A Dangerous Inheritance (70 page)

The officer looked at her curiously. William opened his mouth to castigate her again, but Mattie forestalled him. “Good sirs, do you know of the fate of my husband, Guy Freeman? He was a big, tall man with a red face and fair hair. You would recognize him because he has a large wen on his cheek.”

The officers exchanged looks. “Wearing a tan leather jerkin and green hose?”

“Yes!” Mattie’s voice was eager.

“Sorry, woman, but he’s dead. He was found lying wounded in the ravine they’re now calling the Bloody Gutter. He was another traitor, wearing Lincoln’s badge. They hanged him.”

Mattie screamed.

August 1563, Tower of London

To write this is painful to me. My love is gone from me, forever, maybe, and it is as if a thousand distances lie between us.

I bore my child, little Thomas.
God gives us His great paternal blessings once again
, Ned wrote, delighted to learn he was the father of a second son.

I thought we had managed well, for none knew of my pregnancy until a servant blabbed of it. And then the word was out, and the Queen’s wrath erupted; I heard later that she’d turned the color of a corpse when told the news. Poor Sir Edward, our kindly jailer, to whom I shall always be indebted, and who had gotten two of his warders to stand godfather at the second baptism, found himself that very day summarily dismissed from his post and clapped in one of his own dungeons.

Sir Edward’s superior, Sir Robert Oxenbridge, the Constable of the Tower, took evident pleasure in telling me that Ned had been summoned immediately before the Court of Star Chamber at Westminster,
charged with breaching his prison, deflowering a virgin of royal blood, and compounding that crime by defiling me a second time. They sentenced him to be fined—extortionately—and to remain in prison in the Tower during Her Majesty’s pleasure.

The last sight I had of Ned was at Thomas’s baptism. I remember him cradling our new son in his arms and uttering fervent thanks to God for my safe delivery, with toddling Edward clinging to his knee. By the good offices of Sir Edward Warner, I had my portrait painted for a locket, holding Edward in my arms, a miniature of my sweet lord about my neck. Ned admired it when we were in the chapel, and I snatched it off and covertly passed it to him as a keepsake before I watched him walk away under the stern guard of the constable. We had not been permitted even a farewell kiss.

That was six months ago, and since then I have pined here alone in my prison, cowed into subjection under the harsh rule of Sir Robert Oxenbridge. Were it not for my precious babes, I think I would commit the great sin of killing myself.

And now, in the heat of summer, comes the plague. They are falling like flies in London, a frightened Mrs. Ellen reports. The word is that people are dying at a rate of a thousand a week. The stink from the City, when the wind is in the wrong direction, is all-pervading, contaminating everything, and making me fearful for my little ones. The court, I learn, has removed to Windsor, where the Queen has had a gallows put up and threatens to hang anyone from the capital venturing thither.

I am terrified for my sons. While they remain here with me in the Tower, they risk becoming infected. I contemplate asking if Mrs. Ellen can take them away to a safe place, just for now. But Sir Robert appears at my door.

“Lady Katherine,” he says, “I am commanded by the Queen, out of compassion for the sake of your health, and that of your children, to send you all under guard into the country. Lord Hertford is to be sent away too, to a different place of residence, and you shall have separate custodians. The infant may stay with you, and young Master Edward must go with his father.”

“No!” I cry in anguish. “No! I cannot live if I am parted from my child, or my sweet lord! I would rather die of plague.”

The constable regards me disapprovingly. I know he thinks me a rash, foolish, even dangerous woman.

“Calm yourself, my lady. These measures are for your own safety, and that of your children and Lord Hertford. And my lord is content to obey. He has asked me to give you this as a farewell token. I permit it as a special favor.”

It is a mourning ring, with a death’s-head intaglio. He wore it for his father, I recall. And now, turning it over in trembling hands, I see there are words freshly engraved on it, as with a sharp knife. It reads:
While I live, yours
.

On the first day of July, in the year of grace 1487, Katherine, Countess of Huntingdon, daughter of Richard, sometime King of England, began her travail. Her infant, a son, was born dead, to the great grief of her husband, the earl. Soon afterward, the Lady Katherine herself gave up the ghost, and rendered her spirit to God most joyfully, uttering one last word,
John
. Upon hearing which, her lord was observed to groan woefully in grief. It was thought, by most of those kneeling by her bed, that she spoke of her brother, then far away in Calais.

After her death, a bundle of papers tied with ribbon was found among her effects by her maid, who hid it in an old muniment chest beneath the family documents. Only this maid, who took her secret with her to her grave, fifty years later, knew that her beloved mistress had died without ever finding out the truth about her father, King Richard. And that caused the maid to weep even more. For she alone was aware that death had prevented the countess from obtaining the answer to a question that she believed would have settled the matter once and for all. And she alone had borne witness to her heartbroken mistress writing a few final words about her arrest—which had been kept secret, and would never be made public, out of respect for her widower—and then laying down her pen forever. It is believed that the countess’s papers were burned by Sir Owen Hopton in the reign of Elizabeth I.

The countess was laid to rest in the parish church of St. Cadoc in Raglan, without ceremony. The earl, her widower, stood stony-faced throughout the funeral. He was not a well man, although he did not yet know it, for his disease was a silent one, and he was gathered to his forefathers just four years later. He was interred in Tintern Abbey, having chosen not to be laid beside his lady, whose name would soon largely be forgotten, for no monument was ever built to her memory.

Then began my Calvary. Years under house arrest in a succession of remote places in the depths of East Anglia: Pirgo Park, Ingatestone Hall, Gosfield Hall … Always a prisoner, an unwelcome guest. Never allowed to speak to anyone but my guardians, and made to behave at all times as if I were still in the Tower.

I wrote several times to Mr. Secretary, pleading to be reunited with my dear lord and my elder son, and begging him to intercede for me with the Queen’s Majesty. I recall the groveling words I wrote, my abject plea for the obtaining of her most gracious pardon and favor toward me, which, with upstretched hands and down-bent knees, from the bottom of my heart most humbly I craved.

There was no reply.

I lost my appetite and grew thin. I wished myself dead and buried.

Just once was I permitted to write to Ned. It must have rent his heart to read my brave words, reminding him of the stolen hours we lay with joyful hearts as sweet bedfellows in the Tower, and assuring him we would do so again, I was certain of it.

I wrote again to the Queen and Mr. Secretary, appealing to them to relieve me from my continual agony. They ignored my pleas, and I was so crushed with disappointment that I took to my bed, coughing and feverish. I wept ceaselessly. I vomited and brought up foul phlegm, and my guardians trembled in case I had consumption. They feared I might die in their charge.

My cheeks grew pale, my cough more troublesome. My longing for my sweet lord and my son became a physical pain. I exchanged several secret letters with Ned, thanks to the ruses of my maids, receiving in return touching tokens of his devotion. But our separation was killing me.

My cough grew worse. I developed pains in my chest. Eating so little, I grew thinner. At night I began to sweat; by day, I was sunk in
lassitude. And when, late in the year of Our Lord 1567, I was moved, still a prisoner, to this house, Cockfield Hall in Yoxford, Suffolk, I was in a very poor state indeed.

I am racked by another attack of coughing. In my mirror I see dull eyes, cheekbones high in a hectic face, hands near transparent, and a gown that is now much too big, hanging on bony shoulders.

I feel my strength ebbing. I am now spending more time in bed than in my chair. My appetite has gone completely. My jailer’s wife, Lady Hopton, pays me anxious visits, asking after my health, while Sir Owen sends for the Queen’s own physicians to tend me. He will not let it be said that I died for lack of care in his house.

I look at little Tom and feel anguish at the thought of him being left alone and motherless. Please God, I pray, do not let me die! I am but twenty-seven years old, and I need to live for my children, and for my love. I am convinced the very sight of Ned could make me well. And my little Edward … My arms ache for Edward.

I have beseeched them to let him visit me. He is six now, and it is four long years since I saw him. But they say it is not possible. Does my sweet lord know how ill I am? Will I ever look on his face again? Just once is all I ask. Just a glimpse of him to take to Heaven with me. For I fear that is where I am bound, very soon. I keep recollecting what my sister wrote to me from the Tower:
Trust not that the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your life, for, as soon as God will, go the young and the old
.

What did I ever do to deserve such trials? I but did what countless women do—I fell in love and married. Yet I am still being punished for that, and I know in my bones that the Queen will never release me now.

This morning, when I cough, there is blood on my kerchief. I stare at it, disbelieving; here is my executioner. I sit up shaking, my heart pounding. Not me, oh Lord, please, not me!

I sit there nervously on the edge of the bed, feeling like I am dying anyway, awaiting—and dreading—the next spasm. When it comes, there is another bright red streak: not as much as before, but still alarming. In a panic, I call Lady Hopton and she sends again for the physician.

——

“What is wrong with me?” I ask the doctor.

“It is phthisic,” he says gravely. “A disorder of the lungs. I prescribe rest and pleasant pastimes. Take the air, read books, do a little embroidery, or play cards.”

“My lady will take no pastime,” Lady Hopton says. She has insisted on standing by through every consultation, like a jailer. What does she think I will do? Plot treason? I am a sick woman! All I want is to be well again. But I have no energy for anything. I can barely raise the pen to write this journal.

Dr. Symonds is brisk. “Then give her asses’ milk and snails in shells to prolong life,” he orders, and my lady nods. He has not reassured me. I dare not ply him with more questions, for fear of what he will answer, for he spoke of prolonging my life. I am not such a fool that I cannot understand the implications of those words.

——

January, in the year of grace 1568, comes in like a lamb. The parkland beyond my casement is still green, the bare trees unladen with snow. It is unseasonably mild.

I have been confined to my bed for three weeks, too weak to get out of it. I am resigned now, ready and prepared for the inevitable end, and aware of the need to make a good death, to satisfy the world that I was a worthy and devout woman.

I feel my strength ebbing. My women watch around the bed through the night hours as I ceaselessly recite psalms and prayers for the dying. I thank God I am going to Him with no malice in my heart. My last thoughts will be of my loved ones, Ned, Edward, and little Tom, who has crept beside me on the bed and snuggled into the crook of my arm, his face stained with tears. Young as he is, he is aware that something is badly wrong. Maybe someone has told him his mother is dying. He knows what death is.

Dawn breaks. I realize I have been praying all night.

“Madam, be of good comfort,” says Lady Hopton. “Your strength is a marvel to us all. With God’s help, you shall live and do well many years.”

“No, no,” I tell her, “there will be no more life for me in this world. But in the world to come, I hope to live forever. For here, there is nothing but care and misery, and there is life everlasting.”

I summon up every vestige of energy to pray some more, to ease my passage. My maids enjoin me to sleep a little, but there is no point. Soon, I shall rest in that endless sleep from which there is no waking.

I start to feel myself slipping away.

“Lord, be merciful unto me,” I murmur, “for now I begin to faint.”

“She is cold,” someone says, and I feel the women rubbing my hands and feet.

“My time has come,” I murmur weakly. “It is not God’s will that I should live any longer, and His will be done, not mine.” I kiss Tom’s sweet head, and someone carries him away. When next I see him it will be in Heaven.

I call for Sir Owen Hopton. I want him to be able to report to the Queen that I made an edifying end—and I have two final requests to make of him.