A Dangerous Inheritance (53 page)

She tied the papers up again and was just about to put them away when the door opened and William walked in. Their eyes met: hers flashed with hurt and anger at the remembrance of his cruelty the night before; his alighted on her black dress.

“Your maid said you were indisposed,” he said.

“I was. I am feeling better now.” Kate’s tone was cool. She was not going to make this easy for him. In fact she would not have cared if she never saw him again.

“I spoke harshly last night,” he muttered. “But you must know that I am in a very difficult position. Married to King Richard’s daughter, and thus bound to him in his lifetime, I fear I might find myself under surveillance on a suspicion of disloyalty. I have done what I can to forestall that, but—God, woman, were you insane, proclaiming your loyalty to your father by appearing publicly in mourning for him? People will talk! Those gentlemen that were here—everyone’s running scared, fearing the Tudor’s vengeance. They won’t scruple to throw me to the wolves to save their own hides. I
had
to reprimand you.”

“You didn’t have to call me a bastard spawn!” Kate retorted with spirit. She wanted him to apologize.

“I had good reason. Drawing attention to your bastardy suggests I despise you for your father’s sake. I need people to think I was coerced into this marriage.”

Kate gaped at him, appalled. “Is that true?” she whispered. “Were you coerced?”

He would not meet her gaze. “I do not despise you yourself,” he muttered, “but I would I had never consented to this match. I had my reservations, the stain of your birth being paramount, although that was compensated for by your father’s generosity.” His words stung. She felt the color flare in her cheeks. He was cruel, cruel!

“Hearing me berating you last night, no one could have doubted my loyalty to King Henry. We must needs distance ourselves from your father, and make it appear that we had abandoned him because of his wickedness.”

“You make me feel like Judas,” she said, bitter. “Just tell me you don’t believe there is any truth in those allegations you made against King Richard, that he murdered his nephews.”

“All part of the same strategy,” William said.

“But do you believe it? That he had them killed?”

“What else is there to believe? No one has seen them alive in more than two years.”

“There could be many explanations for that!”

“Then believe what you want to believe. But keep your mouth shut on that issue, d’you hear me? Because, mark me well, we will no doubt be told that he had them murdered.”

They faced each other, all conversation run out. He had not apologized, and even if he had, forgiving him was another matter. For all his good reasons for uttering them, the things he said to her had injured their marriage irrevocably.

“I am sorry you regret taking me to wife,” she ventured.

“I would not do so now,” William replied bluntly. “But since we are wed, we must make the best of it.”

“Last night, I thought of disappearing into a convent,” she told him. He did not look too surprised, so perchance the idea had occurred to him too. A husband whose wife became a nun could be released from his marriage vows.

“That might be for the best,” he said, his face lightening a little.

“Yes, it
would
have been, I’m sure,” she said, tart. “But this morning
I had cause to think again. I had not realized it before, and it took Mattie to make all plain, but by sure and certain tokens I am with child.”

William’s face was a mask of warring emotions. She knew how desperately he wanted a son; and yet he would not want it to be the grandson of a defeated king.

“Is that so?” he said. “Then maybe God at least smiles upon our marriage. This pregnancy, coming at this time, must be a sign that I should not put you from me.”

“You had considered it?”

“Yes. But this makes a difference.” He sighed. “We must make the best of things now, for our son’s sake.”

“I pray God it will be a son.”

“I need an heir. I do not want my line to end with Elizabeth, or my lands and title to go to the man she marries. But my son’s mother should not be dressed in mourning for a vanquished tyrant, which is what people are calling Richard now. I am sorry for your loss: I know what it is to lose a father by violence. But your grieving must be inward; outwardly, you must show you are looking to the future. I will not permit you to draw attention to whose daughter you are.”

August 1561; Ipswich, Suffolk

Queen Elizabeth paces up and down the council chamber, a volcano waiting to erupt. Her councillors look on apprehensively; they know what she can be like when she has a temper on her. They glance at each other, thinking that it might be less harrowing to do battle with the French than face the Queen when she is in a fury.

She is now nearly twenty-eight years old, a tall, slender woman with a thin face, hooked nose, and swarthy skin whitened with cosmetics. Her long, curly red hair is coiled up on her head beneath a jaunty crimson velvet cap adorned with black plumes. Everything about her is stylish, from the matching gown with its pointed stomacher
that shows off her tiny waist to advantage to the pearls and jewels that drip from her ears, wrists, and bosom. She is by no means beautiful, but she has a commanding presence and great personal charm, while men find her desirable—and not only because she is powerful. It pleases her vanity to encourage them; she is very vain indeed.

But she is in no mood for flirtation or preening now. She is here to discuss this latest threat to her security as Queen, and to demand answers.

“I tell you, this is a conspiracy!” she snarls. “Why will you not believe me?”

“Because, madam, there is no evidence,” Sir William Cecil replies calmly.

“Oh, my Spirit, I cannot believe you are so naïve!” Elizabeth flings at him, this man who is her closest, wisest, and most loyal adviser.

Cecil takes the reproof in his stride; he has been on the receiving end of far worse.

Elizabeth frowns. “But there must be many who were privy to this marriage, according to what I hear,” she persists. “To me, my lords, that smells of a conspiracy!”

“So far our investigations have uncovered not a single person who knows anything about it,” Cecil tells her, aware that his fellows are more than content for him to act as spokesman.

“What of the minister?” the Queen barks.

“Disappeared without trace, madam.”

“And Mrs. Saintlow?”

“In the Tower. Madam, I would remind you that the Lady Katherine also sought out my Lord Robert here.” He bows slightly in the direction of the man who is his rival for power.

Elizabeth glares at Cecil. “And he came immediately to me.” Lord Robert ventures a smirk at Mr. Secretary. “Mrs. Saintlow did not think to tell me of her conversation with the Lady Katherine,” the Queen continues. “I want her closely questioned. What of the Earl of Hertford?”

“He has been summoned home.”

“I want him and the Lady Katherine
rigorously
examined by the Privy Council,” Elizabeth demands. “So far, we have only heard her
pathetic claim that she married for love. For love, mark you—and she a rival for my throne! God’s wounds, she has shown herself ungrateful for the favor extended to her, and insolent, yea. Mr. Secretary, have Sir Edward Warner make inquiries to discover how many were privy to this marriage from the first!”

“It shall be done,” Cecil says.

“Have it done now, before the official questioning,” the Queen commands. She is still beside herself with anger. “By her disobedience and rashness, the Lady Katherine has managed to undermine my own careful policies,” she hisses. “God knows, my lords, I spend my life playing off one royal suitor against another so they stay friendly toward this kingdom, and that I do without thought for my own inclinations. One day it may please me to wed, but I shall do so for the good of my realm, not to satisfy my lusts. Yet the Lady Katherine has contracted marriage without a thought for the consequences, and that, gentlemen, proves to me that she is unfit to be my heir. I want her removed from the succession, and the way to do that is to have her attainted, because this is treason, no less!”

Mr. Secretary clears his throat. “In that, madam, alas, you are mistaken. Under your father and brother, any man contracting an unauthorized marriage with a princess of the blood would have been guilty of treason, but King Edward repealed that statute. So legally, in marrying, neither Lord Hertford nor the Lady Katherine has committed treason, and they cannot therefore be attainted or put to death.”

“She has gone against my express command not to marry without my consent,” the Queen flares. “Is that not treason?”

“It’s disputable, madam, insufficient as a basis for proceeding too harshly against her.”

“Then what is to be done? Answer me!”

“Your Majesty might require the Lady Katherine to renounce her claim?” suggests the Earl of Sussex.

“Could she be trusted to keep her word?” Robert Dudley asks.

“Even if she did, there are those who would break it for her,” Cecil says. “She has a goodly following both in England and abroad. No, we cannot go down that road. But there might be another way.”

“What way?” the Queen asked sharply.

“We could have the alleged marriage declared invalid. There was only one witness, and she is now dead. We cannot trace the officiating minister, although the search is still going on. That leads me to believe there was no secret wedding, and that all Lady Katherine’s protestations that there was are but a pretense to cover up her shame. She well knows that naughty conduct is reprehensible in one so near in blood to the throne.” Cecil is aware that Elizabeth hates to be reminded that, under the Act of Succession, the Lady Katherine is in fact the next in line. He knows she has no love for her Grey cousins. He knows also that Elizabeth is jealous because Katherine, who bears a familial resemblance to her, is by far the more beautiful, and seven years younger, to boot.

“What of the marriage lines?” Sussex asks. “The Lady Katherine may produce those as proof that she is a good woman and a wedded wife.”

“My lord, you are too shortsighted,” Cecil reproves. “If there are any marriage lines, which I doubt, then we will deal with them as we think best. And when this pretended marriage is proved no marriage, which must be done with all dispatch, the Lady Katherine’s child will be born a bastard, and can pose no threat to Her Majesty’s security. And, as the world knows, any princess who bears a child out of wedlock must be entirely shamed and discredited, and none will ever again think of her as fit to succeed.”

Elizabeth has been regarding her Secretary of State with keen eyes. “By God’s blood, Spirit, you have the sow by the right ear, as my father used to say. By all means proceed along these lines, with our hearty consent.” There is a chorus of ayes from along the council table.

“Madam, may I have a word in private?” Cecil asks later, after the other business of the day has been concluded. Only he, and the detestable Lord Robert Dudley, whom she favors inordinately, can speak candidly to the Queen, and what Cecil has to say is of a highly sensitive nature. Even Elizabeth’s trusted privy councillors should not hear it.

Her Majesty dismisses the rest with a regal nod, and sinks back into her cushioned chair at the head of the long table. She is taut with agitation.

“Madam,” Cecil begins, “may I remind you, again, that you are as yet unwed and without an heir?”

“You never cease reminding me, William,” she retorts wryly. “I tell you, I am already married to a husband, and that is the kingdom of England.”

“The kingdom of England is not going to give you an heir.” Cecil smiles. They have had this conversation before—countless times. His smile, though, is fleeting. “It is my duty to remind you that, until you bear a child, the Lady Katherine is your rightful heir, according to the Act of Succession passed in your father’s time.” He himself would have championed Katherine’s cause, had indeed tried to help her, but now things have gone too far, and he has had to abandon her, even though he knows she has the best claim. In truth, he likes not this business, and while he is doing what he knows the Queen expects of him, he is aware that the long-term consequences might be serious. Because all he wants is for this interminable problem of the succession to be settled—and he fears it is less likely than ever after this. Yet he dare not appear to be supporting the Lady Katherine now. Without her, though, who shall succeed the Queen?

“Never!” Elizabeth glares at him. “I will not have that strumpet follow me on the throne.”

“I agree, it would be most unfitting, especially now that she has disgraced herself. Her illicit pregnancy is a sure sign that God does not approve of her succeeding. But the Act of Succession provides that if you, madam—Heaven forfend—die without issue, the crown must go to the heirs of your father’s sister Mary, late Queen of France and Duchess of Suffolk. That means her granddaughters, Lady Katherine and Lady Mary Grey. Failing them, what is to be done about the succession?”

“
I
will name my heir, when I am good and ready!” Elizabeth snarls. “As I said, I may yet decide to wed and have an heir of my body.” Cecil, that astute man, is aware of her biting her lip. He knows how overmuch she fears marriage and childbirth.

“No one will rejoice more at that than I,” he replies smoothly, “but until that happy day, the Act remains in force.”

“I’ll not have Lady Katherine as my successor! I cannot abide the sight of her.”

“Some would use the persuasive argument that she is a Protestant, born in this kingdom—unlike Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“A Protestant? Bah!” Elizabeth bangs her fist on the table. “She trims her sails to the wind. She was a Catholic when it suited her, when she thought it would win her a crown. Her conversion in my sister’s reign was purely self-seeking. Since then she has been all things to all men.”

“Might I remind Your Majesty that you too had to make a pretense of conforming to the old faith?” ventures Cecil. “Those were dangerous times. And I have no doubt that the Lady Katherine had in mind the fate of her sister, who was the focus of Protestant ambitions. Standing so near to the throne, she really had no choice—not when Queen Mary was burning Protestants.”