A Dangerous Inheritance (19 page)

“I have it!” I say, but am silenced when the countess enters the parlor, obviously bursting with news.

“My lord has sent word. Northumberland is to ride to Norfolk at the head of the army, to take the Lady Mary. He has said that Jane and Guilford shall be crowned in Westminster Abbey within this fortnight.”

“Hurrah!” cheers Harry, and my heart leaps! The duke must be sure of victory if he is planning a coronation. I can start to think about a new gown—and, which is far more precious, bedding openly with Harry!

“Good news at last,” I breathe. “But did not the Queen refuse to have Guilford crowned?”

“That might be the price of the duke’s support,” my lady says shrewdly. “Now, Katherine, I should like you to come to the still room to help me make some honey. I’ve got some lovely lavender in, and if we’ve time, we can mix some balms and salves too. And, Harry, I have word from the stables that your new courser has arrived. You had best go and check that you are satisfied with him.”

My husband disappears in an eager hurry, and I tie up the little bundle of papers and put them back in their casket before hastening after my lady’s retreating back.

I am not allowed to go out. My lady is adamant. There are rumors of a mutiny in Yarmouth against Northumberland, and armed men prowl the streets of London.

“They are deserters from the duke’s army,” she says. “The mood of the people is ugly. They suspect these deserters of being spies, sent by him to seek out dissidents.”

“The soldiers are deserting?” I ask in alarm. How swiftly the wheel of fortune turns.

“Yes.” She is tight-lipped. I know she feels sorry for me, but her first loyalty is to her lord. “They complain they have not been paid. Our steward heard some of them spouting forth in a tavern. And he heard something else, my dear—something I think you should know.”

We are alone in the quiet of the still room, making scent with the rest of the lavender—a scent I shall never want to smell again.

“What is it?” I ask, sharper than I had intended because of my fears.

“He heard people saying that the Lady Mary is marching on London with a force of thirty thousand men, and that most towns have declared for her and proclaimed her Queen.” The countess looks unhappy. We might all be casualties of Northumberland’s ambition.

We sit late after supper that evening, going over and over the latest news and its possible consequences, as the candles burn down and, beyond the open latticed windows, the sun disappears, leaving a soft, velvety sky studded with stars. It grows late, but none of us are ready
to sleep. In fact, I doubt I could sleep. I keep dwelling on Jane, shut up for her own safety in the Tower. Has she heard these disturbing reports? Does she realize that, if Mary wins, she might be branded a usurper and traitor? She, who never wanted her crown! Does Northumberland realize what he has done? And our parents? Did it ever occur to them, when they abetted him in this grand scheme, that they might be putting their daughter in danger—and themselves? And that there might be evil consequences for me too?

“I do fear for my sister,” I blurt out.

Harry reaches for my hand. His eyes are kind and full of compassion. “Do not worry, sweetheart. All is not lost yet.”

“The Lady Mary is known to be a merciful princess,” the countess says. “She will understand that Jane is young—and that she did not want to accept the crown.”

Her words strike a chill down my spine. It is as if she believes it is a foregone conclusion that Mary will triumph.

The door opens and the earl walks in. He looks haggard and weary, and sinks into his great chair at the head of the table.

“Greetings to you all,” he says flatly. “Is there any wine left?”

My lady picks up the ewer and pours. Her husband downs his goblet in one go. “More. I need it.” The countess pours again.

“What has happened?” Harry asks.

“Northumberland is facing ruin,” his father replies grimly. “He is finished, and it is only a matter of time before he is taken.”

I start to shake. Harry grasps my hand tighter.

“But all may not be lost,” the earl is saying. “Most of us on the council are ready to declare for Mary. We have seen how the tide is turning.” He looks at me. “Your father, my dear, has been doing his best to prevent us from leaving the Tower. Fortunately, the Master of the Mint managed to escape with all the gold from the Queen’s privy purse, which he was taking to Mary’s supporters in London.”

“And you have escaped too, my lord, thank God!” the countess cries fervently.

“Aye, by the skin of my teeth. When my lord of Suffolk heard how great an army was poised to march on London, he had his daughter proclaimed all over again, then ordered the gates of the Tower to be
locked—not to keep Mary’s forces out, you understand, but to keep us privy councillors in! He trusts none of us. But if Mary wins, we stand to be accused of high treason. You all know the penalty for that.”

There is a chilling silence. I hardly dare breathe.

The earl continues: “Yet I cannot think that Queen Mary will arraign and execute almost her entire Privy Council, especially if we now declare for her. Who else is there to help her rule? She is a woman: she will need advice and support. So yes, my dear, I made my escape before they locked the Tower.”

You might have made your escape, I think bitterly, but you have left my poor, defenseless sister to face the consequences of your actions. I rise, sketch the briefest of curtseys, and murmur a frosty good night. I must get to my bedchamber before I say too much and disgrace myself.

I am making my way to my lonely bed, in great torment, when there is a resounding banging at the door to the water stairs. Hastening in alarm to the hall, I hear men’s voices commanding, “Open, in the name of the Queen!”

The earl arrives at the same time, with Harry and the countess behind him, and nods to the porter to open the door. There are soldiers with pikes outside.

“What is the meaning of this?” Pembroke thunders.

“Sir, we are sent by the Queen,” the captain says.

“Which queen?” Pembroke barks.

“Why, Queen Jane, of course,” the man responds angrily. “We are sent to escort you back to the Tower, where you are to attend upon her.”

“And if I refuse?”

“My lord, we would not wish to use force, but our orders are to see that you obey the Queen’s command.”

“Very well. My cloak.” He turns to a servant, ignoring the frightened faces of his household, which has clustered around, alarmed by the banging and shouting. The cloak is brought and the earl steps out into the night.

——

Two anxious days later he is back.

“It is finished,” he tells us, as my heart plummets wildly. “Northumberland sent news of reports that the Lady Mary was advancing with an army forty thousand strong. His men were deserting like rats, and he urged us to send reinforcements—but there are none, even if we were so inclined. The usurper Jane—or rather her father, Suffolk—ordered the guards around the Tower to be doubled, but there was no point, for the guards were refusing to force people to stay. I, and several others, walked out unchallenged. In fact, Jane gave us permission to leave; I told her we were going to ask the French ambassador for aid for Northumberland. Suffolk wanted to come with us—he’s no fool—but it would be dangerous to be associated with him now, so we told him we would have him executed if he abandoned the Queen his daughter at this time.”

“He meant to abandon her, his own child?” The countess is shocked.

“He looks to his own skin.” Suddenly, the earl notices I am here listening, and remembers that it is my father of whom they speak. His face softens a little.

“Katherine, I am aware this is distressing for you,” he tells me, “but you have to know the truth.”

“What will happen to Jane?” I ask, my voice tremulous. “Is all now lost?” I still cannot believe it.

“I fear it is,” he says. “Only three members of the council remain with her in the Tower. The rest will declare for Mary, mark my word. They are on their way here now. I’m afraid I do not know what will happen to the Lady Jane. No doubt Mary will deal leniently with her; this was not her doing.”

“No, it was not,” I say, a touch defiantly. But Pembroke ignores me, and it is left to Harry, all care and concern, to attempt to comfort me. I look long at him, drinking in his fine, honest face, his fresh good looks, his kind eyes, and his soft curly hair—as if I might never see them again.

The councillors have assembled in the great chamber with the door firmly closed. The countess gives orders for dinner to be served as normal, and we seat ourselves at table in the parlor. I know I will not be
able to touch a morsel. In fact, the smell of the good roast beef and pigeon pie is making me nauseous.

Then the earl comes in.

“Forgive me, my lady, I am not staying,” he says. “I am for St. Paul’s. We have decided, all of us, to abandon Northumberland and declare for Mary. The duke is deemed guilty of treason against his lawful sovereign, and we have summoned him back to London to account for his actions, and offered a reward to anyone apprehending him. For now, I go with the other privy councillors to give thanks for this realm’s deliverance from treachery; and to proclaim our loyalty to Queen Mary, we are having Mass celebrated in the cathedral.”

“What of my poor sister?” I cry.

“Your sister remains in the Tower,” Pembroke replies curtly, and turns on his heel.

I spend much of the afternoon on my knees in the chapel. I am distraught, on my own account and Jane’s. Will I be accounted a traitor too? And what of my marriage? Will Pembroke really have it annulled? God aid me, I feel so helpless!

Yet my peril is as nothing to Jane’s. Repeatedly I beseech the Almighty to be merciful, and to make Queen Mary merciful too. And when I have prayed until I can pray no more, and cried myself out, I wander through the deserted state rooms distractedly, not knowing what to do with myself.

I find myself in the great hall with its fine gallery. Here, seventy years ago this summer, they offered the crown to Richard III; like Jane, he was a usurper; unlike her, he had plotted and schemed—and killed—to be King. I saw a portrait of him once, a thin-lipped man with cruel, wary eyes and a humped back. For he had been evil in appearance, just as he was evil inside: it often falls out—so I have been told—that the two go together. Crookback, they had called him; and he was crooked through and through. But Jane is not evil like Richard. Why should she suffer because of the treacherous schemes of others?

It is late afternoon, still sunny outside, but the cavernous hall is cool and dim, the gallery in shadow, too high to benefit from the jewel-colored light coming from the tall, narrow stained-glass windows.
Again that dark-garbed fellow is up there, watching as before, on the night I first came here. Has he nothing better to do, no duties to attend to? He is standing stock-still, his shadowed face looking down over the vast chamber. Is he staring at me? I cannot be certain, but that unwavering scrutiny is making me feel mightily ill at ease.

I stare back boldly, trying to make him aware of his rudeness and to discern his features, but it is dark up there, and the sunlight through the window dazzles me. Only gradually do I realize that behind the varlet there are three more dark figures. One seems to be a woman in an outlandish headdress, the second is veiled like a nun, and the third appears to be a young girl with long hair. There is a disturbing stillness about all four of the people in that little tableau.

“Who’s there?” I cry. The answering silence is unnerving. The figures stand motionless—and then suddenly they are not there anymore. Did I blink? Did they see me and make themselves scarce as I did so? Truly, there was something uncanny about them. And why am I shivering on this warm July day? Suddenly frightened, I pick up my skirts and hasten to the door, fleeing as if from a pack of devils, and wondering if there is some evil at work in this house.

I must find something to distract me or I will go out of my mind with fear. Returning to my bedchamber, I take out the old bundle of papers and make another serious effort to decipher them.

I have a good idea who might have written them. Harry said it could not have been the William Herbert who was Earl of Huntingdon—but it could have been his wife, who had been King Richard’s daughter. If anyone would have wanted to believe the best of Richard, it would have been her—Katherine. We share a name.

I read over those short lines again.
But that is surely a calumny
 … The use of the word “surely” suggests that whoever wrote it wanted to believe in Richard’s innocence. It must have been his daughter.

I peer at the jumble of faded script below, my eyes scanning the text. A few words stand out.
The ru … s that are damaging to the King … mayhap Bokenham knew ye truth … he is dead. My lord Bishop of L … says they live yet … mayhap Mancini knew more than he told Pietro … Tyrell was at the Tower … 1487 … appreh … Raglan
.

I try to make some sense of it. I spend so long poring over this page that there is no time to attempt any more. I try to recall my history lessons and the books that once captivated me. I’m sure it was Richard III who was damaged by rumors, so that part makes sense. And Bokenham must surely mean Buckingham. I seem to remember reading of a Duke of Buckingham who supported Richard but later rebelled against him. As for the Bishop of L, that will need a more learned mind than mine. And who were Mancini and Pietro? Italians by the sound of it. How could Italians know anything of the secret affairs of England?

They live yet
. The princes? In 1487? They had been murdered in King Richard’s reign.

But what if they had not?

I remember Master Aylmer telling us about the pretenders who threatened Henry VII’s throne, and how many people believed they were the true heirs of York. Master Aylmer could not sufficiently stress how perilous it is to tangle with princes: “For look what happened to those pretenders. Both were exposed as frauds. Henry VII was merciful to Lambert Simnel, and put him to work in his kitchens, but Perkin Warbeck tried the King’s patience too long, and ended up hanged. Henry VII never rested easy in his bed all those years.”