A Dangerous Inheritance (5 page)

There is someone in the gallery looking down on us: a man in dark clothing, I think, although he is in shadow. It’s a servant, no doubt, standing still and silent, awaiting his master’s pleasure or—more likely—sneaking a peek at me, his future mistress. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, although the earl, the countess, and Harry ignore him. My mother would have reprimanded him for staring at us so insolently,
and told him to lower his eyes when his betters passed. But maybe not all masters and mistresses are as particular as my mother.

Tonight, there is little time to stand and admire this magnificent hall where history was made. It grows late, and Pembroke is leading us onward, as his servants pull open the great double doors and light us through. We enter an antechamber; beyond, he tells me, are the private apartments of the family. There too, of course, will be the bedchamber we are to share, my young lord and I.

“I have something of import to say to you, my children,” the earl says, turning to face us and regarding us intently. “Now heed me well …”

April–June, 1483. Middleham Castle, Yorkshire;

the City of London; Crosby Hall, London

Katherine Plantagenet—known to all as Kate—looked up in surprise as a mud-spattered courier, smelling of horse sweat, ran into the great hall at Middleham, threw himself onto his knees, and presented her father the duke with a letter. It bore the seal of Lord Hastings, whom she knew was a trusted friend of her uncle, King Edward. Kate and her father were seated at the table, where they had been enjoying a game of chess. Her half brother, Edward of Middleham, was kneeling by the hearth, playing with his model soldiers, watched by her stepmother, the duchess, who was born Lady Anne Neville, daughter of the Earl of Warwick, the famous “Kingmaker” who had turned traitor to King Edward and perished on Barnet field. Kate’s brother John was out in the bailey, practicing swordplay with one of the sergeants. It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon, a rare opportunity for the Duke of Gloucester to spend time with his family, away from public affairs.

Kate watched as her father took the letter and broke the seal. She saw his expression change as he read it, saw him lay it down and close his eyes as if he were in unbearable pain.

“My lord?” The duchess half rose to her feet, her voice sharp.

Richard of Gloucester turned to her, his face bleak and ravaged. “My brother the King is dead,” he rasped, almost choking with emotion.

“Dead? Oh sweet Mary! No, he cannot be. He is but forty-one and in good health.” Anne was utterly shocked, and Kate could feel tears welling in her own eyes. She had met her uncle only twice, for he ruled England from Westminster or Windsor, but she had been impressed and charmed by the big, genial, pleasure-loving monarch who had kissed her most fondly on greeting, brought her thoughtful gifts—a wooden doll attired in cloth of gold, a ruby pendant, and even a dear little puppy—and taken time out from his important conferences with her father to talk to her and tell her jokes; and at dinner he had even passed her the choicest sweetmeats from his own dishes. He had little girls of his own, he’d told her: Elizabeth, Cecily, Anne, Katherine, and Bridget—lovely girls, the lot of them, and Elizabeth, the oldest and the most beautiful, was going to be Queen of France one day: it was all arranged. He’d spoken too of his pride in his sons, Edward, Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne, who was residing at Ludlow Castle on the border of his principality, being tutored in the art of ruling kingdoms; and Richard, Duke of York, a merry scamp if ever there was one, another like his father, if the King wasn’t mistaken. Kate had quickly warmed to her uncle, and often regretted that she did not see more of him. And now she would never see him again, that larger-than-life, vital man with the twinkling eyes, sensual lips, and ready wit. Her tears spilled over.

“He became ill when he went fishing in the damp cold,” Richard said. “He is buried already.” His voice was bitter with anger as well as grief. “They did not wait. He was my brother and I loved him. I should have been there!”

Anne looked at him, understanding how deeply that had hurt him. “It was the Queen’s doing, no doubt, and her Wydeville kin,” she commented, tart.

Kate watched through her tears as her father’s brows furrowed.

“They hate me,” he muttered. “Nay, they fear me too—and they will have cause! What’s worse, they have allowed me no time to grieve. Lord Hastings writes that I must act now, or the Wydevilles will seize
power. You see now why they sent no messenger to tell me of Edward’s death. They were playing for time, damn them. My brother’s son is a child, and they are bent on ruling in his name. But according to this letter, Edward, on his deathbed, named me Lord Protector of England.
Me
, not the Queen and her party.”

The duchess had turned pale. Her thin hands were unconsciously pleating the ribbed fabric of her skirts. She was a slender slip of a woman, twenty-seven years old, with fair hair pulled back severely beneath her embroidered cap, light blue eyes, and a finely boned face. She was delicate, like her son, and the rich blues and scarlet hues of her gorgeous high-waisted gown served only to enhance her pallor.

“What will you do?” she asked.

The duke began pacing agitatedly. “I will see that my brother’s wishes are respected. Hastings advises me to gather a strong force and hasten to London, to avenge the insult done me by my enemies. He says I may easily obtain my revenge if, on the way, I take the young King under my protection and authority.”

“But he is in Ludlow.”

“Not now. He is being brought to London by his uncle, Lord Rivers, and his half brother, Sir Richard Grey—Wydevilles both!—with a small escort. My lord writes that the Queen wanted to send an army, but he warned her that it might court bloodshed, and threatened to abandon her cause if she persisted. She backed down, but I doubt it has made relations any the sweeter between them. After all, he and my brother shared—well, we have all heard of Mistress Shore and the others.”

A look passed between the duke and duchess. Kate was aware that there were things about King Edward that her father did not want to discuss in front of his children. But for all his care, even she knew that Mistress Shore had been her uncle’s whore. You could not stop servants gossiping.

“I will not speak ill of the dead,” Richard was saying, “or this good lord who has warned me of the danger in which I stand. For, as he writes, he has put himself in peril by sending this letter: he says that the hatred of his old enemies has been aggravated by his showing friendship for me.”

Anne rose, walked over to her husband, and encircled him in her embrace. “My poor Dickon,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”

His eyes met hers. “How can I mourn Edward decently?” he asked, bitter. “My very life may be in danger. Remember my brother Clarence—dead through the malice of the Wydevilles! My lady, I must make ready.” And he put her from him, bent to kiss his son’s head, and briefly hugged Kate. “May God be with us all,” he said, and strode to the doorway that led to the stairs.

There he stopped. He had his back to them, his slightly bowed back, for although he was strong enough to wield a sword with dexterity, he was a small man, so subtly misshapen that few were aware of it. It was a moment before they realized he was weeping, that great tearing sobs were racking his frame.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” he cried. “I loved him. God, how I loved him!”

“I must go to him,” the duchess said, rising, recovering herself after Richard had staggered out. At that moment John ran into the hall.

“What’s going on?” he asked, seeing the downcast faces of his sister and stepmother.

“Will you tell him?” Anne asked Kate.

“Of course, my lady,” Kate said. “You go to my father.”

Anne hugged her and went. She had great affection for her husband’s bastards. One had been conceived and born before her marriage to Richard of Gloucester, and one after, yet she had welcomed them into her household at Middleham Castle, her kindly heart aware that they were not to blame for their birth. The younger, John of Gloucester, was a strapping lad of nine with dark, unruly hair and refined features. Promising to be tall and broad, where his father was short and slight, he had inherited Richard’s dogged determination and tenacity, not to mention his ambition.

His half sister, Kate, was four years older, and very beautiful. Her sweet round face and big, wide-set blue eyes were framed by a wealth of dark wavy hair that fell like a cape around her shoulders. She was small in build and slender, with tiny, childlike hands and feet. She had a winning smile, a spirited nature, and a ready wit. To all who knew her, and to her father especially, she was enchanting. There must be
nothing but the best for his Kate, the duke had vowed. Bastard she might be, but he would marry her well when the time came, and make sure that the disadvantage of her birth was turned to advantage, for both of them.

There was no one like her father. He was her hero, the person she loved best.

Kate watched the duke ride away southward, somber in deepest black and attended by three hundred gentlemen of the North, all similarly attired. She felt cold with fear. He was riding into danger, into the teeth of his enemies, and she could only pray with all her might that he would stay safe and come back to them unscathed, his rights vindicated.

The long, anxious days stretched ahead, with no hope of news for some time. It took a fast messenger four days to reach Middleham from London, and it would surely be a week or more before they heard anything of real moment. In the meantime they could only fret about what the Queen and her kinsmen might do before the duke reached the capital. He had been planning to rendezvous on the way with his friend the Duke of Buckingham—himself no lover of the Wydevilles—so that might cause some delay. As it happened, they heard from him within a couple of days. He had not forgotten his duty to his brother: he had gone first to York, where he summoned all the nobility in those parts to attend a solemn funeral Mass in the Minster. He had wept all through it, he confessed, but had recovered himself sufficiently to bind the local lords by oaths of fealty to his nephew, the new King, Edward V.

Kate had never met the younger Edward, for he had spent most of his twelve years either at court or at Ludlow. But she grieved for this cousin who had lost his father so early in life, and prayed earnestly for him. It could not be easy to be a king, even when you were grown up.

“Another minority,” the duchess said as they sat at dinner in the hall. “I fear very much for the future.”

“But if my father is there to guide the King, all will be well, surely?” Kate asked, laying down her knife and wiping her fingers on her napkin.

The castle chaplain leaned forward. “There is an old prophecy, Dame Katherine: ‘Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child.’ This kingdom has not had a happy experience of royal minorities. They breed dissension and rivalry among the nobles of the realm. The late King Henry VI succeeded when he was a babe in arms, and factions ruled, and for want of firm government all law and order was undermined. Now the threat is from the Queen and her blood.”

“My father will deal with it!” Kate insisted. “He is in the right.”

“Alas, my child, we have seen too many instances of might prevailing over right in this unhappy land in recent years. But we must take heart: your father is powerful and respected. He is of the old royal stock; these Wydevilles are mere upstarts.”

“Aye, but they have the King in their clutches, and you may make no doubt they have poisoned his young mind against my lord,” the duchess countered. She had eaten very little.

“With my lords Hastings and Buckingham on his side, my father must prevail!” Kate persisted. She would not—could not—entertain the possibility of any alternative outcome. In her mind, the duke was invincible. Had he not taken Berwick from the Scots?

“Your admiration and zeal for your father is touching,” smiled the chaplain. “We must pray for good news soon.”

Kate prayed. She spent many an hour in the chapel, kneeling beside the duchess and beseeching God to preserve and keep the duke. Without his reassuring presence she felt bereft, and it was clear that the Duchess Anne did too. Both loved him truly: Kate with the innocent devotion of a daughter for a loving father, and Anne with a grateful passion for the knight who had rescued her. Anne was fond of telling the children the story, and on the third night of Richard’s absence, when young Edward of Middleham demanded that she recount it again, she smiled at her fair, delicate son, felt the usual pang of fear for his health, and agreed. She could never gainsay him.

“He wanted to marry me,” she said as they clustered around her by the fire. “We had known each other as children, for my lord was brought up in my father’s household. We played together: I called him Dickon, and he was pleased, in time, to call me his sweetheart. He was
the youngest of a large family, and not very big or strong, but he worked exceptionally hard to prove himself in his military exercises and his swordsmanship. I admired that in him. Then he went away to court, and we did not see each other for some years.”

“Tell us about being rescued!” piped up Edward. Kate smiled and ruffled his wispy curls, as his mother went on with her story.

“When my father was killed in battle at Barnet, he left my sister Isabel and me a rich inheritance that was to be divided between us. Isabel was married to your father’s older brother, the Duke of Clarence. He wasn’t a nice man; he was overambitious and very greedy. Isabel’s share of our fortune went to him, because she was his wife, but he was determined to have mine too. I was then living in his household, under his protection, but when he heard that Dickon wanted to marry me, he carried me off and hid me in this big house in London, and there I was forced to work as a kitchen maid. My lord of Clarence warned me that things would go very ill for me if I complained or revealed who I was, and as he had already threatened to send me to a nunnery for the rest of my days, I kept my mouth shut and endured.”