Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘He meant to abandon her, his own child?’ The Countess is shocked.
‘He looks to his own skin.’ Suddenly, the Earl notices I am here listening, and remembers that it is my father of whom they speak. His face softens a little.
‘Katherine, I am aware this is distressing for you,’ he tells me, ‘but you have to know the truth.’
‘What will happen to Jane?’ I ask, my voice tremulous. ‘Is all now lost?’ I still cannot believe it.
‘I fear it is,’ he says. ‘Only three members of the Council remain with her in the Tower. The rest will declare for Mary, mark my word. They are on their way here now. I’m afraid I do not know what will happen to the Lady Jane. No doubt Mary will deal leniently with her; this was not her doing.’
‘No, it was not,’ I say, a touch defiantly. But Pembroke ignores me, and it is left to Harry, all care and concern, to attempt to comfort me. I look long at him, drinking in his fine, honest face, his fresh good looks, his kind eyes and his soft curly hair – as if I might never see them again.
The councillors have assembled in the great chamber with the door firmly closed. The Countess gives orders for dinner to be served as normal, and we seat ourselves at table in the parlour. I know I will not be able to touch a morsel. In fact, the smell of the good roast beef and pigeon pie is making me nauseous.
Then the Earl comes in.
‘Forgive me, my lady, I am not staying,’ he says. ‘I am for St Paul’s. We have decided, all of us, to abandon Northumberland and declare for Mary. The Duke is deemed guilty of treason against his lawful sovereign, and we have summoned him back to London to account for his actions, and offered a reward to anyone apprehending him. For now, I go with the other privy councillors to give thanks for this realm’s deliverance from treachery; and to proclaim our loyalty to Queen Mary, we are having Mass celebrated in the cathedral.’
‘What of my poor sister?’ I cry.
‘Your sister remains in the Tower,’ Pembroke replies curtly, and turns on his heel.
I spend much of the afternoon on my knees in the chapel. I am distraught, on my own account and Jane’s. Will I be accounted a traitor too? And what of my marriage? Will Pembroke really have it annulled? God aid me, I feel so helpless!
Yet my peril is as nothing to Jane’s. Repeatedly I beseech the Almighty to be merciful, and to make Queen Mary merciful too. And when I have prayed until I can pray no more, and cried myself out, I wander through the deserted state rooms distractedly, not knowing what to do with myself.
I find myself in the great hall with its fine gallery. Here, seventy years ago this summer, they offered the crown to Richard III; like Jane, he was a usurper; unlike her, he had plotted and schemed – and killed – to be king. I saw a portrait of him once, a thin-lipped man with cruel, wary eyes and a humped back. For he had been evil in appearance, just as he was evil inside: it often falls out – so I have been told – that the two go together. Crookback, they had called him; and he was crooked through and through. But Jane is not evil like Richard. Why should she suffer because of the treacherous schemes of others?
It is late afternoon, still sunny outside, but the cavernous hall is cool and dim, the gallery in shadow, too high to benefit from the jewel-coloured light coming from the tall, narrow stained-glass windows. Again that dark-garbed fellow is up there, watching as before, on the night I first came here. Has he nothing better to do, no duties to attend to? He is standing stock-still, his shadowed face looking down over the vast chamber. Is he staring at me? I cannot be certain, but that unwavering scrutiny is making me feel mightily ill at ease.
I stare back boldly, trying to make him aware of his rudeness and to discern his features, but it is dark up there, and the sunlight through the window dazzles me. Only gradually do I realise that behind the varlet there are three more dark figures. One seems to be a woman in an outlandish headdress; the second is veiled like a nun; and the third appears to be a young girl with long hair. There is a disturbing stillness about all four of the people in that little tableau.
‘Who’s there?’ I cry. The answering silence is unnerving. The figures stand motionless – and then suddenly they are not there any more. Did I blink? Did they see me and make themselves scarce as I did so? Truly, there was something uncanny about them. And why am I shivering on this warm July day? Suddenly frightened, I pick up my skirts and hasten to the door, fleeing as if from a pack of devils, and wondering if there is some evil at work in this house.
I must find something to distract me or I will go out of my mind with fear. Returning to my bedchamber, I take out the old bundle of papers and make another serious effort to decipher them.
I have a good idea who might have written them. Harry said it could not have been the William Herbert who was Earl of Huntingdon – but it could have been his wife, who had been King Richard’s daughter. If anyone would have wanted to believe the best of Richard, it would have been her – Katherine. We share a name.
I read over those short lines again. But that is surely a calumny… The use of the word surelysuggests that whoever wrote it wanted to believe in Richard’s innocence. It must have been his daughter.
I peer at the jumble of faded script below, my eyes scanning the text. A few words stand out. The ru … s that are damaging to the King … mayhap Bokenham knew ye truth … he is dead. My lord Bishop of L … says they live yet … mayhap Mancini knew more than he told Pietro … Tyrell was at the Tower … 1487 … appreh … Raglan.
I try to make some sense of it. I spend so long poring over this page that there is no time to attempt any more. I try to recall my history lessons and the books that once captivated me. I’m sure it was Richard III who was damaged by rumours, so that part makes sense. And Bokenham must surely mean Buckingham. I seem to remember reading of a duke of Buckingham who supported Richard but later rebelled against him. As for the Bishop of L, that will need a more learned mind than mine. And who were Mancini and Pietro? Italians by the sound of it. How could Italians know anything of the secret affairs of England?
They live yet. The Princes? In 1487? They had been murdered in King Richard’s reign.
But what if they had not?
I remember Master Aylmer telling us about the pretenders who threatened Henry VII’s throne, and how many people believed they were the true heirs of York. Master Aylmer could not sufficiently stress how perilous it is to tangle with princes: ‘For look what happened to those pretenders. Both were exposed as frauds. Henry VII was merciful to Lambert Simnel, and put him to work in his kitchens, but Perkin Warbeck tried the King’s patience too long, and ended up hanged. Henry VII never rested easy in his bed all those years.’
My tutor’s words come back to me now. Why, if the pretenders were only pretenders, had Henry not rested easy? Was it because he did not know for certain that the Princes were dead? Did he fear that they ‘lived yet’?
When Harry, with Sanders in tow, comes to tell me that the Earl is back and commanding us to supper, I try to delay the evil moment I feel sure is coming. Gabbling a little, I ask Harry what he makes of all this, but he is sceptical. ‘I imagine the King did not rest easy because he was worried that people would accept the pretenders as the true heirs to the throne.’
‘Then why did he not just execute them?’
‘He had to catch them first.’
As I tie up the notes and put them back in my casket, my hands shaking, the reference to the Tower leaps out at me. ‘Have you heard of someone called Tyrell, Harry?’ I ask. The name sounds familiar.
‘I think a man called Tyrell was beheaded by Henry VII, but I can’t remember why. Now come, sweetheart. My lord and lady do not like to be kept waiting.’
At supper, Pembroke announces that Queen Mary is to be proclaimed in London on the morrow. ‘There will be much rejoicing when the news breaks.’ But I am not rejoicing. The glorious days are done, all too soon. My sister is no longer queen, and the dread shadow of treason lies over us all.
In the morning, the Earl is for the Guildhall with the Privy Council, to wait upon the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the City and witness the proclamation.
‘You must all stay indoors,’ he says. ‘It would not do for the usurper’s sister to be seen in public, especially with my son.’ I open my mouth to protest, but he has gone.
‘Try not to worry,’ Harry says, hugging me, although his voice betrays his own anxiety. I am too frightened to speak. Pleading a headache, I go to my chamber and lie down, falling into troubled dreams in which the girl in the blue gown is running from some nameless horror, and I have to stand by, unable to help her.
After dinner, Pembroke is back, bringing the Mayor and all his brethren with him. There is a lot of commotion in the house, with people coming and going and doors opening and closing. Through my window I recognise some of the visitors as lords of the Council. Then silence falls, and I assume they have all left.
The rest of the afternoon is quiet. Beyond the open windows, I can hear the usual traffic and shouts from the river. It is a hot day, but a gentle breeze is stirring the damask curtains. I wish I could sleep again, and escape this misery and uncertainty. I should be with Harry, making the most of what might be my last hours with him, for I fear now that my marriage is doomed. At the thought of losing my love I fall to weeping. I would with all my heart that I could give myself to him just once.
Inspiration comes out of the blue. If we tell the Earl that we are husband and wife in very truth, he cannot part us! It would be a lie, but we would be safe. For on what other grounds could he have our marriage annulled?
My heart is pounding. I flop back on the bed, thinking it through, and decide that this ruse could work. I must tell Harry. But when I go to find him, Sanders tells me that he has ridden to Cheapside to hear the new Queen proclaimed. He has defied his father’s orders yet again! How glad I am to know that he is in such a bullish frame of mind, for no doubt he will be ready to defy my lord further.
I return to my chamber and sit at my table beneath the window. I refresh my face with some lavender water, pick up my comb and tidy my tangled hair. Setting the French hood atop it, and easing the band under my chin, I peer into the mirror and see myself, all white skin and great blue eyes shadowed by anxiety. I look ill. I pinch my cheeks to redden them and bite my lips. I must look fetching for Harry when he returns.
The clock strikes five. There is a great shout from the street, followed by yelling and cheering, and the sound of running footsteps. ‘God save Queen Mary!’ someone calls, and there are hurrahs and whistles. Then the bells begin their joyful pealing, as each parish church takes its lead from the next, and suddenly it seems that the whole world is rejoicing and ringing out the good news. Except me.
I race through the house to the landward side and look out of a window. Moments later, the Countess joins me. We watch, in silence, people running hither and thither with excitement, crying out the news and throwing their bonnets in the air, neighbour clasping the hand of neighbour, folk lighting bonfires and dragging tables into the street, setting them with food and liberal quantities of ale and wine.
‘I cannot remember ever seeing such celebrations,’ my lady says at length, as the sound of singing rises to us. ‘Look at them – they are even throwing coins out of windows. I’ll wager they’ll be carousing all night.’
I open the window and lean out. ‘Look!’
There in the street below me are normally dignified aldermen and merchants, worthy, respected men of substance, casting off their gowns and leaping and jigging with the common folk. And here returns the Earl of Pembroke, to much cheering. I see him smiling expansively, as if he personally has conferred this great blessing on the people who now crowd around him. We watch as he takes off his cap, fills it with gold angels, and tosses it to the crowd.
‘Make you merry!’ he cries. ‘God bless Queen Mary, our rightful queen!’ The citizens roar their approval and scramble for the Earl’s bounty. Then he holds his hand up to gain their attention, and declares in ringing tones: ‘Good people, I would have you know that my son’s marriage to the Lady Katherine Grey, made against my will by Northumberland, is to be annulled forthwith. The Herberts do not ally with traitors!’ This is greeted with more cheers, but I hardly hear them, for I am come over faint and the Countess has to help me to a chair.
‘No! No!’ I wail. ‘It cannot be!’
‘Hush!’ she admonishes, as the servants come running to see what is amiss. ‘You do yourself no good by such displays, child. Look, here is Harry. He knows it is best to obey his father’s will in this matter.’
Harry’s face is grim. He kneels beside the chair and clasps me to him.
‘No one shall separate us!’ he declares.
I grasp his hand tightly. I never want to let it go.
‘We have to tell them!’ I urge.
‘Tell them what?’ It is the Earl.
‘Tell your father, Harry, why he cannot have our marriage annulled,’ I cry to Harry, who looks nonplussed.
Pembroke frowns. ‘Indeed I can!’ he declares.
‘On what grounds?’ Harry asks, defiant now.
‘That it has not been consummated. You know that, boy.’
‘Then you cannot proceed – because it has,’ I declare, feeling myself grow hot with embarrassment, but determined to be staunch in my resolve to save my marriage. Harry regards me with admiration: he has caught my drift.
Pembroke laughs humourlessly. ‘Hah! That horse won’t run.’
Harry defies him. ‘I assure you, Sir, that Katherine is my wife in every sense. We have lain together in secret. To annul our marriage now would be to flout God’s law.’
‘It is true,’ I say. ‘I swear it.’
‘Spare me your oaths,’ Pembroke snarls. ‘How can it be true? Sanders has kept watch on you throughout, on my orders.’
‘Then ask him,’ Harry says, ‘ask him if he accompanied us to the tower room where first we looked at the old records.’
‘Pah!’ the Earl snorts. ‘I will not believe it. You think to turn me with vain lies.’
‘I do not lie!’ insists Harry.
‘Or I, Sir,’ I echo, crossing my fingers in the folds of my skirt. ‘It is the truth.’ I am determined to stand my ground.
‘This is all nonsense,’ declares the Earl, ‘and I will not listen to any more of it. You will leave my house tonight, Katherine. You will take with you only those things that you brought with you. And if you attempt to repeat your lies in order to subvert the annulment, it will go worse for your sister.’
‘No!’ I scream, and cling to Harry as to a life raft, begging an unheeding God not to let us be parted. Harry, unmanned, starts weeping too, holding me tightly and swearing great oaths at his father, but the Earl is unrelenting.
‘I have spoken. That is an end to the matter.’ And he stalks out of the room, leaving me half fainting with misery in Harry’s arms.
‘Go now, my Katherine,’ he enjoins me, harshly, as if he is tearing the words out of himself. ‘I will fight for you, I vow it.’ He releases me, his eyes intense, insistent. Their promise gives me the courage to do his bidding and let go of him.
‘Farewell for now,’ he says, holding my gaze, and lifting a gentle finger to brush away my tears. ‘Remember how much I love you, sweet wife.’
‘And I you, my dear lord,’ I whisper. Then, feeling as if my heart is utterly broken and can never be made whole again, I turn away and walk out of the room. I do not trust myself to look back.
*
The Earl has wasted no time in summoning his barge for me, with instructions to the boatmaster to deliver me to the house of my parents at Sheen, like an unwanted parcel. He has provided no attendant or escort, just the crew of the boat. I am not even permitted to take the maid he appointed.
His chamberlain briskly ushers me out of the house and down the stairs to the jetty, servants following behind with my hastily packed belongings. I am distraught, with tears streaming down my face, but no one appears to notice. My tragedy is not their concern.
I know that Harry meant what he said, that he will move heaven and earth to get me back. Yet Harry is his father’s son, and the Earl, as has been proved to me tonight, is a formidable opponent. I have to accept the worst now: I am henceforth no more than the sister of the usurper. No one will want to know me or associate with me, let alone marry me. At rising thirteen, this is a terrible thought. My life is over before it has barely begun.
The Priory is in darkness, the grounds drenched in shadows that loom in the moonlight. The barge master does his bidding and no more, and after he has deposited me and my gear on the jetty, he jumps back into the barge and gives the order to depart. The dim lights of the boat recede downstream and disappear into the night, and I am alone, with only the cold moon to light my way up to the dark bulk of the shuttered house.
‘It’s me, Lady Katherine!’ I cry, banging hard on the gatehouse door, but the only response is the eerie hooting of an owl. I rattle the big iron handles, but the portal is securely locked. The blackness of the night, the rustling of the tall trees silhouetted against a starless sky and the black mass of the gatehouse looming up above me are terrifying. Crying noisily now, I sink to my knees. Soon, I am screaming, ‘Help me! Help me! For the love of God, help me!’ Nothing in my short, sheltered life has prepared me for this.
‘Who’s there?’
God be praised, is that my mother’s voice? And can that be footsteps approaching the door? ‘Who’s making that racket?’ calls the voice. It ismy mother! Oh, thank God, thank God! Now I know that prayers are answered.
A light appears at the window above me.
‘Get down here, you fool!’ I can hear my lady saying testily to the porter, who has somewhat belatedly risen to do his duty. ‘Someone’s screaming fit to wake the dead!’
The great key turns in the lock, and there she is, my lady, staring down at me with a horrified expression on her face. She looks tired and drawn, and her brocade gown is mud-spattered at the hem.
‘What are you doing here, child?’ she asks, astonished.
‘The Earl turned me out of his house,’ I tell her.
‘He did what?’ But I am beyond speech. I break down again, and am amazed to find her arms about me, who has never been a demonstrative parent.
‘You shall tell me everything later,’ she says, as she raises me to my feet and supports me as she walks me to the house. I am staggered to hear a tremor in the voice of my strong, formidable mother.
My lord is nowhere to be seen.
‘Your father and I have not long arrived,’ my lady says as we enter the hall, where their baggage is piled in a heap on the floor. ‘I will send the steward to rouse the staff. There is no food in the house and the beds are unaired. But of course, they did not expect us.’
She sits down with me on the settle.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she commands, and in a halting voice I obey. It is only when I reach the part where I am forced to say farewell to Harry that I break down again. For once, my mother does not reprove such weakness. She is plainly furious, but not with me.
‘Pembroke ordered his barge master to abandon you here like that?’ she cries. ‘That is outrageous!’
‘There is more,’ I venture, knowing that my next words might earn me a beating or worse, but I must pursue my only hope. ‘Harry and me – we … we told his father we did lie together. The Earl had forbidden it, and had a man watch us, but we said we had given him the slip.’
My lady does not erupt in rage, but stares at me intently. ‘You spoke truth?’
‘No. I don’t think the Earl believed us anyway. He called us liars, and nothing we said could move him.’
‘It would not have done, even if your marriage had been consummated,’ my mother says stonily. ‘He has to break from us to win the favour of Queen Mary. You do know, I suppose, what has happened this day?’
‘Yes, Madam, I saw the celebrations in London for the new Queen. But what of poor Jane? Is she not here with you?’
‘You may well ask!’ she replies. ‘We had to leave Jane in the Tower, and for all I know she is now a prisoner.’
‘You hadto leave her?’ I have never presumed to question my mother, but the circumstances are like no other.
‘Good God, girl!’ she snaps. ‘Don’t you understand? In accepting the crown that was rightfully Mary’s, Jane has committed treason, and far be it from me, or your father, to attempt to remove her from the Tower. It is for Queen Mary to decide her fate.’
‘But Jane did not want the crown!’ I protest, stunned by the injustice of it all.
‘We must pray that the Queen takes that into consideration,’ my lady mutters.
‘She must!’ I cry. ‘They are saying she is a merciful princess.’
‘She is indeed merciful. I know her of old. I am placing all my hopes in her.’ The stern façade is crumbling: my mother suddenly looks as if she might collapse. It seems like the end of the world.
‘How is Jane taking this?’ I ask her.
‘I did not see her. Your father broke it to her that she was no longer queen, and himself tore down the canopy of estate from above her head. She took it well, saying she put off her royal robes far more willingly than she had put them on – and then she asked if she could come home. At that, knowing he had to do all he could to preserve our lives and fortunes, your father left her, and went to Tower Hill, where he proclaimed Queen Mary. Then we made all speed to return here.’
They had escaped and left Jane behind. They hadabandoned her to her fate. That made two of us they had used for their own ends and ruined. Suddenly I am no longer a child, unquestioningly accepting the wisdom of my elders; suddenly I have become aware that they have feet of clay.
My lady is pacing up and down now, her muddied train swishing behind her.
‘Where is my father?’ I ask.
‘He has gone into hiding,’ she tells me. ‘It is better for you that you do not know where. If the Queen’s men question you, you can say with truth that you have no idea where he is. But it will not come to that.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Because I am going to the Queen! I am going to plead for Jane and for your father, and convince her that they were forced by Northumberland to act against their wishes. Northumberland is finished. His capture is only a matter of time. Nothing I say now can make any difference to his fate.’
‘But what of me and Harry?’ I cry. ‘Will you not plead for us, my lady?’
‘You must have patience. There are matters far more pressing, and you are not the only one to be abandoned. Your sister Mary has been repudiated by Lord Grey.’
‘That is no loss to her! Harry and I love each other, and it is a fit match. We are wed in the sight of God!’
My mother’s eyes narrow. ‘Sometimes one has to achieve what one wants by subtle means. If I can persuade the Queen to pardon your father, and she takes him into favour, as I pray she will, then Pembroke will know it, and your marriage may be mended.’
My heart feels instantly lighter. There is, after all, hope, something I abandoned forever earlier when I left Baynard’s Castle. How strangely that wheel of fortune revolves. All may not yet be lost! My mother is still my mother, fierce, omnipotent and capable. Once again she is in control, and the world may right itself – and my sweet Harry and I be reunited.
Kate
22–26th June 1483. Baynard’s Castle, London.
‘Never, in all my days, did I think to hear that vile calumny again!’ the Duchess Cecily stormed, her habitual calm shattered. She had burst into the solar like an outraged black crow. ‘Conceived in adultery, eh? How could he do this to me? It is Clarence all over again. Was ever mother so betrayed by her sons?’
Anne hastened to comfort the old lady, who crumpled in her arms as Kate looked on helpless. Cecily was breathing heavily, and Kate feared she might collapse or die.
‘Now, my lady,’ Anne said, ‘pray tell us what has happened.’
‘My chamberlain has just returned from Paul’s Cross, where he goes every week to hear the Sunday sermons,’ the Duchess related, less agitated now, but still angry. ‘Today, it was the Mayor’s brother, Dr Shaa, who mounted the pulpit. And do you know what he took as his text? The multiplying brood of the ungodly shall not thrive, nor take deep rooting from bastard slips.’ The Duchess was shaking. ‘He has corrupted that preacher, who did not blush to say, in the face of all decency, that the sons of King Edward should be instantly eradicated, for neither could be a legitimate king, nor could King Edward’s issue ever be so.’
Anne’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘Who has corrupted Dr Shaa?’ she cried.
‘My son – your husband,’ the old lady said contemptuously. ‘That I should live to see yet another day when my own blood should so shamelessly slander me!’
‘Oh sweet Jesus!’ exclaimed Anne. ‘Tell me what exactly was said, I beg of you. Do not spare me the details.’
The Duchess snorted. ‘That priest had the effrontery to claim that my son, King Edward, was the fruit of my adultery – and was in every way unlike my husband York. Then he said that Richard, who altogether resembles his father, should come to the throne as the legitimate successor. It was then that Richard – I will not call him my son any more, for he is no son of mine – it was then that he made an appearance with Buckingham, but they had miscalculated the mood of the crowd, who booed and jeered at them, and yelled at Shaa that he was a traitor. How can I ever show my face in public again, after Richard has publicly insulted and slandered me?’
Anne knelt beside her. She spoke gently. ‘You can, because nothing can rob you of your good fame and virtue, dear Madam. You can hold your head high because everyone will know you have been unjustly slandered.’
‘It is not to be borne!’ Cecily raged.
‘You should lie down. This has been too much for you. Let me assist you to your bed.’
‘Lie down?’ the Duchess retorted. ‘Nay, I am going to the Tower to see Richard and demand an explanation, and then I am going to complain to all the noble men who will hear me of that great injury that he has done me. Nay, do not think to prevent me. I will have my chariot made ready now.’
‘Are you sure this is the best course, my lady?’ Anne asked.
‘It is the only course,’ the Duchess answered emphatically. ‘Richard owes me filial obedience and honour, and I will remind him of that!’
Anne exchanged glances with Kate, whose mind was in turmoil. This could not be happening. The Duchess’s chamberlain must surely have made a dreadful mistake.
Her grandmother stalked out of the room, an outraged and determined figure in black. When she had gone, Anne said nothing; she just went over to the window and gazed out at the Thames.
‘This slander is no new thing,’ she said. ‘Your uncle of Clarence and my father Warwick dreamed it up many years ago when they were plotting to overthrow King Edward. You see, they hated the Queen and the Wydevilles. My father thought that he, the greatest nobleman in the realm, should be the King’s chief counsellor, and he resented the Wydevilles bitterly, as did many other lords. So there was a rebellion, and King Edward was deposed and fled abroad. When he came back, there was a big battle at Barnet.’ Her voice tailed away. ‘My father was killed. Of course, no one believed the slander about your grandmother. My father and Clarence had claimed that she’d betrayed York with a common archer called Blaybourne, but it was mere propaganda; there was no truth in it. What made it doubly shocking was that it was her son Clarence who put this tale about. And now, it seems, another son has repeated the slander.’
‘But why? Why would my father do that to his own mother?’
‘Because,’ Anne said, sighing, ‘he wants to be king. I have long suspected it.’
Kate sat stony-faced, listening, unwilling to believe what she was hearing.
‘There was something that did not ring true about those weapons that my lord claimed the Queen’s party were plotting to use against him,’ Anne went on. ‘Some say they had been placed at the ready before the King’s death, for use against the Scots. And then there was poor Lord Hastings, who was hurried to his death barely shriven, and without trial. What is that, Kate, but tyranny?’
‘But it is my father of whom you speak,’ Kate protested.
‘And my husband, who has become as a stranger to me,’ Anne cried, showing rare passion. ‘I have loved him, as God is my witness, and I have been a good and true wife to him, but I do not know him any more.’
Truly her father had changed: he was no longer the gentle and loving lord of Middleham, but Kate loved him still and would defend him to the last. She could not believe all this of him, even though Anne, trustworthy, honest Anne, was saying it.
‘He is weighed down with the cares of his office,’ she insisted to her stepmother. ‘His very life is in danger. I’m sure he truly believed that those weapons would be used against him. And maybe – maybe – he believes too that there is truth in the slander against my granddam. Wicked people may have persuaded him …’
‘He is no fool,’ Anne declared. ‘He can make up his own mind and not be swayed by persuasion. If he believes it, it is because he wants to believe it.’
‘How can you say such a thing of my father?’ Kate retaliated, weeping. ‘He is a good man, and you should know! And maybe it istrue about my granddam and that archer!’ And she hurried from the solar to the sanctuary of her chamber.
Kate did not see her grandmother until dinner the following day, and then Cecily did not refer to her meeting with the Duke; she just ate her sparse meal silently, listening to her chaplain, who always read aloud from devotional books during mealtimes. Anne sat beside Kate, toying with her food as usual, although none of them had much appetite. Kate would not look her way. She was still very upset at what her stepmother had said the previous day. When dinner was over, and Cecily had retreated to her chapel, Kate got up and left too, sketching the briefest of curtseys to the Duchess Anne before going out into the garden, where she sat brooding under a tree.
