A Dangerous Inheritance (55 page)

August 1561, Tower of London

I cannot complain about my treatment. I have been here but six hours, yet already Sir Edward Warner has given me permission to take the air in his garden, a privilege he tells me I am permitted to enjoy daily, for an hour in the afternoons. Of course, I must be attended by armed warders, as today, but it is a relief to know that I will not be shut up all the time. And so here I am, looking up not at prison walls but at God’s glorious blue sky. The garden is so pleasant, with its flowers all in glorious bloom and its shady, rustling trees. For a space, just a little space, sitting in here on the stone bench, my heart feels a touch lighter.

But now I must return to my prison, and my spirits are once more crushed, and I am a very sorrowful woman for the Queen’s displeasure, even though a good dinner is being laid before me. Certes, it would be small hardship to be a prisoner here, but for my terrible fears as to my likely fate.

The lieutenant comes to ask if all is to my liking and comfort. Am I mistaken, or is his manner a little stiffer than hitherto?

“Good Sir Edward,” I blurt out, “what will they do to me?”

He pauses—ominously, I fear, for he seems to be searching for the right thing to say to me. “As far as I know, my lady, nothing has been decided. My orders are to keep you here, in such estate as beseems your rank, until I receive further instructions. I am told that the Privy Council will interview you, and I have some preliminary questions for you now. The Queen’s Majesty has commanded me to say that you shall have no favor from her unless you tell me the truth about which lords, ladies, and gentlemen of the court were privy to your union with Lord Hertford. For it does appear to her that several persons have dealt in the matter. And if you do not declare all, I must warn you that it will increase the Queen’s indignation against you.”

That sets me shivering. “Sir, I do protest, there was no conspiracy, and only a few persons knew of my marriage.”

“Who were they?” The lieutenant seats himself at the table, produces writing materials from his pouch, dips a pen in the inkwell, and waits.

“The minister.”

“His name?”

“He did not tell it.”
Scratch, scratch
. He writes this down.

“In which parish does he serve?”

“I know not, I fear.”

“The witnesses?”

“Lady Jane Seymour, but she is dead.”

“The other? There must be two for a marriage to be valid.”

“There was no other.” I falter. “We took the minister for a witness.”

“Who else knew?”

“No one beforehand. Afterward, I took my maid, Mrs. Leigh, into my confidence.” I am resolved not to mention dear Mrs. Ellen.

“What became of Mrs. Leigh?”

“She went to the country to nurse her sick mother. She did not return.”

“Was there anyone else who knew of the marriage?”

“Mr. Glynne, Lord Hertford’s man, who went beyond seas. And then I told Lord Robert Dudley and Mrs. Saintlow.”

“And that is all.”

“Yes.”

“No other noblemen or ladies?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Not even the Duchess of Somerset?”

“No. We did not tell her.”

“You are sure? You would be prepared to swear an oath on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you show me your marriage lines?”

I falter again. “I never had any.”

Sir Edward raises his eyebrows. “Then have you any proof at all of your marriage?”

“I did! I had a deed of land granted me by my husband after our wedding. It was in that casket before you. But I lost it.” The lieutenant frowns. “I assure you, sir, the Earl of Hertford did deliver such a deed to me! It was written on parchment, and he gave it to me six days after our marriage. But what with removing from place to place, it is lost, and I cannot tell you where it is.” I am almost weeping with frustration. “Good Sir Edward, you have to believe me. I had that deed. And I will tell you all about my marriage and what came before.” And I do, going right back to that first day at Hanworth, three years ago now.

It is a long tale, poured out with passion. The lieutenant takes it all down without comment. I wish I could tell what he is thinking, but he gives away nothing; indeed, he seems most uncomfortable in his task. When I am done, there is a long pause while he looks over what he has written.

“How would you describe the minister?” he asks.

I tell him as accurately as I can, aware that I may be bringing a heap of trouble on the priest’s head. “He wore no surplice,” I recall. “But sir, my husband gave me a wedding ring. Look!” I show him the elaborate band on my finger, and open the links so that he can read the inscription. He looks at it without comment.

“Are you sure you cannot recall the minister’s name?”

“I never did hear it.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

I consider for a moment. I do not want the minister’s punishment on my conscience. “I am not sure.”

“Would Mrs. Leigh know where to find the deed of gift?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is she now?”

“I know not.”

“Tell me what you remember of the morning of your wedding.”

I recount that hasty walk to Cannon Row and the events that followed. “And thereafter, in my heart, I thought of the earl as becomes a wife. So it was no small grief and trouble to me when I found his passport to France. I only saw it by chance. And after he had gone, I knew myself watched by the court, and feared people had discovered I was with child by him.”

The lieutenant clears his throat. “Tell me of the love practices between you and the Earl of Hertford.” I look at him, shocked and embarrassed. “Forgive me, I am instructed to ask,” he says, a little shamefaced, for I can sense he is a decent man.

“I cannot, and will not,” I declare. “Pray do not press me, for the answer will be the same.”

“I will not press you, for shame,” Sir Edward says. Sighing, he rises to his feet and gathers up his things. “Thank you, Lady Katherine,” he says. “That will be all for now.”

“Sir,” I cry, a little wild. “Have you any word of my husband?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss him with you,” the lieutenant says, as, bowing, he leaves me.

Again I rummage through my casket—as I have done several times before now. Ned’s deed really is not there. I am distraught, realizing I have mislaid the only proof of my marriage.

My first night as a prisoner. I go to bed early, as I am exhausted. Honor helps me into my nightgown, then turns down the bed and departs, and I am left alone with my terrifying thoughts. I try not to think what it must be like to feel the steel of the axe slicing into one’s neck. It is something I used to dwell on much, of course, but now the imaginings I try to ward off are beyond horrible.

Outside my window the glorious sunset has given way to a velvety blue night. I have lit my single candle now, having sat here without light for a long time as the dusk deepened, lost in my ceaseless fretting. Forcing myself not to think of worse things, I have been imagining
myself arguing my case with the Queen. It galls me that I have had no chance to convince her of my innocence. Whatever has passed between her and Lord Robert Dudley, she must have some idea what it is like to be in love, and to be loved in return. So why does she not look more kindly on me? Is it because she is incapable of love? I could easily believe it.

Lying wakeful in this horrible place, far from my beloved, I cannot stop my teeming thoughts straying in his direction. Where is he now? Is he still beyond seas? Or have they summoned him home? He could even be here, in this very tower, not far away from me. The thought is at once comforting and alarming, for has he not committed treason in wedding me, a princess of the blood?

It has grown late, and chilly, and there are dark shadows beyond the bed where demons may well lurk, and night owls hooting in the trees outside. Their eerie cries send shivers of unease down my spine and make my skin crawl. If an owl were to land on the roof of this tower, it would be an omen of death. Suddenly, I am praying for the owls to fly away, but they keep up their unearthly din, and that seems ominous too.

I wonder how many other poor wretches have been shut up in this room, weighed down with fears as I am. How many of them left it only to go to their doom? Were any allowed to go free? And if not, have they really departed this place? Might it be that some unquiet souls yet linger, and that they walk at night? In the gloom, my imagination is alive with horrifying possibilities. In this dark watch of the night, I can easily convince myself that I may face the same fate as my sister—and that the ghosts of those who have gone before are about to materialize.

I am shaking, desperate for the warmth of human company, but it is late and everyone must surely be asleep by now. I call out: “Hello? Is anyone there?” but there is no answer. I rattle the door, which remains stubbornly locked, and call out louder, but no one heeds me. I stumble to the window and look out, expecting to find guards on duty below. I see no one but two girls walking below. One looks disturbingly familiar, but they are gone before I can get a proper look at her, and now it
feels as if I am utterly alone in the middle of the Tower of London, a prey to my fears and the phantoms that must lurk in this place.

As the candle sputters and dies in a draft from the window, the room takes on a strange aspect. It looks different in the gloom; I cannot exactly lay my finger on how, but it is as if there has been a shift in atmosphere—as if, somehow, it is not of this time. Am I going mad? I fear so.

I must calm myself and try to think of my child. I do not want it to be affrighted by my terrors. Shivering in my chemise, and not entirely from cold, I climb into bed, ease my bulky body down between the sheets, and pull the heavy coverlet over my head, shutting out the menacing world. I lie tense, fending off frightening thoughts and feverishly reciting my prayers, but the words come haltingly.

And then I hear it, so softly at first that I think it might be the wind sighing in the trees, or some poor creature preyed upon by an owl. But no, there it is again—a child’s voice, barely audible.

Help me
.

It is pitiful and plaintive, and very well-bred.

Help us!

There it is again, stronger now! I lie rigid, not daring to move, and too terrified to come out from under the coverlet.

Help us, please!

The voice, higher in pitch, breaks on a sob. It seems to be disembodied, coming out of the night beyond my window. And now there are two voices. I am petrified. I could no more go and investigate than grow wings and fly.

“Who calls?” I whisper.

Silence.

“Is anybody there?” I cry, more boldly this time.

Nobody answers. I wonder if this is some kind of plot to frighten me to death. Was that what they did to the princes? It would not be difficult in my case, I fear, for I am eight months gone with child, by my reckoning, and it is well known that a fright can precipitate a woman’s travail. And it would, of course, be most convenient for some I could mention if I died.

But there remains that strange atmosphere, that odd change in the aspect of the room, the ethereal quality of the children’s voices. I begin to suspect that no human agency is at play here, and that what I have heard was not of this world. In the darkness, such things are all too believable.

I lie still, waiting, holding my breath, alert to every sound. There is nothing but the sighing of the leaves beyond the window and a distant shout from the direction of the river. It seems that there has been a shift back toward normality; and as the silence reasserts itself and I calm down, I start to wonder if I imagined it all. But I am chilled when I think whose voices I might have heard.

Master Aylmer schooled us well in history. I grew up to be familiar with the popular chronicles of Richard Fabyan and Edward Hall, and because my parents kept a good library, I had even read parts of Polydore Vergil’s history of England. From these, Aylmer had drawn lessons in morality, with the varying fortunes of our kings and queens as examples. And one example he had held up was that of Richard III. All those old chroniclers said it was the common fame that King Richard had, within the Tower, secretly put to death the two sons of his brother, King Edward. They had condemned the deed as a foul murder, and I grew up accepting that story as fact, for no one I knew, least of all Aylmer, ever questioned it.

They suffered and died here, those poor princes. So if any ghosts haunt this place, it would be them. Was it their long-silenced, plaintive voices I heard? In the dark reaches of the night, it is all too believable.

In the morning, I decide that I must have dreamed it all. Soon after sunrise the door is unlocked and Honor appears, and being restored to human congress lends me a new perspective on things. My fears today are for the realities confronting me, not the imagined terrors of the night.

At nine o’clock Sir Edward Warner presents himself and inquires after my health and if I have slept well.

“No, Sir Edward, I had a nightmare that was too vivid for comfort,” I tell him. “It is hardly surprising, given the desperate situation in
which I find myself. But I took such a fright that I was fearful for my babe. I pray you, can you find me a midwife? I would be assured that all is well.”

“I will do what I can, my lady,” he assures me, and leaves the room.

Darkness falls, and I am no longer so certain that the voices of the night before were a dream. Alone, curled up beneath the covers, I try to pray, yet cannot concentrate, as my ears are attuned to any slight disturbance of the midnight silence. And then, as before, the voices come.

Help me! Help us!

Can this manifestation—for now I fear it can be nothing else—be heard in the Tower every night? Or is it just in this room? Or—and this chills my blood more than anything—is it intended for me alone?

There it is again! Pleading in tone, piteous … the voices of children, abandoned and maybe in dreadful danger …

Help us!

I gather all my courage and rise, cradling my swollen belly protectively in my hands. Beneath my fingers I can feel the babe moving sleepily. My heart is hammering so hard I fear he might take fright from it.