A Dangerous Inheritance (66 page)

“He’s to be called after King Arthur,” Kate said. “An auspicious name. No doubt the Tudor wishes to invest his dynasty with some semblance of Arthur’s greatness.” Her tone was sarcastic.

In November, Kate realized that she was to bear another child. A grandson for my father at last, she thought, and resolved heartily to take up her pen again and commit to paper, for the benefit of this unborn innocent, her convictions about the murder of the princes. The knowledge of her pregnancy had reenergized her and given her new hope. At last she had something to live for.

“I am with child,” she told William when next he came to her bed. He nodded slowly.

“That is good news,” he said eventually. “I will not trouble you tonight, then.” Or any other night, she realized thankfully—not while she was carrying his seed. He was too careful a husband to break that sanction. Yet he seemed hesitant, reluctant to go from her.

“You are well?” he asked, his manner awkward. Of course his concern was for his son—the son he now hoped was growing inside her.

“Yes, my lord, I am well. A little sick in the mornings, as before, but that is nothing.”

“Good,” he said, and paused again. “Well, wife, if there is anything you need for your comfort, let me know.” Then he was gone. They were the first kind words he had spoken to her in a year; and she knew for a certainty that he would have extended the same consideration to his mare, had she been in foal.

Later that month a carter came to Raglan bringing strange tidings.

“It’s certain that the Earl of Warwick has escaped from the Tower,” he told the crowd that had gathered around him in the courtyard. “The word is everywhere. And it’s said that more will be heard of Warwick afore long!”

“I do not believe it,” Kate said to Mattie as they walked away. “Warwick would not know how to start a rebellion.”

“But what if others are using him?” Mattie pondered. “It’s been done before, as you well know, my lady.”

“But would the people really prefer poor Warwick, a backward boy of eleven years, to Henry Tudor, a man of mature age and proven experience?”

“The people favor right over might!” Mattie declared stoutly.

“I wonder if they care, so long as there is peace, and taxes are not too burdensome,” Kate retorted. She felt tired. This new pregnancy was sapping her strength, and she needed to lie down. She seemed to spend most of her time resting these days. And William was so anxious about this child surviving that he kept urging her to do so.

He was kinder with her now, a little less unbending. His mother too had relented toward her, and something of their old friendship had revived. And that brought Elizabeth running back, eager to be friendly. Time is a great healer, thought Kate, and this pregnancy had brought its own blessings. But the greatest blessing, she knew, would be to see John’s face once more.

Christmas came and went, a much merrier occasion than it had been the previous year. Then there were the dead weeks of January, when the countryside lay covered with snow or frost and the peasants stayed huddled in their cottages, eking out the stores they had put by for the winter and biding their time until February arrived, and with it Plow Monday, when they would venture forth to work the fields again.

At the end of February another letter arrived from Harpenden. Kat sounded worried. She wrote that the King had deprived Elizabeth Wydeville of her lands, and the Dowager Queen had retired with only a small pension to the abbey of Bermondsey. Why? wondered Kate. What could Elizabeth Wydeville have done to deserve being stripped of her revenues? Only last autumn she had stood godmother to Prince Arthur. Was it a threat, a warning to keep her mouth shut?

But there was more disconcerting news as Kate read on. Kat had recently been at court with her husband.

Did Elizabeth of York too know more than was good for her? Did Henry Tudor keep her in this silken bondage because he knew—or feared—that she possessed dangerous knowledge of the fate, or the whereabouts, of her brothers?

The Dowager Countess, who had brought the letter, was standing by, and Kate showed it to her. “It saddens me that Henry should treat his Queen so distrustfully,” Anne said. “It would not have been so had he married our Maud, but then Maud would not have brought him a crown.”

“It seems strange that he treats both his wife and his mother-in-law so unkindly,” Kate said. “It is as if he does not trust them.”

“He was ever a suspicious child,” the countess said. “He grew up under the shadow of civil war, a pawn in a game of kings. It is only natural for him to wish to preempt any threat to his security. After all, both the Queen and her mother are of the House of York, and both meddled in high affairs in the last reign. As you know, your father, King Richard, planned at one time to marry Elizabeth of York, and she, I heard, was hot for it; but when he abandoned the plan, her love seemed to turn to hate. No doubt she felt scorned. There was talk that she began plotting with Lord Stanley on Henry’s behalf. William told me.”

Kate listened aghast: she had not known of this. No wonder Henry Tudor kept his Queen in subjection; he must have known all about her intrigues, and the fact that she had been hot for King Richard, as Anne had put it.

Kate’s babe had just quickened in her womb when another letter arrived from Kat, who informed her that the atmosphere at court was tense because a young man had appeared in Ireland, calling himself the Earl of Warwick and the rightful King of England:

Two days later William rose to his feet at the dinner table and called for silence. The chatter of his household subsided about him as he spoke gravely.

“I have received a communication from the King’s Council.” He looked briefly at Kate, his eyes cold, before addressing the company. “I am commanded to place this castle in readiness against a possible invasion. Henceforth, all of you—knights, retainers, squires, even menials—must be on alert. The Earl of Lincoln has fled the realm and is reported to have sought refuge with his aunt, the Duchess Margaret, in Flanders. He is suspected of having nurtured and instructed the Irish pretender, whose real name is Lambert Simnel, in a traitorous conspiracy against the King. It stands to reason, of course,” he went on. “Lincoln’s house at Ewelme is near to Oxford, where the Simnel conspiracy was first plotted. There can be little doubt that he was the author of it. But notwithstanding the fact that the King has lately shown the real Earl of Warwick to the people, there are still ignorant fools who believe this Simnel really is him. Thus we must make ready, and be vigilant, in case the traitor Lincoln raises an army in Flanders and brings Simnel over from Ireland to press his false claim.”

He sat down and glared at a white-faced Kate. “Now you can see what a fine gentleman you condescended to,” he growled. “It is as well you have put all that folly behind you, for you may rest assured he will be dealt with as he deserves.”

May 1562, Tower of London

Sir Edward Warner has been summoned to court; he left after breakfast. The summons could be for a variety of reasons, but of course I
am wondering if it concerns me and Ned. Ever since those painful examinations before Archbishop Parker, three months ago, when I briefly glimpsed my beloved again as we were conveyed in separate barges up the Thames, and then questioned at different times, going over the same ground as before, I have been fretting about the outcome. Surely there is now no question of us being accused of treason? If they had meant to do that, they would have done it long ago. And no one has actually used the word treason; they all focus on our marriage. They are obsessed with witnesses and the calling of banns and written proof. But supposing this investigation deems our marriage treasonable? What will happen to us then? And what of my poor child? Again, I cannot help thinking of the fate of the princes.

Thus turn my thoughts, so I am nearly in a frenzy by the time Sir Edward returns, and when I see his grave face, I feel I might faint with terror.

“Calm yourself, my lady,” he says. “Sit down, I pray you. You are not in any danger, but the news is not what you will want to hear. I have had it from the Queen’s Majesty herself.”

I hold my breath, anguished with suspense. Sir Edward looks pityingly on me.

“I am commanded by her to tell you that the Archbishop of Canterbury has found that, in the absence of any documents or witnesses, your marriage to Lord Hertford cannot be proved, wherefore it has been declared no marriage, and your carnal copulation unlawful and worthy of punishment. I regret that it is my duty to inform you that his Grace of Canterbury has censured you and Lord Hertford for fornication, and that you have both been sentenced to be imprisoned here in the Tower at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” He falls silent, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else.

This is calamitous and unjust. I can barely believe it. “We
were
married!” I cry. “I am no fornicator, believe me. Before God, Sir Edward, we have been sharply handled; and the lack of proofs was our misfortune, not any fault in us. Why will they not believe us?”

“I am very sorry for you, my lady,” the lieutenant says.

“They have intended this all along,” I wail, with sudden clarity. “They have sought to discredit me. Oh, the very shame of it! How
shall I hold my head up after this? And my little son, what is he now? What shall become of him?”

Sir Edward says nothing. He does not need to. The word “bastard” hangs mockingly in the air between us.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” I ask in bitterness, “is it now the fashion for those accused of fornication to be imprisoned in the Tower? Because if so, I wonder why half the world is not in here! And if that is all Ned and I are guilty of, then why cannot we be released?”

“In faith, I do not know, my lady. I understand your anger. You have suffered much.”

“Maybe they fear that if we are freed, we will wed in another ceremony that none can dispute! Yes, that is why they are keeping us locked up! Have you seen my lord—what does he say?”

“He says he will appeal against the sentence. Now, madam, I pray you, rest a little. You are overwrought, and no wonder.” Shaking his grizzly head, Sir Edward takes his leave. He clearly wants no part in this.

My life has become a nightmare. I am eaten up by the injustice of it all. I
am
married in the sight of God, and He knows the truth of it. I will
not
be labeled fornicator or anything else! And my child
is
lawfully begotten. When I get out of this place, I will fight this ruling in the courts, and defy the highest in the land to have the truth known, and neither Queen Elizabeth nor her entire Privy Council shall stop me!

Mrs. Ellen and the other women try to comfort me. The lieutenant performs many small kindnesses to cheer me. He even refrains from upbraiding my pets for making puddles on the floor or ripping the upholstery. But I am a raging tempest, either in a storm of weeping or a storm of fury. I snap at everyone, even my angry, bawling son. I could not feel more wretched.

I am lying abed one night and looking miserably at the moon beyond my window, wondering if I will hear those disembodied voices again, when the door opens and there is Ned, alone.

“I bribed my guards!” he whispers. They are the first words he has uttered to me in over a year. “I would comfort you, my dear wife, and
lie with you!” And in two bounds he is at my bedside, gathering me in his arms and holding me as if he will never let me go. And I, for my part, am passionately kissing him back, clutching at him and running my fingers over his body, unable to believe he is really here.

“Oh, my sweet Ned!” I cry.

For an hour, a little hour, the world belongs to us, and nothing else exists. Oh, how we love each other, naked between the sheets, tumbling over and over, hands and lips touching, caressing, pleasing, and then our bodies locking in rapture.

“It has been so long, my love,” Ned murmurs as we lie stretched out across the rumpled mattress afterward, my head on his belly, he stroking my hair.

“I do not know how I have borne it,” I tell him.

The babe awakens and snuffles.

“How is my son?” Ned asks, rising up and leaning over to the cradle. “Hello, Edward! You are a fine young lord!” I watch them together for a moment, as Ned picks up the child, strokes his fine hair, and tries to make him smile. I am filled with happiness to see them thus, and will not spoil it by pointing out that Edward is no longer legally a young lord.

“Ned,” I ask, “did the Queen give permission for us to be together?”

“No, but Sir Edward said he would allow it. He said there was no reason why we should not console one another.”

My heart swells with gratitude. “He is a good man.”

“He says we may meet whenever we please, so long as I pay the guards and take care to be discreet.”

“He is a true friend, and has proved it in many ways, but this is the greatest blessing he has brought us,” I say, and we fall to kissing again until a light tap on the door warns us that Ned must depart.

The lieutenant comes with news for me.

“My lady, I have just heard from the steward at the Minories. The old lady has returned; she has not been in good health, which was why he had not seen her. He told her about my interest in the tombs and the church, and she said she would gladly meet with me to tell me more about their history.”