A Dangerous Inheritance (56 page)

I creep on bare feet to the window and look out, alert to every faint sound. And then I hear, disembodied in the air, and with nothing in sight to account for them, those awful words once more.
Help us!

But they are long beyond help now. I fear it is I and my child who are in deadly danger. At the realization, I start to tremble. Oh, my God! They could murder us both, immured within these walls and helpless as we are—just like those little princes were murdered. And our poor bones might lie here undiscovered like theirs for centuries, another of the secrets the Tower keeps hidden. Oh, sweet Jesus, save me and my child! Preserve us from the malice of our enemies. Let me live to behold my dear lord once more!

Sweating in panic, I pace up and down the room, hugging myself in distress and fear. I know I will not be able to sleep tonight. I am too frightened.

——

In the morning I am rational again, although still disturbed in my mind. I find myself needing to know what really happened to those poor princes. Despite being mere children, they were too close to the throne for comfort, and a deadly threat to their sovereign, just like me—and my unborn babe. If he lives, he may prove a similar threat to the Queen, and a focus for plots against her—as did Jane, and the princes. He might not need to lift a finger, for there are many who would prefer a man on the throne, and who regard a woman ruler as unnatural and against Nature. Of course, Elizabeth is no Richard III, but the birth of a male heir to her throne might provoke her beyond reason.

Trembling, I wonder if there are lessons to be learned from the princes’ fate, lessons I would do well to heed. Yet how could one be sure exactly what happened to them? It is generally agreed that they were murdered by their wicked uncle Richard, but the means is often debated. And no bodies were ever found …

I wish I knew the truth about their disappearance. I know I am not being entirely rational, but I feel some strange affinity with those poor boys. I can identify with their peril because my own babe is under threat. I feel that, in some inexplicable way, their fate might have a bearing on his. But how could I, a prisoner in the Tower, find out the truth?

Suddenly, I remember that I may have the means right at hand. I hasten to my casket and take out the bundle of faded pages tied with old ribbon, which Harry and I found at Baynard’s Castle, in another life. These are the pages written, I believe, by Katherine Plantagenet. I had forgotten them until now, but I recall that I never deciphered them fully. I see again the barely legible words
appreh … Raglan
. Apprehended? Who was apprehended? Katherine herself? Does this mean she was arrested at Raglan Castle, the old Herbert stronghold in Wales? Could it be that these writings are those of a young girl like myself, imprisoned long ago? Is this why I felt an affinity with her?

I struggle through the closely written pages, trying to read the cramped script. Yes, this is about the Princes in the Tower, but it is not the story everyone knows. This mysterious daughter of Richard III
had another version of it entirely. She believed her father to be innocent.

Given what I heard in the night—or thought I heard—I am not sure I can agree with her. My belief is that the princes never left this place. Their unavenged bones still lie here somewhere. That is what all the world believes, and I have no reason to doubt it.

I struggle on, as the handwriting becomes increasingly spidery. There is more here than I ever read in history books. But at the end, frustratingly, the writing has faded away. It’s the date 1487 on the first page that puzzles me. Everyone knows that Richard III was killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, but what happened in 1487?

There is no end to the tale, no satisfying resolution. Nor is there any evidence that Katherine’s belief in her father’s innocence was justified. It seems to me she was deluding herself.

Did she ever find out the truth?

October 1485, Westminster Palace

William was most unhappy when Kate told him she was forbidden to reveal what the King had wanted, and he was even less enamored when, later that day, a page came saying that the King’s mother, the Lady Margaret, wished to see her, and would she come at once—alone?

Lady Stanley—the Lady Margaret Beaufort, who was Countess of Richmond by her marriage to Henry’s father—was now known as my lady the King’s mother. For lack of a queen, that formidable matriarch was ruling the court—and no doubt the King too, Kate mused. She remembered the woman’s cold eyes and haughty mien. The Lady Margaret was said to be very devout and learned, but Kate could only think of her as the woman who had plotted with Buckingham against her father.
Traitress
, she thought.

The Lady Margaret cut a far more regal figure than her son. She
dressed like a nun in a severe black gown and pleated wimple; it was well known that she lived chastely (no doubt Lord Stanley had cause to be grateful for that, Kate thought irreverently). Her manner was quiet and dignified, and she spoke very softly. Only when she mentioned her son the King did she become animated.

She welcomed Kate coolly, then came to the point without bothering with the pleasantries.

“His Grace the King told me he spoke with you this morning, and that we can rely on your absolute discretion.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“My son means to give England peace and strong government. His crown has come as of right to him, and God Himself has endorsed it by giving him the victory at Bosworth. He rules most rightfully over his people—our Joshua, come to save us from tyranny.”

Kate struggled to contain her anger. Was the Lady Margaret deliberately trying to provoke her?

“But how can he embark on his great task when there are those who might undermine his just title?” the insufferable woman was asking—rhetorically, of course. Dislike bristled from her; it was as if she was constrained to a disagreeable but necessary task. “Two years ago,” she said, “the usurper, your father, told his friend the Duke of Buckingham—in confidence, of course—that he had no choice but to have the sons of King Edward put to death, if he was ever to feel secure on the throne. It finished the friendship. The duke could not countenance such an atrocity, and made an excuse to leave court. The usurper, unaware that there was a rift, continued to correspond with him, and in one of his letters he wrote something that Buckingham thought clearly indicated that the deed had been done. Indeed, Buckingham had no doubt of it, and he was horrified. It was then that he switched his allegiance to my son. He confided to him, and to me and our chief allies, what he knew; and we began to work for the overthrow of the tyrant.”

Kate seethed. What she was hearing was bad enough, but the woman was baiting her and enjoying her discomposure, knowing she could say nothing in her father’s defense that would not be construed
as treason. Only with difficulty did she hold her peace while the Lady Margaret continued.

“Soon, rumors were circulating that the princes had been killed. We did not start these rumors, although we made use of them later. But we had no certain knowledge of how the boys had been murdered or how their bodies had been disposed of.”

“May I ask, my lady, how you could be certain that they were dead? An ambiguous sentence in a letter could surely be taken two ways?”

The Lady Margaret eyed Kate distastefully. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? But you forget that the duke knew Richard very well: how his mind worked, and how ambition drove him.”

“I knew him well too,” Kate said in a quiet voice. “He was my father, and madam, I could never imagine him stooping to such a low and dreadful deed.”

“Maybe you could not, but others could, all too easily!” the countess shrilled, abandoning her habitual calm for a moment. “Do you want me to rehearse the roll call of his crimes? What of the many rumors? They would not be stilled because they were believable—and they were true! My dear child, there are none so blind as those who will not see!”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Kate murmured, trying to control her fury. “I can only speak from my own experience.”

“Well, you were young and had evidently not yet learned to judge human nature. But I think you know more than you are prepared to say. What have you heard about the princes? If your father did not murder them, where are they?”

“I know nothing, my lady, beyond what I told the King,” Kate insisted, wondering why she was being questioned again. Evidently the King had
not
believed her, and hoped his mother would get more out of her. But he was wrong there! Yes, she did know more than she had given them to believe, but of what she had learned from Pietro, Bishop Russell, and Bishop Stillington (although he had not said much), she intended to say nothing. Least said, soonest mended, she reasoned. No one should be called to account because of her.

“So you do not know anything about their murder?”

“I know nothing of a murder, my lady.”

The Lady Margaret gave her a hard look.

“Are you being obstinate with me?” she demanded to know.

“No, my lady. I am as desirous as you are of having this matter brought to light.”

“Well, we will have the truth soon, no doubt—and I can tell you what it will be. Now you may go. And if you recall anything that may have a bearing on this matter, you are to come and tell me at once.”

August 1561, Hertford Castle

Queen Elizabeth glares at her council.

“No evidence of a conspiracy? Are you certain?” Her tone is disbelieving, her face above the delicate lace of her ruff thunderous and pale. She is extremely tense, and looks thin and gaunt.

“No, madam,” Cecil says firmly. “The minister—if he ever existed—has gone to ground. Mrs. Leigh has vanished too. And Mr. Glynne, who helped me uncover this misconduct, is staying in Paris for now. He has nothing to add. We have questioned Mistress Saintlow again, but she knows no more than she told us to begin with. I am convinced, madam, that had there been any conspiracy, we would have found evidence of it by now. But there is none, and it is significant that Lady Katherine’s support seems to have evaporated. As for the evidence of marriage, the deed of gift has been destroyed, along with the letters Hertford sent the Lady Katherine from France, in which he referred to her as his wife. My agent in Dover intercepted those, and hers to him, telling him she was with child.”

“Is it certain that there were no marriage lines?” asks Lord Robert, lounging in his chair. Cecil and the other councillors regard him with dislike. It is no exaggeration to say that Dudley is the most hated and envied man at court. What a silly girl Katherine was, appealing to him of all people, the Secretary reflects.

“There never were any, according to Lady Katherine’s testimony.
And no one appears to have been privy to this marriage but her maids and Lady Jane Seymour.”

“I still think there was some greater drift in this.” Elizabeth is obstinate in her opinion. “I am convinced there is more matter hid in this marriage than is uttered to the world.”

“I can find none such, madam,” Cecil declares decisively. “We should focus upon the immorality.”

“Is Lord Hertford on his way home?” the Queen asks.

“He is, and he knows the reason for his summons,” Cecil tells her. “Fearing he might choose not to obey it, I told him that Your Majesty does not mean to punish him, but that you require his presence merely in order to decide whether his marriage to the Lady Katherine is good and valid. I did not tell him that she is in the Tower.”

“And what did he answer to that?” asks Sussex.

Cecil looks at Elizabeth.

“At first, he thought it would help matters if he stayed abroad until the scandal had died down. But—forgive me, madam—when one of my secret agents at the French court expressed the opinion that his marriage to the Lady Katherine would but facilitate your own to Lord Robert here, he changed his mind and took a more optimistic view of his situation.”

“God’s blood!” shouts Elizabeth, banging the table and making her councillors jump. “Is there no end to this lewd gossip? And you can wipe that smile off your face, Robin.” Dudley has the grace to look chastened. “Well, enough of that,” the Queen continues. “At least Lord Hertford is on his way home, and then we can get to the bottom of this matter.”

October 1485, Westminster Palace

Kate pondered much on what the Tudor had said about the princes not being in the Tower now. It made sense to her. Her father had been
a careful, cautious man. Once those conspiracies had come to light in the summer after the coronation, he might well have had the boys moved to a secret location whence there was no chance of their being rescued. He would have reasoned that, if at least one attempt had been made already, there would be others in the future.

So had the princes been at Sheriff Hutton all along? Had they been taken there when the King’s Household in the North was set up under the governance of Lincoln? It had been a secure household of necessity, given the threat posed by Henry Tudor, and it had sheltered the heirs and bastards of York. Had the sons of Edward IV been of their number, secretly lodged there with their sisters?

Kate’s brother John had been there too, but he was still in Calais, his future uncertain with their father dead, and he had not replied to her recent letters. Even if she had been able to reach him, she would never have dared to commit such a dangerous question to paper.

But it was highly doubtful that the princes were still at Sheriff Hutton. Henry Tudor would surely have checked, so desperate was he to find them. So if they had been there at the time Bosworth was fought, where were they now?

The answer, she was sure, lay with John de la Pole. Had he hastened to Sheriff Hutton after Bosworth and taken them into hiding with him? Were they the reason he had disappeared after the battle? Had he perhaps taken them abroad, to their aunt, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, whom Kate had never met, but of whom her father had always spoken with loving respect? Margaret had helped shelter Richard when, as a youth, he sought refuge with King Edward in Bruges after Edward had been driven from his kingdom by Warwick and Clarence. John had also spoken of Aunt Margaret with affection. Certainly she would willingly have offered a refuge both to the princes and to him.