A Dangerous Inheritance (52 page)

If only Ned would come home and explain everything, then maybe the Queen could be made to understand that we have never meant her any ill. But he has now been gone beyond seas for five months, and can have no idea of this ordeal I am suffering. My fervent hope is that he will hasten home soon and succor me. I have thought ill of him, I know, and all but abandoned him, yet I am very sorry for that now. In my extremity, beside which all other troubles seem trifling, I see clearly that that was but a fantasy, born of anxiety and unwarranted suspicion. In my dreadful predicament, I remember only the love Ned gave me, and his marrying me in defiance of the Queen’s express order. I know in my bones he is still my sweet lord, my dearest true husband, and I dare not think of that now, or I will surely die of longing and grief.

My mind is filled with horrible imaginings: of my sister, my father—who also perished here during that dreadful winter—and of
Guilford Dudley. I recall how Guilford went weeping to the public scaffold on Tower Hill. I never liked him, but I was filled with pity when they told me. Three heads lost to the axe: a savage ending. And they were not the only ones who suffered in this place. Who has not heard of Queen Anne Boleyn and Queen Katherine Howard? They do not spare women the block in this kingdom. Will I be next? Oh, sweet Jesus, spare me that, I beseech Thee!

The solid walls are above us now, menacing and implacable; the barge passes under the gloomy arch below St. Thomas’s Tower, and as it slows to a halt, it rocks, battered by the waves slapping at the steps of the water gate. I grip the boat’s sides instinctively, but in truth I do not care if it sinks and drowns me. Better that than a worse fate.

In front of us the heavy oak gates, slatted in iron, grind open inch by inch, to reveal a tall, thin man with a soldierly bearing, wearing sober, well-cut clothes. He looks to be around fifty years old; he has thick graying hair, a drooping mustache, and high cheekbones in a craggy, lined, and rather sad face, and wears an unnervingly grave expression. He waits with a small detachment of yeomen warders. These men, I realize, with a sick feeling, are to be my jailers. I pray God they may not also be my executioners.

After the guards have helped me to my feet, I alight from the boat with trembling legs and dread in my heart. But as I make to mount the stairs, the tall gentleman descends hastily and offers his arm.

“Sir Edward Warner, at your service, my lady,” he says. “I am the Lieutenant of the Tower, and you will be in my charge.” I am relieved to find him so courteous and thoughtful, and his tone cordial, even a touch avuncular, although a treacherous little voice in my head is reminding me that a similar kindness was extended by the Tower officials of the day to my sister, and, so I have heard, to Anne Boleyn.

“Follow me,” Sir Edward murmurs in a low voice, his expression pained as he sees the terror in my face. “There is nothing to fear.” I take much courage from that, for I had expected yet more cold treatment from those appointed to have custody of me; even so, with my fate yet to be decided, no comfortable words can unravel the tight knot of fear in my breast.

“I understand how you must feel, my lady. I too have been a prisoner
in this place,” says the lieutenant as we ascend the stairs. “It was my punishment for supporting the claim of your sister, the Lady Jane. I was held here a year after Wyatt’s rebellion, and then languished in disgrace until the accession of our blessed Queen Elizabeth, for which I daily give thanks.”

I cannot myself feel so thankful, naturally, but I am heartened by Sir Edward’s words, and especially cheered to learn that he had espoused the claim of my sister, for surely that will dispose him to look kindly upon me. I am almost content to follow him, although I am aware of the warders with their pikes at my back.

We turn into a cobbled lane, which looks vaguely familiar, and looking around me, I recognize the place where Harry and I boarded Pembroke’s barge on that momentous night eight years ago, and remember the inexplicable terror that seized me in this very place, when I was suddenly desperate to get out. Was that some premonition of my present imprisonment? I am terrified now—but that was worse. God forbid it was a portent of what is coming to me …

The Tower seems vast, all high, forbidding walls and stern buildings, and I have no idea where I am being led. What I dread most is being immured in a dungeon—and coming upon the spot where my sister’s lifeblood was spilled. That, I could not face.

“Where are we going, Sir Edward?” I inquire.

The lieutenant steers me through an archway. In front of me, to my left, there is a wall, with trees beyond. “Ahead is the inner ward,” he tells me. “You are to be accommodated in the Bell Tower.” He points upward. “The garden of my lodging is next to it, beyond the wall.” If there is a garden next to my prison, it surely cannot be that grim. I hope I will be able to see it from my window.

The archway leads to a narrow passage, and it is here, near the exit at the far end, that I suddenly feel desperately cold, even though it is August, and warm. Sir Edward and his men remain oblivious, but for a space I am freezing, and enveloped in a sense of panic and horror that I know is not entirely connected with my circumstances. Then we turn left, and the feeling disappears as instantly as it came—only to be succeeded by something far worse. For as we emerge into a wide-open space, in front of me is the vast expanse of Tower Green, enclosed by
more towers and walls, while to the right, the great white keep known as Caesar’s Tower rises toward the sky, its gilded onion domes gleaming in the sunlight. But I barely notice them, because beyond the green is the chapel. I stop dead in my tracks.

The lieutenant has seen me staring ahead in horror. Briskly, he takes my arm and steers me toward a tall timbered house on the left, one of several fine residences in that corner of the bailey. It’s an impressive building, with a high stone tower behind it, but I barely notice either because I am feeling sick to my stomach, knowing that my sister’s butchered remains lie in that chapel, and that somewhere on Tower Green stood the scaffold on which she died. If the Queen had wanted to punish me, she could not have devised a better way.

Fighting down nausea, I turn my head away and stare fixedly ahead. We enter the Lieutenant’s Lodging, a fine modern house with spacious paneled rooms and rich furnishings such as normally grace a knightly household. Sir Edward leads me along a passage, then through an anteroom furnished sparsely with benches, and so to the door of what he tells me is the Bell Tower.

“This is the only entrance,” he explains, as if he anticipates that, heavy with child as I am, I will try to escape. “Her Majesty’s orders, you understand. It is a secure place.”

“I am no threat to Her Majesty,” I cannot resist saying. “I am her loyal subject.”

He frowns. “Come, my lady,” he says.

The Bell Tower is very old. The lieutenant informs me—as if we were enjoying a tour of the place—that it was built by King Richard the Lionheart many centuries ago. I can well believe that. The downstairs chamber, octagonal in shape, has great thick, rough walls pierced by tall glazed windows. Today they admit shafts of sunlight, but even so, the place is cool and dank, and I know it will be freezing in winter. Please God, let them not force me to give birth to my child in here!

But the lieutenant is moving on, leading the way up a steep spiral stair.

“Sir Thomas More was imprisoned down there thirty years ago,” he tells me, “and the cold was a martyrdom to him.” So had his execution
been, in many people’s eyes, as I have read. He too defied his King, and paid the ultimate price. I shudder at the thought.

“You, my lady, will be more comfortable,” Sir Edward assures me.

He opens a door, indicating I should enter, and I am relieved to see that the upper chamber, which is circular in shape, is much better appointed than the room below, with wooden shutters at the windows and clean rush matting on the floor. A threadbare tapestry hangs on the whitewashed wall, its colors so faded that I can only just make out a battle scene. There is a carved wooden tester bed made up, thankfully, with good bleached sheets, a battered-looking drawing table, two stools, and an empty iron brazier. But I will not be here when winter strikes, I promise myself, calmer now. By then I will have protested my innocence before God and the Queen’s Council, and been vindicated. For surely it is the intent to do harm that counts. Alas, says a warning voice in my head, I should know better. I have the example of my sister before me. I can only pray, most fervently, that Queen Elizabeth is more merciful than Queen Mary.

I am not alone, for I am allowed the services of a maid, Honor, on account of my rank. My lady the Countess of Hertford—for so I am, whatever they may say—cannot go unattended, even in prison. So little Honor, who is just fourteen years old, will share my dreary, anxious days here and sleep in the serving maids’ chamber in the Lieutenant’s Lodging at nights.

The infant inside me kicks lustily. God grant it will be a son; that would please Ned, for all men want an heir to succeed to their titles and lands—if, of course, there are any, after this dreadful business is concluded. And suddenly I am fearful for the little one’s sake as well as my own. For if my child is a son, then from his birth he will pose a greater threat to the Queen than my sisters and I ever could.

August 1485, Raglan Castle

The next morning, when Kate awoke, Mattie was bustling around, pouring water into a basin and laying out fresh body linen. The black dress Kate discarded the night before had been hung up and brushed, and was hanging on its peg. She struggled to regain her wits. Her head felt terrible, and her eyes were stinging.

“What time is it?” she muttered.

“Good morning,” Mattie responded. “It is nigh eight o’clock. How are you today, my lady?”

“Wretched,” she sighed. “My head aches and I feel sick. God knows I wept a storm last night—and I had cause. My lord was hateful to me, hateful! In faith, I do not know how I can bear to live with him anymore. And he doesn’t want me now that my father is dead. I am an embarrassment to him, an obstacle in the way of his gaining favor with the Tudor. I tell you, Mattie, I shall go into a convent, and then he and I can be rid of each other.”

“I’d hold your horses a bit if I were you,” Mattie said, folding some clean linen. “When did you last bleed, my lady?”

Kate thought back. In the anxiety and turmoil of the past weeks, she had not taken much notice of her body’s rhythms. But now it dawned on her that she had not seen her courses for some time. She looked at Mattie in dismay.

“I reckon it’s seven weeks since I had to wash your clouts,” Mattie said. “I think you’re with child—and that makes two of us!”

“Mattie!” Realization was dawning. “Yes—it must be. I feel a little sick today, just like before. Dear God, what shall I do? My lord hates me. He will be angry to think I am pregnant with King Richard’s grandchild.”

“Him? No, like all men, he wants an heir. You tell him you’re expecting and he’ll perk up, see if I’m right.”

“This is unreal,” Kate said. “And you too, Mattie! Are you pleased?”

“Delighted, and Guy too. And I’m pleased for you, my lady. When God closes one door, He opens another. This will help to blunt the edge of your grief.”

Kate thought that nothing could do that, but it was true that a baby would give her something else to think about. And whatever anyone else might say, she rejoiced in the knowledge that it was her father’s grandchild she was carrying, and that something of him would live on, something she could cherish.

She rested in her chamber that morning, and Mattie gave out that she was indisposed. When the sick feeling had passed, she got up and had her maid dress her in her mourning gown, then she seated herself at the table. In her portable writing desk—a curiously wrought box with painted panels, a velvet lining, and secret compartments—lay her bundle of jottings about the princes. She sat there thinking about them, poring over them, trying to make sense of them. She wondered if she should try to write down her findings so far. She wanted to be able one day to tell her child the truth about his grandfather. But how could she do that when she did not know the truth herself?

Yet maybe—just maybe—her doubts would be resolved soon. Henry Tudor had sworn his intention of marrying Elizabeth of York, and no doubt he would make good that vow shortly. For he held his throne only by right of conquest, not through right of blood. There were others of Yorkist descent who had more right—Warwick and his sister, and John, of course. It was clear that Henry Tudor believed that the precontract story was nonsense; otherwise he would not have vowed to wed Elizabeth of York. Soon he must honor that vow, and it was possible that he would make some proclamation about the fate of the princes—although, Kate thought dismally, it was bound to be injurious to her father’s memory, which could only be to the Tudor’s advantage. Even if Henry had no proof that Richard had killed his nephews, he would find it politic to say he had.

She wondered again how Henry Tudor had been sure they were dead. He must have learned something from Buckingham, probably through his mother, Lady Stanley. She made herself face the possibility that Buckingham had learned that her father, alarmed by the plots in
the boys’ favor, was planning to do away with the princes. For those plots had been proof that a lot of people still held that the sons of Edward IV were the true heirs to the throne—and that they were still a threat to Richard.

They had been close, the King and the duke: her father might well have confided his intention to his friend. That was sufficient to explain Buckingham’s disaffection. But did Buckingham, or Henry Tudor, ever find out that the princes were actually dead? Maybe Buckingham had known nothing of their fate after all.

She laid down her pen. She had written nothing. She supposed she would have to wait to see what transpired now, although she knew she might wait a long time for news to filter through to Raglan. For certain it was that her husband would not willingly enlighten her.