Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Alison Weir
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Family Trees
Part One: Acts of Usurpation
Part Two: Innocent Blood
Part Three: Knots of Secret Might
Part Four: Greedy Death
Afterwards
Author’s Note
Copyright
About the Book
A Dangerous Inheritancetells the dramatic story of two heroines, separated by time, but intriguingly linked by history’s most famous murder mystery.
Lady Katherine Grey has already suffered more than her fair share of tragedy. Eight years ago, her older sister, Lady Jane Grey, was beheaded for unlawfully accepting a crown that was not hers. Now, in risking all for love, Katherine incurs the wrath of her formidable cousin, Queen Elizabeth I, who sees her as a rival for her insecure throne.
Interlaced with Katherine’s story is that of her distant kinswoman, Kate Plantagenet, the bastard daughter of Richard III. Kate loves her father, but all is not well at court, and before long she hears terrible rumours that threaten all she holds dear. Like Katherine Grey, she falls in love with a man who is forbidden to her. Then she embarks on what will prove to be a dangerous quest, covertly seeking the truth about the fate of her cousins, the Princes in the Tower.
But time is not on Kate`s side – or on Katherine’s either …
Alison Weir’s new novel skilfully mixes fact and fiction, telling a page-turning story within a framework of historical authenticity.
About the Author
Alison Weir is one of the best-selling historians in the United Kingdom, and has sold over 2.3 million books worldwide. She has written sixteen history books, including The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Elizabeth the Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Katherine Swynford, The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleynand, most recently, Mary Boleyn: ‘The Great and Infamous Whore’. Alison has also published three historical novels, Innocent Traitor, The Lady Elizabethand The Captive Queen.
Also by Alison Weir
Fiction
Innocent Traitor
The Lady Elizabeth
The Captive Queen
Non-fiction
Britain’s Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy
The Six Wives of Henry VIII
The Princes in the Tower
Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses
Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII 1547–1558
Elizabeth the Queen
Eleanor of Aquitaine
Henry VIII: King and Court
Mary Queen of Scots and the Murder of Lord Darnley
Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England
Katherine Swynford: The Story of John of Gaunt and his Scandalous Duchess
The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn
Mary Boleyn: ‘The Great and Infamous Whore’
Quick Reads
Traitors of the Tower
A Dangerous
Inheritance
ALISON WEIR
To Kezia Jane Marston and Persephone Gipps-Williams with lots of love
‘As circles five by art compressed show but one ring to sight,
So trust uniteth faithful minds with knot of secret might,
Whose force to break, but greedy Death, no wight possesseth power,
As time and sequels well shall prove, my ring can say no more.’
Lines engraved on Katherine Grey’s wedding ring
‘Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting …’
Samuel Daniel, ‘Hymen’s Triumph’
‘Love is blind.’
William Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona
Table 1: The Royal House of Tudor
Table 2: The Royal Houses of Lancaster and York
Table 3: The Herbert Family
Table 4: The Seymour Family
1568
I CAN NEVER forget the day they brought me the news that my sister’s head had been cut off. I was not yet thirteen, too young fully to understand why she had to die, but old enough to imagine the horrific scene at the end. They said she had committed treason, the foulest of all crimes, but it didn’t make any sense to me, for Jane had only done what she was forced to do. And by that reasoning, I too had been an innocent traitor, just as she was.
We had none of us girls been born to inherit a crown, and yet it has overshadowed us all our lives – and blighted them. I thought once that it would be a wonderful thing to be a queen, to wield power and wear the coveted diadem – but I know differently now. Tangling with princes rarely brought anyone anything but ill-fortune and grief. I have learned that lesson too, in the hardest of ways. I am no longer the innocent, placid child who struggled with shyness and lessons, and was happiest running free in the spacious wilds of Charnwood Forest, or playing with my dogs, my birds and my monkeys.
If, in the future, there is to be any remnant of that kind of happiness for me in this world, it remains in the gift of Almighty God alone, for I can hope for little from my earthly sovereign.
In the meantime, I must languish here, in this fine house that is really my prison, having little to distract me from my trials but the routines of everyday life and the stilted exchange of pleasantries with my unwilling hosts. The only pleasures – if that is the right word – that are left to me are writing daily in this journal that I began so many years ago, and gazing yearningly from my window across the flat green parkland and skeletal trees to the forbidden distance, beyond which lives the man I love more than life itself.
Part One
Acts of Usurpation
Katherine
25th May 1553. Durham House, London.
TODAY IS OUR wedding day. My sister Jane and I are to be married; all has been arranged so that the one ceremony will serve for both the daughters of my lord the Duke of Suffolk and my lady the Duchess. It has come upon us so quickly that I have scarce had time to catch my breath, and am somewhat stunned to find myself standing in this royally appointed bedchamber being decked out in my bridal robes.
Below the latticed windows the River Thames, busy with craft and the shouts of boatmen, glides swiftly past London towards the distant sea. There is the usual whiff of fish, mud and rotting stuff in the warm air, but the light breeze that stirs the heavy damask curtains and caresses my skin is pleasant, and faintly redolent of the flowers in the formal gardens that cluster below around Durham House.
We stand like statues as our nurse, Mrs Ellen, and our tirewoman, Bridget, fuss around us, pins in their mouths, hands fiddling with points and laces, dressing us in such finery as I have never possessed, while our mother looks on, hawk-like, screeching orders.
‘Stand still, Jane! And try to look happy. His Majesty has been most generous in his provision for you, and in finding you such bridegrooms. You would not wish word to get back to him that you are ungrateful, I am sure.’
Jane looks mutinous as the heavy gown of gold and silver brocade is lowered over her head.
‘He knows that I did not want this marriage,’ she says defiantly. ‘And it is my lord of Northumberland whom I have to thank for it. King Edward might rule England, but my lord rules the King.’
My mother would like to strike her, I am sure, but even she would not send a daughter to her wedding with bruises on her flesh. Instead she contents herself with tugging Jane’s wedding gown none too gently into place over her kirtle, and arranging the heavy skirts and train, which are exquisitely embroidered with diamonds and pearls.
‘You will keep your opinions to yourself, my little madam, and remember your duty to the King, me and your father, andto the Duke of Northumberland, who is to become your father-in-law this day. Rest assured, you would not be getting wed if the King did not wish it. Now, let me look at you.’
Jane stands awkwardly as our mother inspects her. She told me last night, not for the first time, that she despises outward finery; as a virtuous Protestant maiden, she insists on wearing sober, modest garments of black and white, which infuriates our mother, who is given to lavish attire. I can see that Jane is uncomfortable in more ways than one in her rich gold and silver brocade, with its low square neckline that reveals the slight swell of her small breasts.
I would give much to go forth to my wedding in such a dress, but I am the younger sister, and therefore not as important. Never mind that, unlike the spirited Jane, I am obedient, biddable and – so my mother says – the beauty of the family, and(which she never says) clearly her favourite, I must always come second. I am second now, my marriage less important than Jane’s, my gown of silver tissue banded with crimson velvet and pearls less costly; but as I catch sight of myself in the mirror, with my long strawberry-gold hair falling in glossy ripples down my back, my cheeks pinkly flushed, my blue eyes shining, and the tight cut of the pointed bodice outlining my slender figure, I know that I do not need more lavish finery to compete with my sister.
We are close, as sisters should be, but there has always been a healthy rivalry between us. Jane, my elder by four years, is the naughty, intransigent child, and I am the meek and dutiful one. Not for me the nips, slaps and pinches that Jane has frequently to endure for this or that supposed misdemeanour, or for not doing what she was told as perfectly as God made the world. She could never please our parents. Everything she did or said laid her open to their criticism. Poor Jane; I have often seen her run weeping to our beloved tutor, gentle Master Aylmer, for some respite from their harshness. Yet for me, the less clever but prettier daughter, there have been but mild reproofs and even occasional praise.
I was a quiet child, happy to bask in my brilliant sister’s light, and it suited me to behave well, because I was timid and shy, and wanted as easy a life as possible. If doing so earned me the kindness of my fearsome mother, and spared me the rigour she showed to my unsatisfactory sister, then I was content. But as I grew older, it began to dawn on me that our mother was unnecessarily unkind to Jane, and did not love her, and I grew more protective towards my elder sibling.
So I am sorry to see her looking so miserable, standing there in her unwanted finery, a frown on her plain, freckled face, as Mrs Ellen combs her long red hair. Mrs Ellen is dear and kind; she loves Jane much more than our mother does, and has stood up for her on many occasions; but my mother rarely takes any notice of anything that Mrs Ellen says. She is a servant, beneath her notice.
Jane should be rejoicing that being married will enable her to escape, for she should be mistress of her own household very soon, although matters have proceeded so fast that nothing has been said of that yet. But she says she is merely changing one form of bondage for another. To me, it seems a wondrous thing to be married – and I hope she will find it so, although I fear she is resolved not to. I shall miss her, my dearest sister; what will her life be like without me there to comfort her?
Jane was supposed to be a boy, the son and heir who would inherit our parents’ titles and estates, and their ambitions. For royal blood runs in my mother’s veins, and she and my father have ever had the crown within their sights; indeed, my mother is next in line to the throne after the King’s half-sisters, the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth, although – they being in good health and like to marry – the prospect of her ever succeeding is remote. It took me a long time to understand that my mother’s unkindness towards Jane was born of disappointment in her being of the wrong sex. After that, nothing she ever did was right.
Once there had been an ambitious plan to marry her to King Edward and make her queen. I know little of how it was to work out – only that not very long ago our parents suddenly abandoned the idea and agreed to these new marriages.
Poor Jane. She did not want to marry Lord Guilford Dudley, in fact she had railed bitterly against it. All in vain. Our furious mother beat her into submission, shrieking that the marriage was highly advantageous for our family, while our father looked on, steely-eyed. ‘How could an alliance with the Dudleys ever be advantageous?’ Jane cried, cowering under the blows.
‘You will find out!’ spat my lady. ‘Just do – as – you – are – told!’ Each word was accompanied by a snap of the whip.
It was different for me. Last month, my lord and lady summoned me to the great chamber at our house at Sheen, where I found my mother seated by the hearth and my father standing with his back to the fire, his hunting dogs at his feet. They smiled at me as I rose from my curtsey and stood respectfully before them.
‘Katherine, you will be pleased to know that your father has arranged a marriage for you,’ my mother said, her sharp features wearing a benign expression as she fixed her gaze on her lord. Her deference to him is a sop to his vanity and the conventions, for it is no secret that he is quite content to be ruled by her, his royal wife, in all things.
The news was a complete surprise to me. At twelve, I had not expected to be wed for some years yet, and was rendered quite speechless, which my parents mercifully took for obedient consent.
‘You are young, it is true, to be a wife,’ my father said, ‘but you are of age, and this match pleases us well. Above all, it will be of great benefit to the realm.’
Benefit to the realm? What was he talking about? Surely I, unimportant little Lady Katherine Grey, had no place in the high affairs of the kingdom?
‘Why, the child is struck dumb!’ my mother laughed. ‘Are you so overcome by your good fortune, Katherine?’
‘I thank you, Sir, Madam,’ I stammered.
My mother turned to my father, crowing, ‘You see, Henry? I told you she would be more biddable by far than Jane.’
‘I am relieved to see it,’ he replied, with feeling. He loathes disruption, and having lost patience with Jane for making so much trouble over her betrothal, he had been difficult to live with for days.
‘Well, Katherine, I expect you are waiting to hear the name of the fortunate young man who is to be your husband,’ he was saying.
‘Yes, Sir, I am.’
My father put his hand into his doublet and pulled out a small, delicate oval object rimmed in bright gold.
‘Behold!’ he said, and gave it to me. It was a miniature portrait of a young man wearing russet clothing; he had brown curls, merry eyes and a pleasant, open face. The gold letters on the blue background proclaimed, in Latin, that he was in his sixteenth year.
I am innocent of life, yet old enough to have looked blushingly on a handsome youth with interest; and when I gazed upon the comely features of my future betrothed, something stirred within me, and I was suddenly suffused with happiness. I had been taught that my duty would be to love the husband chosen for me, but this was a face I could love with no thought of duty.
I looked up at my waiting parents and found my voice.
‘Sir, Madam, I could not have asked for a more handsome gentleman for a husband. Thank you, oh thank you!’
They beamed at me.
‘Don’t you want to know who he is?’ my father chuckled.
‘Yes, Sir, please … Who is he?’
‘Henry, Lord Herbert, son and heir to the Earl of Pembroke. The Herberts are an old and noble family. One day you will be my lady the Countess of Pembroke. It’s an excellent match.’
‘It is indeed,’ added my mother, ‘and I am gratified to see that you are suitably grateful. You’re a good girl, Katherine.’
‘May I ask a question?’ I ventured.
‘You may,’ said my father.
‘Sir, I understand why you are pleased to be marrying me to Lord Herbert, for he is a fine gentleman and will make me a countess. But you said earlier that this match would be of great benefit to the realm. I do not understand.’
‘This marriage pleases my lord of Northumberland, and binds us to his affinity. Pembroke is a great and influential nobleman, and an alliance with him is much to our advantage.’
‘And I am certain that he sees it as being much to his advantage too, to be allied with our royal blood,’ my mother added drily. ‘Katherine, you may rest content that your marriage will please many people, including the King himself.’
‘It is to take place as soon as possible,’ my lord informed me. ‘We are planning a double wedding with Jane and Guilford. But first, you must meet your bridegroom.’
It was arranged that my lord of Pembroke and his son should visit us in our new house, the former priory of the Charterhouse, at Sheen, which was granted to my father by the King earlier this year. Its splendid red-brick buildings and courts are dominated by a solid square tower with battlements, and it nestles close beside the River Thames amid the gentle wooded hills of Surrey.
When King Edward succeeded and England was proclaimed a Protestant kingdom, my parents ardently embraced the new faith. My father had profited well from King Harry’s break with Rome and the closure of the monasteries: he got not only Sheen, and before that the Minories in London, but also Bradgate in Charnwood Forest, where he built us a grand house on the ruins of an abbey.
My parents keep great state at Sheen, which is arrayed with the very best in tapestries, Turkey carpets, displays of gold and silver plate, and gilded furniture, such as would impress even the King himself. And on the day when the Herberts were due to arrive, my mother decreed that I should be nobly decked out too, just as Jane had been when my lord of Northumberland had brought his son Guilford on a similar occasion.
That had not gone well. Jane did not trouble to hide her aversion to Guilford, whom I thought a handsome but stupid youth. He too clearly had no inclination for the marriage. That was the first occasion on which I met John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, the man who rules England as Lord President of the Council while my cousin King Edward is a minor, and I was overawed by the cold and arrogant manner of this great lord. His very bearing exudes power; and yet, young as I might be, I sensed that there lurked a ruthless spirit beneath the urbane courtier.
He is not liked. My father is much in Northumberland’s confidence, and active in the government of the kingdom, but I’ve heard my parents call the Duke an upstart, greedy and grasping knave, and scorn him as the son of an executed traitor – but only when they were not aware that I was listening. Since breaking the news of Jane’s betrothal, they have loudly praised his virtues as a husband and father, his statecraft, his courtesy and his exploits in the tiltyard.
But outward appearances are not always what they seem, especially among great folk. The very attitude of my parents towards Northumberland has shown me that a man or woman may say fair words outwardly, yet utter something quite different in private. I suspect that my father might merely be feigning friendship with Northumberland while using him for his own ends, for sure it is that an alliance with the Duke is the fastest way to advancement in this kingdom.
I instantly disliked the man. I was almost beneath his notice, thank goodness: he was too puffed up with his own importance even to acknowledge me beyond a courtesy bow; and he was plainly simmering with anger at Jane’s sullen reception of his son. My parents were all false gaiety and bonhomie, but later, when the guests had gone, they bared their teeth and snarled at my sister, who was sent to bed without supper for her discourtesy.
But today would be different, I was sure, for I was very happy to be betrothed to the fine young man in the miniature, and most eager to meet him. I could barely stand still for impatience as Mrs Ellen laced me into my yellow velvet gown with its neckline edged with delicate gold filigree beads and cutwork embroidery, its full skirts spread gracefully over a wide farthingale and a kirtle of crimson silk. She reproved me for fidgeting as she adjusted my oversleeves, clasped the chain of my scented pomander around my waist, and brushed my hair till it shone.
‘No hood today,’ she decreed. ‘You must wear your hair loose, as becomes a maiden.’
The effect in the mirror she held up was very pleasing, and I was thrilled that Lord Herbert – I could not yet think of him as Henry – would see me looking so fine on our first meeting.
The day being warm, we had thrown open the parlour windows to let in the light, fresh breeze from the river. The long oak table had been spread with a crisp white cloth and laid with silver candlesticks and an array of gold plate laden with cold meats and raised pies, tarts both savoury and sweet, and tall pyramids of fruit, with great ewers of Venetian glass full of good wine. There were bowls of sweet-smelling flower petals on the side table, and fragrant herbs scattered along the tablecloth.
My mother bustled about in her silken gown, hectoring the servants to ensure that no small detail should be overlooked. My father, who had gone out hunting at dawn, had been sent upstairs to change into his noblest apparel, and was now sprawling elegantly in his chair, reading a book. For all his inclination to sport and pleasure, he does love learning and is exceptionally well read.
Jane was reading too, huddled on the window seat. She was, as usual, in disgrace, having made her appearance in a black gown unadorned with any jewellery. It was only after some sharp words from our mother that she donned more festive-looking clothing, but that did not go far towards sweetening either of them.
Our younger sister, Mary, was not to be present. I have not spoken so far of Mary, because she rarely has a part to play in my story. My parents hardly mention her, and on the day of my betrothal they announced that, at eight years old, she was too young to join the gathering. Even so, she is not too young to be advantageously betrothed to the ageing and battle-scarred Lord Grey de Wilton, a friend of Northumberland. The truth is that my parents do not want poor Mary seen in public at all, with her poor little humped back and her stunted stature. They fear that people will point a finger and say that God is so displeased with the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk that he has not only withheld the blessing of a son, but has also cursed them with a misshapen daughter; or they will say that a twisted character must lurk in a twisted body, like that wicked crookback King Richard III, who had the poor Princes in the Tower foully murdered all those years ago.
But there is nothing twisted or wicked about Mary. She is a gentle soul who strives to be as normal as Jane and me in order to please our parents. I have seen her holding herself as straight as possible, hiding her poor humped back under a shawl, oblivious to the pain it causes her. But my lord and lady mostly leave her to the care of Mrs Ellen and the other nursery attendants. Anyone can see that, given the choice, they would prefer never to set eyes on poor Mary. But I am very fond of my little sister. I worry about her, knowing that I must soon leave her to go to my husband’s house. Yet I know that Mrs Ellen will go on caring for her as lovingly as she always has. She is a sweet, thoughtful lady, very fair and very feeling, and sometimes – God forgive me – I find myself wishing that I had her for a mother. But to think such thoughts is sinful, for I know I owe my love and duty to the mother who brought me into the world.
The truth is that I was so overwhelmed by the prospect of coming face to face with Lord Herbert that I gave my little sister barely a second thought.
At midday, craning my neck out of the open window, I glimpsed the Earl of Pembroke’s barge, ornate and majestic, gliding slowly up the River Thames towards our landing stage.
‘Hurry! We must make haste!’ my mother hissed.
Needing no second bidding, I flew to the door, but then I felt a hand grip my shoulder and heard my lady’s voice again, saying, ‘Slowly! It does not do for a bride to be too eager. It is unseemly. And you do not want to look like a hoyden, running down to the barge with your clothing flying in disarray. What would the Earl think?’
I subsided into obedience, as I had done countless times before, and walked down to the jetty as sedately as a lady should, my hands folded over my stomacher, my eyes downcast, looking at the grass – although I was desperate to behold the face of my intended and assure myself that he was indeed as handsome as his picture.
‘You are fortunate, Sister,’ murmured Jane beside me, looking directly at our guests, as we came to a demure standstill behind our parents. And it was then that I dared to raise my eyes.
The Earl of Pembroke, a soldierly, black-bearded figure garbed in fashionable attire that was no less lavish than our own, was making his vigorous way along the gangway between the raised oars of his boatmen, and leaping onto the landing stage. Behind him came a stately woman in a stiff brocade gown, who could only be his wife, the Countess. And then – there he was, my bridegroom, a slim young man with brown curls, wearing silver and blue silk, and his face was recognisably the face in my miniature. I caught my breath.
For the painter, whoever he was, had lied. His brush had not been equal to its task. It had not captured the cornflower blue of Lord Herbert’s wide, dancing eyes, or the manly contours of his face, with its straight nose, broad cheekbones and full red lips. It had not delineated his graceful figure or his long, muscular legs encased in white hose and soft leather shoon.
There were introductions, I am sure, but I remember little of them except this glorious young man gazing down with sincere admiration into my eyes as he raised my hand to his lips and gently kissed it, warmly declaring himself well content with his beautiful bride. His father the Earl was in a jovial mood, clapping him on the shoulder and saying how fortunate he was, and kissing my lips, saying I was even more fair than he had been told; then my father and mother welcomed their ‘son Herbert’, and everyone was congratulating us as we turned and walked back towards the Priory for the betrothal ceremony, the toasts and the cold meats.
The day seemed more than sunny now: it had taken on a special radiance, its colours and hues brighter and sharper than I had imagined; it was as if the world was revealing itself anew because I was seeing it through the eyes of another. All through the afternoon, Lord Herbert and I observed all the courtesies of which our parents had told us to be mindful, but our eyes were saying much more. Our elders made very clear their belief that betrothed couples should be closely supervised, but later my debonair young lord contrived to speak to me in a quiet corner, saying that he fancied himself already to be in love, and could hardly endure the prospect of the empty days that must pass before we could be married. My cheeks burned at that, but my heart, my ardent, childish heart, was soaring.
It was late, and my candle had burned down almost to the wick, but I could not sleep. I lay abed, reliving the events of that happy, merry day, recalling the converse I had had with my Harry – as he had asked me to call him, saying it was how he was known in the family – and thinking of Jane, who had smiled upon me and wished me every joy in my betrothal. ‘For you are meant for marriage, Kat,’ she told me. ‘You have a sunny, giving nature. I know you are going to be happy. Whereas I should like to be wedded to my books!’
Poor Jane! I do believe she meant it.
I had not eaten much of the feast provided by my parents. My head had been in too great a spin after looking into Harry’s eyes as we made our betrothal vows and swore to be true and faithful to each other for ever.
‘I thank God it will be but a short time until we are wed, my fair Katherine,’ he had whispered just before we said our farewells. ‘I long to make you mine!’ His words, and the way he squeezed my hand as he said them, promised so much. I had been brought up with horses, pet monkeys and dogs, so I was not ignorant of physical things, but in that instant I began to realise that there was much more to human love than I could ever have dreamed. I blushed and just smiled; I had been brought up to be modest and discreet, and to regard all mention of such matters as proper only for the marriage bed. There was no way I could have conveyed to Harry how much I longed for him too.
After that, I could not expect to sleep, for I had much to dream about while awake. And presently I realised that I was hungry, having eaten so little, and took to wondering if there were any of the leftover cold meats, or anything else, in the court cupboard in the great hall.
I rose from my bed, donned my new nightgown – an expensive one with puffed sleeves and a high buttoned neck – and carried my candle down the curving stair that led to the hall. To my right the door to the parlour was slightly ajar, and I could hear voices. It was my parents, sitting up late as they often did, enjoying a drink by the fireside. I was about to go in, but stopped short when I heard something that disturbed me. I should have gone away then, I know, but I was ever a curious child, and did not pause to remember that eavesdroppers rarely hear any good of anything, especially themselves.
‘I hope Pembroke doesn’t waver.’ It was my mother’s voice that had stopped me in my tracks. Waver? Why should the Earl want to waver? Was it my marriage they were talking about? I held my breath.
‘He, waver? Not a chance,’ my father said. ‘He’s bound himself now, and cannot get out of it.’
‘Oh, but he can. This agreement about the marriage not being consummated immediately. I don’t like it.’ My heart began beating fast at that, and it would be pounding heavily before I was finished listening.
My lady was strident. ‘I told you, you should have insisted on their bedding together on the wedding night, but instead you go and agree to the Earl’s condition.’
‘But Katherine is young – she’s just twelve. He said he was being purely considerate of her age, which I rather liked him for.’ My father sounded defensive.
‘Words! Fair, empty words! She’s old enough for wedding andbedding,’ my mother snorted, as I shrank at her coarseness. ‘It’s clear to me that Pembroke doesn’t entirely trust Northumberland, and that he is sitting on the fence to see if my lord Duke can hang on to power after the King dies. It’s well known that Catholic Mary has no love for Northumberland. She’d as soon hang him, given the chance. I wouldn’t give a groat for his prospects with her sitting on the throne.’
