A Dangerous Inheritance (61 page)

“Katherine Plantagenet mentions their being behind bars. It probably means the same thing. Sir Edward, where do you think the princes were held?”

“In Caesar’s Tower, most certainly. It is the innermost and strongest part of this fortress, and some of the upper windows have bars. It is the safest place to keep prisoners hidden from the eyes of the world.” He shakes his head sadly, and turns back to his papers. “Under the heading ‘Death of the Innocents,’ the chronicler repeats all the rumors that were circulating after the princes’ disappearance. People were saying they had been murdered between two feather beds, or given a venomous potion, and so forth—all speculation. But listen to this: ‘Certain it was they were departed from this world, of which cruel deed Sir James Tyrell was reported to be the doer.’ ”

Tyrell again. “It’s what Katherine Plantagenet heard. That name—trying to place it is vexing me sorely, because it might give us a clue …”

“Tyrell was merely ‘reported’ to be the doer. But the fact that he was actually named the murderer as early as 1484 might be significant.
And why Tyrell? He was not well known, so why should his name be tossed about?”

“I agree, sir, it is strange.”

“It cannot but have done him harm. And Richard too, of course. The chronicler says the people grudged so sore against him because of the death of the innocents that they would rather have had the French to rule over them!”

“Now that is saying something!” I observe.

“There is another serious accusation against King Richard in this chronicle,” Sir Edward continues, “that there was much whispering, even among his northern people who had loved him, that he poisoned his wife so that he could remarry.”

“That’s news to me. Do you think it could have been true?”

“It is impossible to say. By then, men would have believed anything of him.”

“Yet he could have counteracted everything! Why did he not, unless he was guilty? Could he not see that these rumors were destroying him?”

“Well, my lady, he should have—he came to a bloody end because of them. Maybe he underestimated their power to bring him down. It’s clear that most of his subjects hated him. After he was slain at Bosworth, the
Great Chronicle
says, his body was despoiled to the skin and he was trussed up like a hog or vile beast, thrown over his own herald’s mount, and so carried naked into Leicester. And then he was indifferently buried in St. Mary’s Church. Henry VII had his remains moved to the Grey Friars, which became known as the Tyrants’ Sepulchre, because Cardinal Wolsey was buried there too.”

“So much for gaining a crown,” I reflect, thinking that, in the end, Richard III, like my sister Jane, had paid with his life for usurping the throne.

“Had it not been for his ambition, he might have grown old and respected by all, for he had the makings of a great prince.”

“Unless the Wydevilles had done for him first.”

“Yes, that was what he evidently feared. But I wonder. Was that just a pretext? Well, we may yet find out. When Alderman Smyth perceived that I was disappointed that there was no fresh light on the princes in
the
Great Chronicle
, he told me in secrecy he had something in his house that might interest me. He said he dared not speak of it in public, because it might, even now, be dangerous to do so. Naturally, I asked him why, and he said it was one of the books that had been suppressed by Henry VII. Apparently it was Smyth’s grandfather’s. I know no more, for he would not divulge its title, and he has sworn me to secrecy anyway. I should not be telling you this, but I know I can rest assured you will not speak of it.”

“I could not even if I would, shut in here!” I say with some spirit.

“Of course, of course,” he answers, looking embarrassed. “Anyway, I am going to visit him tomorrow. Afterward, I have some stores to check, and some prisoners to question, but I will come to you as soon as I may. And, my lady, you should take heart. There are many that love and support you, as became clear in the City today.” And with that unexpected revelation, which instantly revives my hopes, Sir Edward leaves me.

November 1485, Westminster Palace

It grew late, and still William had not returned from the King’s supper. He would be enjoying himself, Kate thought, restored to the circles in which his rank and allegiance entitled him to move. She thought bitterly of how readily he had betrayed that other allegiance he had owed to her father, and yet it did not seem such a bitter betrayal now, for the events of this day had blotted out much of the misery and grief of the past months. Seeing John, and the spark of love flaring undimmed in his eyes, and then meeting the mother she had never known—no wonder she was finding it hard to sleep!

She felt an unaccustomed quivering in her belly, like a butterfly’s wings, and supposed it was her excitement manifesting itself. But a few minutes later she felt it again, and knew it for what it really was: her child, making its existence felt for the first time. She had not come so
far along during her first pregnancy. A sense of wonder filled her as she placed her hands on her stomach, rejoicing in the life within. Truly, God had been good to her this day.

She rose from the bed, put on her nightgown, and sank to her knees on the prayer stool below the latticed window; and there, in the moonlight, she gave thanks for this gift of new life, and the blessings and promises of love that had been vouchsafed her.

When she rose, she saw that a sealed letter had been pushed under the door. She snatched it up. There was no imprint on the wax, and no signature. The fine script she recognized instantly, though: it was John’s. She broke the seal and devoured his words:

Kate’s heart beat fast as she read and reread the letter, then clutched it joyfully to her bosom. John had taken a tremendous risk in pushing it under her door, yet he would surely have known that William was
otherwise occupied. Probably he had been at the King’s supper himself.

He had been here at Westminster, probably for weeks. He had even played a part in the coronation! Secluded as William had kept her, she had not known of it.

She would go to him, of course she would. Neither William nor Henry Tudor, nor the whole company of Heaven, was going to stop her.

October 1561, Whitehall Palace

“Her Majesty is not pleased to hear that many of her subjects—and some of her courtiers to boot—are sympathetic to the Lady Katherine Grey,” Mr. Secretary Cecil fumes. “Here are the reports—read them!” And he indicates a pile of papers on his desk. He and the Earl of Sussex have arrived early for the council meeting, and as yet are the only ones seated at the long table.

Sussex, a fair, florid man, leafs through the reports, grunting. “They remember Protector Somerset, ‘the good duke,’ as they called him. Hertford is his son, so it’s only to be expected, I suppose.”

“To them, he is a gallant hero, defying the Queen’s unkindness and wrath to marry the lady he loves,” Cecil sniffs.

“Some see the Lady Katherine as another like her sister, the Lady Jane,” Sussex murmurs, reading on. “They view her as a brave Protestant heroine.”

“They forget she has been plotting with the Spaniards,” Cecil says dryly. “But what most people seem to be asking is why a man and his wife should be put asunder and imprisoned!”

“I see there’s a lot of speculation that they will be attainted or even put to death; or that the Queen will have Parliament declare their child a bastard; many say the Lady Katherine should be named heir to the throne; and I see that you, my lord, are suspected by a few of being privy to her marriage.” Sussex grins.

“Pure nonsense!” Cecil retorts.

“But tell me, are any of these other rumors true? Does the Queen still intend to have the child declared baseborn?”

“I believe so. Yet she is disturbed to find that there is a tide of opinion in the Lady Katherine’s favor, and anxious lest she herself appear in an unsympathetic light, when in truth she is the person most injured by this pretended marriage. So she will do nothing just yet. In the meantime, Her Majesty is disposed to show some favor toward the couple, to placate public feeling.”

October 1561, Tower of London

Sir Edward Warner arrives at five o’clock, just as supper is being served. He orders an extra place set, then dismisses the servants, and himself serves the baked meats to us both and slices the pie.

“What I have to tell you is for your ears alone,” he says.

“You saw the book, then, Sir Edward?” I ask eagerly.

“Yes, indeed,” he answers, his angular face looking unusually animated. “It was a manuscript chronicle I had never heard of or seen before, from the abbey of Croyland, which was near Lincoln; and whoever wrote it had much to say about Richard III!”

Could this be the truth at last? I pray it will be. It’s irrational, I know, but I cannot rid myself of the notion that the fate of the princes augurs well or ill for the safety of my child.

“The author described himself as a member of the King’s Council, so he was at the center of affairs and clearly well informed,” Sir Edward tells me. “He wrote his chronicle during a visit to the abbey, nine months after Bosworth. As it was written under Henry VII, it is only to be expected that the writer was hostile to Richard III. Yet it’s plain he had no good opinion of him anyway.”

“Then why was his book suppressed? Henry would surely have approved.”

He frowns. “My lady, that exercised me and Alderman Smyth somewhat. We perused the chronicle together closely; as I said, he has become interested in the matter, although he thinks it is still dangerous to speak openly of certain things. You see, the Queen Grace’s title is inherited from Henry VII, and Henry married Elizabeth of York, who had been bastardized by Richard III. Henry must have had her legitimacy confirmed by Parliament. Yet I have never read anywhere that he did so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In the Croyland Chronicle there is the text of an Act of Parliament of 1484, entitled
Titulus Regius
; it confirms Richard III’s right to the throne. In it are laid out the grounds of his claim, namely his brother’s precontract with one Eleanor Butler; and it confirms the consequent bastardy of Edward IV’s children by Elizabeth Wydeville.”

“I still don’t understand the significance,” I say. “Surely that Act was repealed by Henry?”

Sir Edward lowers his voice. “I’m sure it was. But it was done discreetly. If you were Henry VII, and your queen’s legitimacy had been impugned, would you want everyone to know about it? Henry must have known that his claim by blood was weak, and that there were many who would regard it as such until he strengthened it by marrying the Yorkist heiress. He could not afford to have his enemies producing evidence that she was baseborn, and denying his right to rule. So my belief is that he suppressed all copies of
Titulus Regius
, which is why the Croyland Chronicle had to go too.”

This makes good sense. “But how did Alderman Smyth come to have it in his possession?”

“It was in a coffer of old books and papers left him by his grandfather. His family came from Lincolnshire originally, and his great-uncle was a monk at Croyland, which was a mighty abbey in those days. There were two other old chronicles in the chest; Alderman Smyth showed them to me. They were hand-illuminated and very fine. His belief is that his uncle saved them from the King’s men at the time of the Dissolution. They were burning lots of old chronicles then, and most of the monks’ libraries were lost.”

I am too excited to eat. “Pray tell me, good Sir Edward, what else is in this chronicle?”

He smiles. “Much that isn’t flattering to Richard III. The author disapproved of him thoroughly, thought him dishonest and deceitful, and criticized him for extravagance and sensuality, and even for executing a man on a Sunday. He claims that he himself tried to be fair and unprejudiced, and wrote his history without hatred or favor—and I think he did. He says, for example, that Richard had a quick mind and high courage, and was vigilant in state affairs; and I noted he does not accuse him of murdering Henry VI; instead, he hints that Edward IV was responsible.”

I sigh. “It is very confusing, having accounts that contradict each other. The
Great Chronicle
said Richard was there when Henry VI was murdered. How can one ever arrive at the truth?”

“Ah, my lady, there you have put your finger on the problem with history!” Sir Edward declares, wiping his fingers on his napkin, then offering me the plate of apples. “One has to weigh the sources well, and my belief is that this chronicler was closer to affairs than whoever wrote the
Great Chronicle
. He had inside knowledge of state matters.”

I crunch into my apple; it’s sweet but a bit shriveled, the best of the store having been eaten already.