A Dangerous Inheritance (62 page)

“Again, I made some notes,” the lieutenant says, and produces a sheaf of papers from the capacious pocket of his gown. “Croyland believed that Richard was plotting to take the throne from the time he learned of the death of his brother, King Edward. He states that after Richard, Duke of York, had been taken from the sanctuary to join his brother, Richard openly revealed his plans, and he and Buckingham did as they pleased.”

This tallies with Katherine Plantagenet’s account. And there’s another connection somewhere, I’m sure of it.

“Richard then acted openly like a king,” Sir Edward continues, “but the Croyland chronicler insists the precontract story was just a cover for his act of usurpation. He implies that many on the council thought it fraudulent too, but looked to their own safety, warned by the example of Hastings. And so, he writes, Richard occupied the kingdom.”

“Is there anything about the princes?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes. He says the sons of King Edward remained in custody in the Tower; he mentions them being here under special guard during Richard’s
first progress through his realm, which he undertook after his coronation. They remained in the Tower while the coronation, the progress and the investiture of Richard’s son as Prince of Wales were taking place.”

I interrupt: “I know who this writer was! He was the Lord Chancellor, the Bishop of Lincoln, who told Katherine that the princes were alive at the time of the investiture in September.”

“Of course! Croyland Abbey would have been in his diocese. Katherine wrote that he went back to Lincoln after Henry VII dismissed him.”

“What else does he say?”

“He does not mention the princes again. It is very strange.”

“But surely a man in his position must have known what became of them? He’d known about their whereabouts up till then.”

“Well, my lady, if he knew, he wasn’t telling.”

“It would have been safe to tell in Henry VII’s reign.”

“Hardly, if the princes had not been murdered.”

I gape at him. “You mean, you think Russell kept silent on the matter of the princes because he knew they had been sent into hiding?”

“It’s possible. He knew the princes were in the Tower up to September, so it follows that he probably knew what happened to them after that. The King trusted him, so he must have been privy to many state secrets. In 1486, when he wrote his chronicle, it would have been perfectly acceptable to accuse Richard of their murder. Russell didn’t scruple to accuse Richard of other crimes or castigate him for his vices, so if he knew or suspected that he had had the princes put to death, he would surely have said so. But all he says is that Richard suppressed his brother’s progeny. ‘Suppressed,’ mark you, not murdered. Perhaps Katherine Plantagenet came close to the truth when she wondered if the princes were at Sheriff Hutton. But if so, what happened to them after Bosworth?”

“Surely, if they were there, King Henry would have found out about it?”

“Assuredly he would. Elizabeth of York knew much, I am sure, and maybe that was why she was kept in subjection by the King and his mother.”

“Sir Edward, I still wonder … If Henry had discovered that the princes were at Sheriff Hutton, what would have been the logical, nay, the safest thing to do with them?”

The lieutenant looks hard at me. He says nothing.

“By vowing to marry their sister, he had effectively acknowledged them to be the legitimate heirs to York. But if they still lived, Edward V was the rightful King. And he would have been fifteen—old enough to rule. Sir Edward, no threat to Henry could have been deadlier.”

“You forget, my lady, that Henry had the Tower searched for their bodies—three times. And he clearly viewed Perkin Warbeck as a serious threat; for years, Warbeck threatened his throne, and the measures Henry took against him are proof that he really did fear Warbeck was not an imposter. He
cannot
have known what had become of the princes. If he had, he would have dealt with Warbeck speedily and summarily.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right, sir. It’s just that I should like to think that the princes survived. That’s what Katherine tried to prove; it mattered a lot to her.”

“Is that why you pursue this quest for the truth?” Sir Edward asks gently.

“That’s one reason, yes. And …” I find I cannot speak. I am suddenly close to tears, remembering that my son too is a threat to the throne. This matter goes very near to home. “I’ve always been interested in the princes,” I say hastily.

Fortunately, Sir Edward has not noticed my distress. “These papers have revived my interest too, my lady. I had thought there was no more to be found out. But in keeping with my family motto, ‘Go straight and fear not,’ I must now press on until the end!” We laugh at that, and he even pats my hand, acknowledging that we are in this together. For once, we are not prisoner and jailer, but two friends united in solving a compelling mystery. Then the lieutenant turns back to his notes, peering at them in the dying candlelight.

“Going back to Bishop Russell,” he says, “he mentions the rumors of the princes’ murder, and writes that, within
weeks
, they had had their effect, and Richard was seen by his subjects as a wretched, bloody, and usurping boor. More crucially, Russell writes that many in Parliament
were strongly critical of the legality of the Act
Titulus Regius
, but that even the stoutest were swayed by fear to approve and pass it. It seems that very few believed that tale about a precontract.”

“I think Katherine convinced herself that her father believed it.”

“We can only commend her for her loyalty.” The lieutenant takes a page from his sheaf of papers. “The Bishop made this observation about Richard’s forced loans: ‘Why should we any longer dwell on things so distasteful and so pernicious that we ought not so much as to suggest them?’ But then he writes—and this may be significant: ‘So too with other things that are not written in this book, and of which I grieve to speak.’ ” He looks up. “What do you make of that, my lady?”

“Can he be referring to the princes?” I ask. “If so, it reads ominously.”

“It might just be an oblique reference to the King’s morals, of which the Bishop had a low opinion. Maybe he did not wish to be explicit on a subject like that.”

“Was Richard III immoral? His daughter writes of his uprightness and good morals.”

“She, I fear, saw the man she wished to see. Yet the Bishop viewed the death of Richard’s son as a judgment on a man who had pursued his interests without the aid of God. That’s pretty damning. He also condemned the King’s pursuit of his niece Elizabeth as an incestuous passion, abominable before God. He says the Queen’s illness grew worse because Richard shunned her bed, claiming it was by the advice of his physicians. Then he adds, ‘Why enlarge?’ It’s obvious what he thinks of that excuse! In fact, he goes so far as to assert that the King hastened his wife’s death by being unkind to her. Afterward, he says, Richard’s councillors dissuaded him from marrying Elizabeth, warning him that if he did, the whole of the North would rise against him and impute to him the death of the Queen. But only reluctantly did he abandon the idea.”

“That doesn’t show Richard in a good light.”

“No, but in Russell’s account of the Battle of Bosworth, he writes that, in the fighting, and not in the act of flight, Richard was pierced with many mortal wounds, and fell in the field like a brave and most valiant prince. But if that sounds like praise, remember that immediately
afterward the Bishop states that Providence gave a glorious victory to Henry Tudor. He was just being fair, as he had averred: it’s well known that Richard died bravely. And that, my lady, is all. None of it is conclusive, and although it still appears that the princes were probably murdered, there is no proof, and there are still some things that don’t make sense.”

He shakes his head, looking vexed, then pauses. “You seem tired, my lady. You should rest. Again, I have enjoyed our discourse. I bid you good night.”

When he has gone, I fall to pondering if this mystery of the princes will ever be solved. It may be that what happened to them might never be known. It is highly improbable that they still live, and since no one has heard from them in nigh eighty years, the likelihood must be that they did die at Richard III’s hands.

Sir Edward visits me some days later to say that he has looked through the Tower records and is certain there is nothing of interest to us.

It is so frustrating. There must be some clue, somewhere! I read through Katherine’s account again, checking to see if there is anything we have missed. But there is nothing. All we have are dark hints, rumors, and Bishop Russell’s curious statement that the princes were suppressed. How can two boys just disappear, leaving no trace as to what became of them?

No sooner do I ask that question than I find myself looking out of my window at the grim walls of the Tower around me; and suddenly the answer seems very obvious.

November 1485, Westminster Palace

Kate crept down the spiral stair near her lodging. It was a bitterly cold morning and she had put on her warmest gown, with her fur-lined cloak over it, taking care to conceal her face. William had insisted upon
that. She had told him she was going to see her mother, and prayed that God would forgive her the lie. She
was
going to see Kat Haute, but not for two hours and more, so it was only a white lie. She did not think there was any risk of Kat coming to seek her out earlier.

William had made difficulties, as she had thought he would. Couldn’t her mother come here? he had asked, frowning. No, she’d told him, she had asked Kate to meet her in St. Stephen’s Chapel. They wanted to give thanks together for being reunited, and then they would stay for the ten o’clock Mass. And may God forgive me, she’d prayed inwardly, hoping William would not insist on coming with them. But he didn’t. He was going hunting with the King and other favored lords, and could talk of little else. At eight o’clock he’d set off to join the royal party.

She had looked anxiously about her as she left her room, taking care to shut the door behind her. There was no one about—or so it seemed. But as she descended the stairs, she heard a sound above her—muted, stealthy. Someone was coming down behind her. When she paused to listen, they paused too. Then there was silence. There had been a landing above her. Maybe whoever it was had turned off there, their business entirely innocent. This was a palace, she reminded herself firmly: people came and went all the time. She waited a little, but all stayed quiet, so she continued on her way.

The staircase spiraled down through a corner turret. At the bottom, she pushed open the heavy nailed door and forced herself to stroll past the guards and walk at a sedate pace toward the fountain.

John was waiting there, looking like a hero of legend: tall, vital, splendid, and illustrious—his beloved Chaucer’s perfect gentle knight in person. And he was smiling jubilantly at her. Her heart leapt!

But as she reached the fountain, she saw the smile on John’s face give way to an expression of horror. Without warning, strong arms grabbed her brutally from behind. She screamed, and instinctively reached out to John, but she was being pulled away, and she was appalled to see a man-at-arms rush forward and pinion him, holding a dagger to his throat.

“What in hell are you doing?” John roared. “Let her go! What is the meaning of this?”

Shrieking, and in terror for them both, Kate grabbed the stone rim of the fountain, but her fingers were roughly pried away. “Don’t struggle, my fine lady!” a harsh voice muttered as she was dragged back in the direction of the stairs. She screamed and kicked, fighting against her captor, but his grip was like a vice.

“Help me!” she shrieked, shocked at what was happening. It wasn’t real … It couldn’t be …

“Stop at once!” John yelled. “Let her go, I said! She has done nothing to deserve this.”

A man in black, his weapon drawn, lunged forward, threatening John. “Yon lady is under suspicion of treason,” he growled, “and if you attempt to obstruct us in our duty, you too will be placed under arrest.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” John spat. “She came here for a lovers’ tryst.”

“One suspected traitor meeting another, more like!”

“No!” Kate howled, indignation and despair overwhelming her. She saw that people had come running to hear what the commotion was, but were being held back by the King’s guard, who had materialized as if from nowhere.

John’s eyes blazed with fury. “Ignorant knave! Do you know who I am? I have the King’s favor. Do you think I am such a fool as to plot against him?” he roared.

That, alas, was the last Kate heard, for her assailant had forced her back through the turret door, and he and another burly man were half pushing, half hauling her up the stairs, she struggling and screaming. Still pinioned, she was manhandled into her room and flung down on the bed before Gwenllian’s horrified eyes, her fingers smarting where they had been bent back.

“Give me the key,” her captor demanded. Fumbling, Kate removed it from her pocket and, shaking with shock, anger, and indignation, handed it to him.

“How dare you treat me so roughly?” she gasped. “I am with child. I mean none ill. My husband shall know of this.”

“Rest assured, lady, he will,” the man told her, with a nasty grin. Then he locked her in.

February 1562, Tower of London

Time drags. It is too cold to go out into the garden. I have been a prisoner in the Tower overlong, and yearn for my freedom. Little Edward is a delight, but a child should not be confined to these rooms. He should be taken for walks, see faces other than those that are familiar to him—and know his father.

I have not seen Ned since I was forced, near weeping, to leave him behind in the chapel on the day of the christening. Yet Sir Edward allows him to write to me regularly. Ned’s letters are mainly declarations of love, which are the breath of life to me, yet sometimes they touch on the precariousness of our situation, with which he is naturally preoccupied. In the last one, he wrote: