A Dangerous Inheritance (48 page)

“Nothing at all. You
must
have imagined it, sweeting; you have been overburdened with troubles lately.”

“I know I did not,” I insist, “and I am never going near that fountain again.”

Several lawyers are going in and out of Westminster Hall, where the courts sit, and some glance at us curiously. We are very exposed here.

Ned looks anxious. “We should not be seen together. Listen, I have received orders to go to France in two days. I know this news is as unwelcome to you as it is to me.” He sounds formal and stiff, as if warding off another storm of weeping on my part. But I am frozen in misery, knowing myself powerless against the might of the Queen and her ministers.

Ned regards me with concern. “I will send letters to you by the common packet,” he says. “I will entrust them to my servant Glynne, whom you may depend on. And I will leave money with you, in case you prove to be with child. If you tell me it is so, I will not depart the realm. But you are not certain yet?”

“I am not sure,” I say dully, “but Mrs. Ellen says I could not be pregnant and still have my courses. I pray she is right.”

“So do I,” Ned agrees fervently. “Well—I must go then. But if it proves otherwise, my Katherine, send for me at once. I will not tarry abroad; I will defy the Queen and come home to support you.”

“I cannot face you going from me,” I mumble.

“It will be hard for us both.” He shrugs with a helpless gesture. “I would we could lie together before I leave, but how could we manage it?”

“I do not think I could bear it,” I tell him, “for then I could never let you go.” I have felt like that every time we have bedded together: the pleasure has always been marred for me by the awareness that a parting inevitable as death must follow—and that was when we had some prospect of seeing each other again in a matter of days or weeks. But this parting will be worse, for we have no idea when we will be reunited. I am bowed down by it, burdened by a heavy sense of loss, and by the fear of pregnancy that yet nags at me. Was this what those terrible sensations at the fountain presaged?

“You are punishing me for leaving you,” Ned protests. “That is unfair and cruel. Would you have me defy the Queen and face ruin?”

“Nay, nay,” I say wearily. “Forgive me, my dear heart. I know you are not to blame.”

Ned holds me close and our mouths meet. His body moves against me, and I can feel mine responding. Yet even at the height of desire, we are looking out for eavesdroppers. And with desire unsatisfied, we tear
ourselves apart and go back to our separate lives, knowing it will be a long time ere we will behold each other again.

1484–55, Raglan Castle

News from court filtered through only slowly; often it was days old by the time the royal messengers reached Raglan. The King wrote that he had now designated Lincoln his heir, and Lincoln was now practicing for kingship, presiding over the Council of the North and the royal household at Sheriff Hutton. How she wished she could be there, with her brother John and her royal cousins—and her dear love!

As Christmas approached, Kate felt especially homesick. They would be preparing for the twelve days of revelry at Westminster—and she would not be there to enjoy them. Her father and stepmother would be facing their first Yuletide season without the prince, and that would go hard with them, she knew. And then came a letter that really upset her: Queen Anne was ill, her father wrote. The doctors were concerned. He would keep her informed.

In the early spring, Richard Herbert came visiting again. He had been to London, and William and Kate were eager to hear all about it. For her, it was a tenuous link with all that she held dear, and she hoped he might have tidings of the Queen. But the news he brought was not the news she wanted to hear.

“It was being said in the City, a few days after Epiphany, that Her Grace had fallen extremely sick,” Richard reported. “I am sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, my lady.”

Kate felt near to tears. Anne was very ill, but no one had summoned her, not even her father, unless another letter was on its way. She longed to go to her stepmother, and even had the wild idea of taking a horse and riding full speed into England.

She found it impossible to make conversation and excused herself,
leaving the men to their wine and their desultory talk. It being a cold night, a heavy curtain had been drawn across one end of the parlor, to conserve the heat from the fire, and after she had closed its folds behind her, she heard Richard speaking in a low voice.

“I didn’t like to say too much in front of your wife, William, but there is more to this business of the Queen, and I think you should know it.”

William grunted. “You’d better tell me, then.” Kate stood very still in the darkness beyond the curtain, hardly daring to breathe.

“There’s no chance of the Queen bearing another child. It’s said the death of the prince broke her last year, poor woman, and that she’s been in a decline ever since. But the King needs an heir, and it seems he would marry again.”

“He has an heir, the Earl of Lincoln,” William pointed out.

“Like all men, he wants an heir of his own body,” Richard Herbert said. “And it seems he now lusts after his own niece, the late King’s daughter Elizabeth. She and her sisters were at court for Christmas, and there’s talk about her all over the City. It’s said King Richard made her appear in the same apparel as Queen Anne, which set tongues abuzzing. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“It’s disrespectful to the Queen, at the very least,” William agreed.

“God knows what that poor lady made of it. I know what everyone else did. It’s being widely bruited that the King anticipates her death and is bent on marrying Elizabeth. Some even speculate he will divorce the Queen in order to marry the girl. It’s said he has sufficient grounds, because he never obtained a proper dispensation for his marriage, even though he and Anne Neville are close cousins.”

Kate almost put her hands over her ears. She could not bear to hear more of this—this treason!

“But his own niece!” William was scathing. “That’s disgraceful.”

“He is said to be motivated by political concerns. Believe that if you will. But think of it in practical terms, brother. Over a year ago Henry Tudor vowed to wed Elizabeth of York to make good his weak claim to the throne. But if King Richard were to marry Elizabeth himself, that would scupper the Tudor’s plans.”

William chimed in: “The King had all his brother’s issue declared
illegitimate. How then can marrying Elizabeth make good anyone’s claim? And even if she were trueborn, she cannot confer any title while her brothers live.”

“If they live!” Richard interjected, and Kate began to tremble.

“Well, we’ve all heard the rumors,” William murmured. “But there’s no evidence that the King has had them killed.”

“Is there not? Why has he not exhibited them alive? God knows, he has cause enough for doing so. And wanting to marry their sister—it’s a tacit acknowledgment that that precontract story was a load of nonsense. He knows his title is unsound, so he seeks to bolster it by marrying the true heir—and in doing that, he effectively admits that her brothers are dead!”

Kate thought she might faint, hearing such cruel, hard-nosed logic. It had brought all her buried fears about her father crawling to the surface.

“There’s more to this than politics, I hear,” Richard Herbert continued. “The girl herself is said to be willing, and the King, according to the gossips, is pursuing her for her own sake. She
is
very beautiful. But when his determination reached the ears of the people, he was castigated for it. No one wants or approves of this marriage. It is condemned unanimously as unlawful and incestuous.”

“Is it unlawful?”

“I’m no canon lawyer, brother, but I have heard of uncles marrying nieces before. No doubt if enough money changed hands, a dispensation might be obtained. But I tell you who
will
be put out by the news—Henry Tudor! He must be shitting his nether hose.”

“This would all explain a letter my mother received from him a week ago,” William ventured slowly.

“Your mother had a letter from Henry Tudor?” Richard was shocked.

“They correspond from time to time, purely on domestic matters. You’ll remember, Dick, that she was as a mother to him when he lived at Raglan as a child, and he has an enduring fondness for her. His letters come via merchants, under a false name, but there is nothing treasonable about them, I assure you. I read them all.”

“Even so, some might deem it treason, this correspondence,” his brother muttered. “I’m surprised at you for allowing it.”

“There are no royal spies here at Raglan,” William said. “We’re pretty isolated.”

“You’re married to the King’s own daughter, man! Are you a fool?”

“She knows nothing of this. I do not involve her in my affairs, and my loyalty is not in question. But I have digressed. In his letter, Henry Tudor spoke again of marrying our sister Maud.”

“Maud? But it was years ago that our father mooted that match.”

“Aye, but the fact that Henry is reviving it now suggests he believes Elizabeth will marry the King and that he is casting around for an alternative bride. Maud might not be royal, but she would bring the Welsh rallying to his cause.”

“We should avoid all dealings with this!” Richard snapped. “I trust your mother destroyed the letter.”

“She burned it. But you know, she was a little torn. It was our father’s dying wish that the betrothal be revived, and she was loath to go against his wishes. But fear not, I made it plain to her that meddling in Henry Tudor’s marriage
would
be treason.”

“Aye, it would. And so would any further communication with him at this time.”

“I hear you. Will this marriage of the King’s go ahead?”

“I know not, such is the outcry against it. But I’m told he is determined. He has shunned his wife’s bed, for obvious reasons, and if you believe the London gossip, has abandoned her to waste away. It’s said he complains of her barrenness, and voices his belief that she will die soon. Some say he can’t rid himself of her quickly enough.”

Kate found all this impossible to credit. In her mind was a picture of her father and Anne at Middleham, loving and happy together. Her husband and his brother could not be speaking of the same couple. She remembered there had been some coolness between the King and Queen, but even that rode ill with these new allegations. She could not imagine her father being so cruel or callous. He was not like that. It seemed that knaves and fools were, as ever, ready to believe the worst of him.

She could listen to no more. Tiptoeing away, she hastened up to bed, and wept into her pillow. When William came up soon afterward, he noticed that her cheeks were streaked with tears. But being a man
of little imagination, he did not trouble himself to wonder what might have upset her.

June–July 1561. Greenwich Palace; the Savoy Hospital, London; Wanstead and Beaulieu, Essex

May God help me. I know for certain now that I am with child, and probably have been for some time, for my courses have dried up entirely and my belly is swelling. Since soon after that sad day when I bade a piteous farewell to Ned and watched his tall, elegant figure disappear into the dawn mist, I have had to instruct Mrs. Ellen to lace my stomacher ever tighter.

“For pity’s sake, Lady Katherine!” she cries as I urge her to pull harder. “This cannot be doing the babe any good.”

“It has taken no harm,” I declare, gritting my teeth and trying to breathe in even more. “I first felt it move a week ago, and it has not ceased since. In fact, it may have been moving before, but I thought I had wind.”

“You cannot go on like this,” she warns, shaking her head in despair. “Go to the Queen. Confess what you have done. She will not harm a pregnant woman.”

“Ah, but what will happen once the child is born?” I am quaking with fear at the prospect. Women who plead their bellies still face execution after the birth.

“I do not know,” Mrs. Ellen admits, looking troubled.

“I have no choice. I must conceal my condition for as long as possible, then feign illness so that I can leave court when I can hide it no more.”

This is not my only pressing worry. There comes a day when I have an appointment with Mr. Secretary Cecil. It is of my seeking, for my allowance has not been paid. The matter is dealt with quickly and to my
satisfaction, but I am aware all the time of Cecil’s appraising glances, and when our business is concluded, he sits back in his chair, folds his hands on his belly, and regards me evenly.

“Lady Katherine,” he says, “it has come to my notice—and that of others—that you have a certain fondness for my lord of Hertford.”

“I am fond of him, sir, for he is brother to the Lady Jane Seymour, for whom I grieve yet. We were all good friends.”

“ ‘Friends’ is not how I would describe what has been reported to me,” he says. “I am advised that there is more between you than that. Indeed, your familiarity with the earl is increasingly the subject of comment, and I must warn you that it would be foolish to continue it without Her Majesty’s consent. Do you still say there is nothing between you?”

“Nothing of which I should be ashamed!” I retort, wishing he had made himself as plain last year, and not tried to cozen us with false friendship.

“Then there is something.” Cecil’s eyes are kindly, inviting confidences. “My lady, if there is anything that you should confess to the Queen’s Majesty, I urge you to do it now, and throw yourself on her mercy. I say this as a friend.”

“I assure you, sir, there is nothing to confess,” I persist.

“If there were, I should counsel you to avoid such familiarity in the future,” Cecil says.

“There would be no need,” I declare.

“Naturally, since Lord Hertford is in France,” the Secretary says smoothly. “I assure you his mission there is a necessary one.” And by that I know Ned has been sent there to get him away from me. Maybe the Queen knows everything, and it is all a plot to shame and discredit me.