A Dangerous Inheritance (51 page)

I rise, gathering the remnants of my dignity. “I am sorry to have troubled you, my lord,” I whisper brokenly. “Good night.”

After taking care to close the door quietly behind me, I hasten away from that hated chamber, stung by Lord Robert’s cruel words. And yet, if I am honest with myself, I have to confess that there was truth in them. I have been a fool—a fool for love, indeed—but, as God is my witness, I never meant harm to any. What to do now? If Dudley will not speak for me, who else is there?

I lie down with a heart of lead, knowing that nothing can avert the tempest that must surely erupt in the morning.

August 1485, Raglan Castle

They waited anxiously for news, Countess Anne in the chapel, on her knees, and Kate in her chamber, watching the empty distance from her high window, hoping to see a messenger bringing glad tidings. Far below, in the fields, the peasants were gathering in the harvest. It was such a peaceful scene that it was hard to believe that somewhere to the east, men—her father and her husband even—might be dying violently in the field, while the future of the kingdom hung in the balance. She felt sick with worry.

It was toward the end of the month that William at last came home. She saw him approaching with his escort, and flew down to the courtyard to greet him, with the countess and the rest of the household not far behind her.

“My lord, what news?” she cried.

He looked down on her impassively from his great destrier, then his gaze moved to the people crowding behind her in the courtyard. He remained in his saddle and addressed them in ringing tones, not looking at his wife. “There has been a great battle in Leicestershire,” he told them, “at a place called Bosworth. The usurper Richard has been killed and we have a new king—Henry VII, by the grace of God.”

“No!” screamed Kate. “No!” She began trembling violently, and would have fallen, but the countess and Mattie were at her side at once, supporting her and trying to calm her. All around, folk were looking aghast at each other, dismay in their faces. Their lord had backed the losing side. What would this mean for them? Suddenly a great swell of lamentation burst forth.

“Hush, you fainthearted fools!” William cried. “There is no need for your howling. By a lucky chance, I did not get to Bosworth in time. I was delayed, rooting out so-called rebels. And when I did arrive, they were breaking up the camps and burying the fallen. Fortunately, King
Henry was still there, preparing to depart. I hastened to where he was sitting before his tent, wearing the royal circlet that had been Richard’s, and made my submission on my knees, apologizing for my tardiness, and offering him my sword and my allegiance. And he was most gracious to say he accepted both, as tokens of my future loyalty.” William’s steely eyes raked the assembled company. “So if you value your skins, good people, you will remember that our loyalty has long lain with the Tudor, because we were persuaded thereto by the widespread fame that the late tyrant Richard had shed the innocent blood of his own nephews.”

Kate stared at her husband in horror. She could not speak; this was too much for her to take in, and worse—far worse—than anything in her nightmares. People gawped at her as she stood there with wild, ravaged eyes and a countenance white as a corpse. In a few faces she detected compassion; in most a chilly distancing and an aversion born of fear. And that, she suddenly realized, was how it was going to be from now on. She was the tyrant’s daughter—and she was alone in a hostile world.

As William raised his sword and a cheer for the new King, the countess and Mattie led a half-fainting Kate away from the courtyard and helped her up to her chamber, where they made her lie down. Mattie stayed with her, holding her hand, while she lay there in a shocked daze, trying to come to terms with what had happened. All she could think of was that her father was dead and those people—her own household officers and servants—had looked at her with hostility. She did not think she would ever want to leave this room again. She could not face the changed world outside.

Mattie sat silent, her sweet, pert face sad beneath the white coif, her hand warm on Kate’s. It seemed like hours that they stayed there thus. At length the countess came back.

“Drink this,” she commanded, offering Kate a goblet with steam rising from it. “It is wine infused with chamomile leaves and honey, to soothe you, my daughter.” At her kindness, Kate began to cry again.

“There, there,” Anne soothed, cradling her in motherly arms. “Let it go, sweeting, let it go.” And she did. She cried as she had never cried
before: for her father, dead in the field and lost to her forever; for John, her lost love; for Anne the Queen; and for a world that would never live again. And then she cried once more for her father, because his enemies would now rejoice in vilifying him, and that loving, careful prince she had known would be lost to history.

She cried herself to sleep, and Mattie gently laid a sheet over her and closed the shutters against the sunset. Hours later, when Kate awoke to the awful realization of her terrible loss, the countess was sitting beside her, reading her missal.

“You’ve had a sound sleep, child,” she said, “and a good thing too.”

“William—where is he?” Kate whispered. “I must ask him …”

“He is out, visiting our neighbors to tell them the news and ensure their silence,” Anne told her. “If you want to ask anything, ask me. William and I talked late last night, and I now know nearly as much as he does.”

“My father the King … what happened? I would rather know.”

The countess took her hand. “Very well, then. It was a most savage battle, William said, although it lasted but two hours. Henry Tudor did not engage in the fighting but stood behind the lines beneath his standard. That wily knave Lord Stanley waited with his forces to see which way the battle was going. King Richard’s army fought fiercely, but neither Stanley nor Northumberland came to his aid, although Norfolk was killed fighting for him. In the end, Richard made a desperate, furious charge, aiming to cut down Henry Tudor, and he would have succeeded, but at that moment Stanley and his men bore down on him. William said he fought like a noble soldier, and went down crying ‘Treason!’ dying manfully in the thick press of his enemies.”

She crossed herself, and Kate did likewise. So he had died valiantly, fighting to the last. But what a dreadful death it must have been, with all those soldiers falling upon him. It did not bear thinking about. If she did, she would surely be sick.

“What happened to him … afterward?” she faltered.

“When William reached Bosworth, your father’s body had been carried back to Leicester, on horseback, and he heard it was to lie exposed to the public for three days in the Grey Friars’ church; after that, no doubt, it would have been buried by their charity.” Anne was plainly
picking her words with care, and Kate suspected that there was a lot more she was not telling her. After all, who would show respect to a vanquished king who had been branded a usurper and a tyrant? She did not want to hear any more: it might be more than she could take. It was bad enough that her father, the last Plantagenet King, and the end of a line of illustrious rulers that stretched back for more than three hundred years, should be accorded no royal tomb or solemn obsequies, as befit his rank.

“One day I will visit the place where he lies,” she said. “In the meantime, I will pray for his soul. He was my father and I loved him.” She bit her lip. “My lady, I must ask you: do you believe that he was the tyrant they are saying he was, and that he ordered the murder of the princes?”

The countess did not answer immediately. She seemed thrown by the question, and it appeared that, again, she was searching for the right words. “A tyrant is one who governs without recourse to the rule of law,” she began. “I have heard that Richard carried out some questionable deeds when he was Lord Protector. I have heard it said he had the princes killed, and now, of course, it will be hard to find any that say otherwise. It is always the victors who write history. I honestly do not know the truth of it all, my daughter; and I hope I am just and wise enough to weigh fairly what I hear. It is possible, that’s all I can say; but it is by no means certain.”

Kate realized that was not very far removed from what she herself thought, although she had hoped and prayed all along that her father was innocent, and that she would find some proof of that. But where she would find it now was anyone’s guess.

She could not stay secluded in her room forever. When her tears had dried, she felt only anger, and with that came indignation. Why should she hide, when she had done nothing wrong? She had nothing to be ashamed of. So she donned the same black gown she had worn out of respect for Queen Anne, washed her face, combed and plaited her hair, covered it with a black veil, and, gathering her courage, walked along the gallery to the parlor for supper.

The room was full of men, booted, spurred, and cloaked. They had
come, she learned later, to show solidarity, for all had been steadfast to King Richard, and now they were falling over themselves to demonstrate their loyalty to the Tudor—she could not bring herself to think of him as King Henry. William was directing his page to offer them drinks. When he saw Kate, his face froze into a glare.

“What do you think you are doing coming here dressed like that?” he spat.

Anger flared in her. Her grief was too raw for her to care what she said. “I am in mourning for my father, the late King,” she asserted. The men stared at her, embarrassed and looking not a little fearful. Of course, they would not want to be associated in any way with King Richard, or his daughter.

“Do you so far forget yourself as to mourn a tyrant?” William roared. “Get back to your chamber, woman, put on some brave attire, and then come back and join these gentlemen and me in a toast to our new King.”

“My father was not a tyrant!” she flung at him. “And even if he was, he was a tyrant whom you were pleased to serve, and whose bounty to you was lavish!”

In two bounds William had crossed the floor, and, before she could put up a hand to protect herself, had slapped her cheek hard. “Are you mad?” he growled. “Don’t you know it might mean death to express loyalty to your father now?”

“Your husband speaks truth,” put in an elderly man standing by the fireplace. “King Henry has dated his reign from the day before Bosworth, so that all who fought for Richard are now deemed traitors. Some are already punished, some are fled; and who can blame them? I hear my lord of Lincoln is among those who will be called to account, when he can be found.”

Her heart turned ice-cold at that. So John had fought for her father at Bosworth. He had been loyal to the end, unlike this craven oaf of a husband of hers. But where was John now? If they were looking for him, he must have gone to ground somewhere. Were some good folk succoring him in hiding, or had he managed to escape abroad? She sent up a silent prayer for his safety and comfort. God grant that there was good news of him soon!

“Even this new king must have a heart,” she said bravely, her face smarting. “Surely even he would not deny a daughter the right to mourn her father? And if he were to appear here now, I would challenge him on that.”

“I won’t be allowing you within a mile of him,” William vowed. “Do you think he’d even allow you into his presence, the bastard spawn of his enemy?” His brutal words stung, but Kate was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

“I will withdraw, my lord, but I will not be returning,” she said. “Since the sight of me in mourning offends you, I will remain within my chamber. Good night, masters.” And she swept out.

Back in her room, her composure deserted her, and all her grief and hurt and anger exploded in yet another outburst of heart-wrenching crying. This time she weathered it alone, weeping her heart out into her pillow, with no one to see or to comfort her. It was only later that Mattie came to her, at the usual hour; and then she found her in an exhausted sleep, the ravages of pain etched upon her young face.

August 1561, Tower of London

The great forbidding fortress of the Tower of London looms into view, and within me my child stirs. He must sense my terror. Poor, unknowing little lamb—he can have little idea of the trouble his presence in my womb has caused. What has he ever done to deserve imprisonment? Nothing! He is an innocent.

I shift uncomfortably. The barge that has conveyed me to the City glides smoothly across the black water, but I am great with child now and cannot remain in one position for long. They have seated me on cushions, with brusque consideration for my condition, but they speak no kind word to me. I have offended Majesty, and therefore no longer merit normal, comforting, human discourse. And thus it has been since Lord Robert Dudley betrayed my crime to the Queen.

I did not see Elizabeth after that, but I can well imagine the explosion that followed Lord Robert’s revelations. It was Mrs. Astley who came to inform me frigidly that I was banished from Her Majesty’s presence and must keep to my chamber, which I did shrinking with dread. Less than an hour later there came a loud rapping on my door, and there stood one of the captains of the Queen’s guard with a warrant for my arrest. He led me, all atremble, down to a waiting litter, and an armed escort bore me off to London. I do not like to think of that terrible journey, or the curt hostility of my warders. Colchester, Chelmsford, Brentwood … all passed in a blur of terror, and when we reached Tilbury, I knew very well where I was going.

The walls and towers of the great fortress are nearer now. I can see the cannon on the wharf, the court gate in the Byward Tower. We are making for St. Thomas’s Tower beyond it, beneath which is the sinister water gate through which so many doomed wretches have passed and never emerged again.

I cannot enter the Tower, I cannot! It is a place of horror to me, and I would never voluntarily have come here to save my life. My dear sister Jane died here on the scaffold these seven years and six months since, butchered to death at just seventeen, and she innocent of any crime! But I—I have offended grievously, and I am horribly aware that I too might soon find myself standing before the block.