” I ask, unable to restrain my exhilaration at the prospect.

“Who can say?” The Bishop shakes his head. “Knowing this Queen, it could mean anything. I will make some inquiries.”

——

Two days later de Quadra is waiting for me again.

“I have spoken with Sir William Cecil,” he tells me. “I asked him if the favor shown you by the Queen heralds any particular announcement. He took my meaning immediately. The answer is no. Her Majesty, he said, is of the opinion that Henry Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon, who is descended from the old royal blood of this realm, has a greater claim than yourself. I asked him if Her Majesty would consider naming you as her successor, but he said by no means, because the English always run after the heir to the crown rather than the wearer of it.”

It seems I must settle for a compromise: marriage, rather than the throne. For me, the choice is an easy one. I would rather have my sweet Ned than be the greatest Queen crowned.

May 1484, Nottingham Castle

John was waiting for her in the chapel. She could see him in the shadows beyond the dim light cast by the single lamp on the altar, signifying the eternal presence of God. He came and clasped her hands, gazing into her eyes without speaking, then his arms went around her.

“You are sure about this?” he breathed in her ear, threading his fingers through her hair.

“Never more,” she whispered. “But we cannot be together here.”

“No, but I have found us a place.” He smiled at her: she loved his smile; it was open and boyish, and it always made her melt. He took her hand and kissed it. “Before we go there, my love, there is something I want to do, something important.”

He led her to the altar, with its golden crucifix and the statue of the Virgin with her Babe, and stood there beside her, still holding her hand and looking into her eyes.

“Hear me, Kate. I will give you my promise. I, John, take thee,
Katherine, to be my true lady before God, and I vow I will love you always, until death and beyond.” She looked at him wonderingly, tears starting in her eyes, for she was overcome by the awe of the moment.

“Now you, sweetheart,” he said. “Your turn …”

“I, Katherine,” she swore, “take thee, John, to be my true lord in the sight of God, and hereto I pledge thee my love, until death and beyond.” The words came strong and clear, impelled by the conviction that whatever was to come, this was her proper wedding, even without any witnesses to make it valid.

And then, hand in hand still, they crept out of the chapel, through the sleeping castle and along a dark stone passageway lit only with one dying torch in a wall bracket. At the end of it, John unlocked a door and led Kate into a small chamber sparsely furnished with a tester bed hung with green curtains. And it was in that bed, presently, that they lay together; and it was as if God had sent His angels down to smile upon them and hallow their union.

October 1560, Whitehall

My bosom companion, Jane Seymour, has been at court with me through all the late tortuous shifts of fortune, solidly supporting me and Ned, and going back and forth between us, passing messages, notes, and love tokens, and helping to arrange snatched meetings, which are few and far apart, for we know now that we have been watched by Mr. Secretary Cecil.

But Jane is not well. Her cheeks, once rosebud pale, are now flushed with an unhealthy hue; her gowns hang loosely upon her; and there is blood on her kerchief when she coughs. She gets out of breath easily these days, and suffers terrible sweats at night.

Jane loves Ned more than any other human soul; and it is her dearest wish to see him well and happily married.

“There could be no better wife for him than you, my dear Katherine,”
she tells me, hugging me fondly. “I will do all I can to help you two achieve the happiness you deserve. God knows, you have waited long enough for it!”

“The time is now right, at last,” I say. “There was never a better moment to press for Her Majesty’s consent.”

Ned frowns. “Will there ever be a right moment? I fear she will never give that consent. We have to be realistic. Look at the way she keeps her many suitors dangling—this waiting could go on for years!”

Jane is thoughtful. “Why not present the Queen with a fait accompli?” she suggests. “Marry in secret now, then throw yourselves upon her mercy. If the thing is done, she must relent.”

“Of course!” I agree excitedly. “When the Queen realizes that it is purely a love match, and that we intend no threat to her, she will surely forgive us. And we have Sir William Cecil on our side, remember. He will support us, you may count on it!”

Ned shakes his head. “I think not. I met him by chance today. He asked me how I did, the usual pleasantries, and then he said he was still hearing rumors that I was in love with you and hoping to wed. He advised me to cool my ardor, and walked on.”

“But he was in favor of our marriage,” I say helplessly.

“Sir William must know that this marriage makes sense,” Jane says. “He ought to be on your side, Ned,” she adds. “It was our father who first gave him a post at court and set him on the road to the greatness he enjoys today.”

Ned looks dejected. “That counts for little now. But Lord Robert might help us. Now that the coroner has cleared him of the murder of his wife, he is again influential with the Queen. And, Katherine, his brother was once married to your sister. But wedding without the Queen’s permission? The thing is fraught with dangers, and might be construed as treason.”

“How can it be?” I flare. “I am not recognized as heiress presumptive. If I were, then it might be treason, but I remain a private person. The Queen cannot have it both ways!”

“You have been restored to the status of princess of the blood,” he reminds me. “Therefore your marriage is a matter of public concern.
Usurp the Queen’s privilege, and you may yet be accused of treason.”

“There is no law that says I would be guilty of it!”

“Have you forgotten that the Queen herself warned you not to wed without her consent?”

“Things have changed since then,” Jane puts in. “The Queen and her council must know that a far more deadly threat than your marriage comes from Spain or Scotland. Do it, brother! Do not sacrifice all you hold dear for the want of a little courage.”

“I will think on it,” Ned says reluctantly. “If I seem unenthusiastic, it is because I do not wish to bring down the Queen’s wrath on us both. Katherine is too dear to me for that.” And he stoops and brushes my lips with his own.

May 1484, Nottingham Castle

Kate stood before the altar with William, barely hearing the words of the nuptial Mass. This travesty of a ceremony was a perversion of everything that marriage should be, yet she stood there meekly, every inch the King’s daughter in her sumptuous gown and train of black-figured cloth of gold, with tight scarlet velvet sleeves and a surcoat of white silk. Over her shoulders flowed her luxuriant hair, loose in token of her supposedly virgin state. If only they all knew!

She made her vows to William without a tremor. They meant nothing.

She knew John was behind her somewhere. He had said he would be. “Think of me when you are at the altar,” he said as they had lain together in the blissful peace that followed rapturous lovemaking. “I will be thinking of you, and of our true vows.”

She had given him her word, and she kept it. She was his, and no one could take that from her, not even her new-made husband standing by her side.

——

Not for Kate and William a small bedchamber with an old bed hung with dusty green curtains; instead, they were assigned two spacious rooms overlooking the town below. In the larger of the two stood a red-draped bed with a carved table beside it, upon which had been left a silver tray bearing a glass ewer with a silver stopper and jeweled wine goblets. In front of the fireplace stood a long carved cushioned settle, and from the beamed ceiling hung a gilded chandelier, its candles flickering in the breeze from the open window. No detail, no comfort, had been overlooked.

But there was small comfort in the thought of what lay ahead.
At least
, Kate thought,
I do not have to face being deflowered by this stranger
. It had been painful enough with John, yet he was gentle with her, and the hurt had soon been replaced by a wondrous new sensation of pleasure. She could not bear to think about that now; her sense of loss was too acute.

When Mattie had gone, having turned down the sheets, plumped the bolster, unlaced and laid away the beautiful wedding gown, and brushed her mistress’s tresses until they shone, Kate climbed into bed in her chemise and sat there waiting, her heart pounding. She thanked God for one small mercy: that, because the court was in mourning for the prince, there was to be no public bedding ceremony.

Soon William appeared, clad in a silk robe. “Well, here we are, wife,” he said, pausing to pour them some wine. “I hope you are not afraid of me.” He handed her a goblet.

“No, my lord,” she answered, but gulped down the wine gratefully, averting her eyes as her husband shed his robe and climbed naked into bed. She had a glimpse of sinewy limbs, white flanks, and thick thatches of black hair over his chest and between his legs.

“A toast to our marriage,” said William, and they clinked goblets. When he had drained his, he laid hold of her. Before she had time to catch her breath, he was raking up her shift, clambering on top of her, and forcing an entry. She gasped a little, for his thrusting was painful after all and there was no need to fake any discomfort. When he was done, he slumped beside her, panting, and she lay there, her head turned away, her heart empty. What had been so exalting last night meant
nothing at all today. Was this how it was to be for always and always? And was William not going to speak even one word of love to her?

She made an effort. She had to do something to make her marriage bearable. “Do I please you, my lord?” she whispered. There was no answer. Instead, William began snoring.

November 1560, Hampton Court Palace

One morning, as I am walking my dogs through the gardens overlooking the Thames at Hampton Court, I espy my beloved, kissing—for all to see—the hand of Frances Mewtas, a Gentlewoman of the Chamber to the Queen. Unaware of my presence, they talk privily, those two, and she giggles, then Ned bows and goes on his way, leaving her flushed and smiling to herself.

How
could
he? It is not to be borne! Have I waited these long years for Ned, only—with marriage at last in our sights—for him to forsake me for that trollop Mewtas?

Grief and rage burning within me, I race back into the palace, forgetting all decorum and not caring who sees me looking flustered and dismayed, and hasten in search of Jane Seymour. She will know how to deal with her faithless brother! She wants this marriage as much as I do.

I find her in her closet off the maidens’ dorter, and Ned with her. They both stare at me, so wild I appear.

“How dare you?” I rail at him. “I
saw
you making advances to Mistress Mewtas just now. Don’t try to deny it! I suppose this is why you will not commit to marrying me.”