A Dangerous Inheritance (65 page)

It seems ages before he returns, his face downcast.

“Nothing!” he declares. “I checked the bottom of every stair, and
there was no sign that any were ever dug up. Except perhaps for the one in the fore building that houses the entrance to Caesar’s Tower. There was a cracked paving stone there, but that is only to be expected, with so many people coming and going.”

He sits down heavily. “I think we must accept that we are at the end of our quest, and that Thomas More’s history is the closest to the truth we are likely to get.”

“If only we knew where he got all that information,” I say. “I hate loose ends. But Sir Edward, before you go, I must tell you something that may be significant, or not—I don’t know. Pray sit down. I have been puzzling for some time about where I had seen the name Tyrell—other than in books. And Brackenbury too seemed familiar. Last night, it came to me.” I have his attention now.

“Before my father was granted Sheen Priory by King Edward, he owned a house in London, near the Tower. Bath Place, it was called, or the Minories, because it had been a convent of nuns—the Minoresses—before the monasteries were dissolved by King Henry. My father had the house for several years, by the favor of King Edward. Previously, it had been owned by the Bishop of Bath, who’d converted part of it into a mansion and renamed it Bath Place. But we always called it the Minories.”

“Did you lodge there often, my lady?”

“Yes, Sir Edward, we stayed there many times when we came to London from Leicestershire. It is a goodly property, with many fine buildings around the great house, and the church still standing. It is of the church that I wish to speak. We used it as our chapel. Although all the Popish statues and ornaments had been removed, some of the old tombs remained. I used to be fascinated by the stone effigies of ladies in old-fashioned dress. They looked so beautiful and serene, with their alabaster faces and their hands joined in prayer. And I liked to read the inscriptions on the tombs, although I struggled with those because they were in Latin. But my sister Jane would translate them for me. Sir Edward, I remember now the names on two of those tombs: Mary Tyrell and Elizabeth Brackenbury. Is that not a coincidence? Or maybe it is more than that!”

Sir Edward considers. “It may well be. Certainly it bears investigating.
My lady, forgive me for asking something that will distress you, but was this house—the Minories—confiscated at your father’s death?”

“No. He had already conveyed it to his younger brother, my uncle, Lord John Grey, who still owns it today.”

“I wonder if I might pay him a visit.”

“I pray you, do not do so on my account,” I ask fervently. “He did not want to know us after my father’s execution. You will get short shrift from him if you mention my name.”

“Then I shall ask if I may see the church, having heard it has some historic tombs.” Sir Edward smiles, rising to his feet. “I will go this afternoon.”

“Fare you well, sir,” I say. “And pay no attention to my uncle’s rude manner.”

The bells of All Hallows’ Church are striking six when the lieutenant returns. I rise hastily to greet him.

“Sir Edward! Did you gain entry to the Minories?”

“Indeed I did, my lady. I was lucky: his lordship was not there; he has gone to his house in Essex. But his steward willingly admitted me to the church, and left me alone to look around. He even brought me candles when it got dark.”

“Did you see the tombs?” I ask.

“Aye, and I was surprised to see them in such good condition. Many were broken up after the Dissolution. You were right: Mary Tyrell and Elizabeth Brackenbury are there, and there are others too, as you may remember: the grandest tomb was that of Elizabeth Talbot, Duchess of Norfolk, who died in 1506.”

“I remember that one. Her effigy shows her in widow’s weeds.”

“Indeed it does. And nearby is the tomb of a young girl, Anne Mowbray. According to the inscription, she was Duchess of York.”

“Duchess of York? Yes, I remember that one too. But how could this Anne Mowbray have been Duchess of York? The only Duchess of York I know of was Cecily Neville.”

“I cannot say. I have never heard of Anne Mowbray, and apart from Duchess Cecily’s husband, Richard Plantagenet, the only other dukes of York I know of are the younger of the Princes in the Tower, and
King Henry VIII, who was given the title when he was a child. I will make some inquiries—someone must know. In the meantime, I wanted to ask if you recalled any of the other tombs. What of Joyce Lee, a widow, who died in 1507?”

“I remember her tomb, because it had a brass showing a lady in nun’s attire.”

“That is correct. My lady, it is possible—given the coincidence of the names—that you are right and there is a link between some, if not all, of these ladies, and that in some way they are connected with the fate of the princes.”

“But how will we find that out?” I ask, perplexed.

“There is one chance,” he tells me. “On my way out, I fell to talking with the steward about the tombs, saying how impressive they were; he said they were a fine collection, but not much prized these days. Then he told me that an old lady comes regularly to the church to pray, and often lingers by them. Lord John doesn’t mind her coming, as she’s harmless enough, and they’ve gotten used to her over the years. They think she was abbess at the Minories, many years ago. That would explain her interest. The steward said she could probably tell me more about the tombs. He said he’d look out for her and ask if she would meet with me. If she agrees, he’ll send a boy ’round.” Sir Edward fixes his gaze on me. “My lady, she may be of no help whatsoever. She may not even consent to see me. But it’s worth asking.”

“Indeed it is,” I agree. Inwardly, though, I hold out little hope. Even if this woman had been abbess of the Minoresses’ convent, she was hardly likely to have been there when Mary Tyrell, Elizabeth Brackenbury, and the rest were alive, or to have known anything about them. They died more than fifty years ago, their secrets—if they had any—no doubt buried in the grave with them. And the dead keep their secrets very well.

December 1485–March 1487, Raglan Castle

The journey back to Wales, in the depths of winter, had been a dreadful one. Since his outburst of jealous rage when he had learned of her love for John and lashed out at her, even as she lay in her bed, weak after her miscarriage, William had cut himself off from Kate. It was as well they had with them that comfortable litter he’d provided to take her to court, because she’d doubted he would have been so solicitous now. She had endured the endless, jolting miles huddled in her cloak and the cushions, with Gwenllian pressing close for warmth, for the weather was icy.

Begrudgingly, William had agreed to frequent stops at inns and monasteries along the way, for Kate was fatigued after her ordeal, and still bleeding a little, so needed to change her clouts. Whenever they stopped, or ate, or bedded down for the night, he treated her with indifferent courtesy. A proud man, he had not wanted to parade their estrangement to the world. But he would not share her bed, and slept with his men in their quarters.

At Westminster he had demanded to know how far the affair with John had gone. Had they ever lain together? She told him, quite truthfully, that she had never betrayed her marriage bed. He’d looked at her suspiciously, his face full of rage and pain, but he had not pressed her further. Instead, he had pronounced that the loss of her child, and the King’s displeasure, were a judgment on her for her wicked, foolish behavior. And she must forget the Earl of Lincoln, because, by God, she would never set eyes on him again.

She had accepted her fate. She did not care what happened to her now, so long as John was safe. She’d prayed he had not fallen foul of the King as a result of her rashness. She’d wished there was some way of finding out if any measures had been taken against him, but that was impossible. William made sure he stayed with her, vigilant and
unrelenting, throughout the days of her recovery at Westminster. The only visitor he’d allowed was Kat, who had to return to her house at Harpenden on the day after Kate’s miscarriage, and came beforehand to see how she fared.

“Write to me, please, if your lord will permit,” she had said, looking hopefully at William. “Remember, if I may do you any service, you have only to ask.” She’d kissed Kate then, and Kate had clung to her, not wanting to let go of this mother whom she barely knew, and who—like everyone else she held dear—was being cruelly parted from her. That was how it seemed.

“Farewell!” she had cried. “Pray for me!”

“I will, never fear,” promised Kat, and was gone.

Back inside the stout walls of Raglan, beyond which she had been told she must not go, she knew despair, keener than before. The Dowager Countess showed her a pained civility rather than her customary warmth, and young Elizabeth took her cue from that. All Kate’s attempts to explain her actions met with studied evasion.

Only to Mattie, dear, comfortable Mattie, great with child now, could she unburden herself, and it was Mattie who saw her through those dark days of winter, wept with her for her lost babe, and listened to the outpouring of her fears for John. Without Mattie, she was certain, she would never have gotten through that awful time without going mad.

At table, William barely acknowledged her. In the evenings he made it clear that her presence was not welcome by the fire. When visitors called, she was made to keep to her chamber. Any purchases she required had to be made by Mattie, on her behalf, in the village or from the peddlers who came offering their wares and bringing news; and clearly there were to be no fine new gowns or jewels. Had it not been for the King commanding William to keep her in his custody, Kate was sure he would have consigned her to a nunnery.

Her marriage now seemed a life sentence. What had happened to the carefree, headstrong young girl she had once been? She was sixteen now, and felt old; and if life went on like this, she
would
be old, long before her time.

The slow, intolerable months passed. Thanks to Kat Haute’s letters, doggedly scrutinized by William, and to Mattie, that inveterate gossip, she was able to keep abreast of news—weeks late—from the outside world, to which she listened with listless apathy. In the early spring, as the daffodils opened their faces to the strengthening sun, she learned from Kat that Henry Tudor had at last married Elizabeth of York. Poor Elizabeth, she thought—much joy she will get of him—and she wondered if the new Queen puzzled and fretted as much as she herself had over the fate of the princes, her brothers. But she, Kate, had put all that behind her now, of necessity.

She wondered if she would ever hear news of John; she desired the assurance of his health and prosperity more than anything else in the world. If she could be granted that boon, she would rest content.

And then her prayers were answered.

Mattie, nearing her time but as busy about her duties as ever, came hastening to Kate’s chamber one bright day in May; she had been at the market.

“A letter’s come for you,” she announced.
“He
says you can have it.” She would never, if she could help it, refer to her master by his rightful title.

It was from Kat.
The King has passed this way on progress to the North
, she wrote,
and I heard mention that the Earl of Lincoln was of the company and much in favor
.

“Thanks be to God!” Kate breathed with heartfelt relief. At least John had managed to convince Henry Tudor of his innocence.

“Well, I’m sure you’re pleased to hear that, my lady!” Mattie smiled.

She was, oh, she was!

But after that, life went on as grimly as it had for months, and the only lightening of Kate’s existence came when Mattie gave birth to a daughter in the balmy days of early summer; yet even that was a bittersweet thing, for, seeing her maid with the child at her breast, Kate could not but be reminded of the infant she had lost, who would have been of a similar age had he lived.

——

One night, William appeared in his nightgown at her chamber door, carrying a candle. His ferret face looked gaunt in its flickering light.

“My lord?” Kate rose up in the bed, alarmed.

“I would speak with you,” he said coldly, looming over her. “I have received some news that will interest you. Your lover, the Earl of Lincoln, has married my niece, Margaret FitzAlan, Arundel’s daughter. You had best forget him now, for he is lost to you for good.”

He will never be lost to me
, she thought fiercely, trying not to betray the engulfing emotion she felt.
Our hearts are one for always: we vowed it
.

“It is of no moment to me, this news,” she said, and meant it, knowing this marriage could mean nothing to John.

“Then, since we are constrained to live together, you will not shrink from doing your duty, as my wife,” William said, abruptly dousing the candle, stripping off his nightgown, and climbing into bed beside her, much to her dismay. “I am prepared to accept that you did not betray your marriage vows,” he continued, “and for that reason I am willing to take you back and use you as my wife. I need an heir—and a man must live!”

He mounted her then, without further preamble, driving into her as if he meant to punish her for all the hurts she had done him. She bore it in silence, as best she could, not daring to betray by any slight gesture how unwelcome it was to her. She had long ago learned to detach herself from what he did to her in bed; after all, it was not as if this was a new thing. She had to force herself not to think of how joyous it had been with John. That way lay insanity.

When he had finished, William got up without a word, put on his robe, and went back to his own chamber. In the morning, if she had expected some improvement in his attitude toward her, she would have been disappointed, for he ignored her as before, and continued to do so. The only difference now was that he kept coming to her at night, demanding sex in his laconic, boorish way, and riding her as if he hated her.

Early in October, as the leaves were turning wondrous shades of red and gold, and autumn returned to the land, Mattie, her apple-cheeked
babe on her hip, brought another letter from Kat with news of the birth of a prince to the Queen.