Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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‘Then things may be different. But there are those who would readily plot to overthrow a Catholic queen, especially if she marries Philip of Spain. Not I, of course, or any of her true subjects. Yet I do fear that, if her Majesty insists on this marriage, she will forfeit the love of many of her people.’
‘Your Grace, may I ask why you are telling me all this?’
Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. ‘Is it not obvious? We share common bonds, of blood – and other things.’ She does not elaborate, but I suspect she is referring to religion. She is too clever to say it, though. She has daily to pretend that she is willing and eager to embrace the Catholic faith, and is playing a perilous game. Many doubt her sincerity, but she dare not give herself away; she must convince the Queen that her conversion is genuine, and somehow leave the Protestants with room to hope that she has converted against her will.
Is she trying to enlist my support?
‘I am your Grace’s servant,’ I say, for want of anything else. I know I am out of my depth here.
‘If you hear anything said of me, pray tell me,’ she says lightly. I believe she thinks that I will now be ready and willing to show solidarity with her, two Protestant heiresses united in a common cause and supporting each other. I might be a lamb among wolves, but I am aware she is cozening me into acting as her spy in the Queen’s chamber.
I dare not refuse her outright. I sense that she might make a formidable enemy.
‘I thank your Grace for your kindness,’ I say. ‘Pray excuse me now, as I am needed to help her Majesty robe for the evening.’ And I curtsey, pick up my basket and hurry off, Arthur and Guinevere yapping at my heels, leaving Elizabeth sitting there with an unreadable look on her face. She is going to be very disappointed when she sees me going freely to Mass every Sunday and realises I am keeping my counsel about what I overhear in the privacy of the royal apartments.
Elizabeth is distinctly cooler towards me when we meet on the morning of the coronation, as the great procession is forming in Westminster Hall. She has been a distant figure during the past two days of celebrations: the triumphal progress along the river to the Tower, where it is customary for monarchs to lodge before being crowned; and the magnificent progress through a London decked with tapestries, flowers and pageants to Westminster, our ears resounding with the salutes of trumpets and cannon. She is not present when we deck the Queen in her purple and ermine on her coronation morning, but she is waiting in Westminster Hall to take her place in the procession, and in the seconds before she executes a dramatic curtsey that shows off the wide white-and-silver skirts beneath her sweeping scarlet mantle, she catches sight of me and gives me a faintly malevolent glance. I am stung by it: it is as if, by sending no word since she asked me to report anything said of her – and she surely must guess there would have been something to divulge by now – I have betrayed her. But she is not stupid: she must know I am in the most invidious position.
Resolving to ignore her, I refuse to meet her eyes as she takes her place next after the Queen and lifts up her train. Behind her, the Lady Anne of Cleves, King Harry’s divorced wife – a very merry lady, and no wonder – moves into position, and then it is my part, as a princess of the blood, to occupy the third place of honour. Mayhap this evidence of the Queen’s favour will serve to stop people avoiding me, as many have done since I arrived at court. For what else could be so plain a token that her Majesty thinks kindly on me?
The fanfares sound, then the lords start processing out of the hall in stately fashion, and in a little space we three ladies follow, walking in line behind the Queen’s Majesty along the bright blue carpet that has been laid along the path to the Abbey, and through the Abbey itself. I am overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of this day: the bells ringing out joyfully, the choir bursting into song, the awe-inspiring majesty of the organ, and the Queen, that small, thin figure weighed down by her heavy robes, dedicating herself with shining sincerity to the service of her country and people. And one other thing I will always remember: Harry’s face, among the lords, glimpsed as I pass on my way out of the Abbey in the wake of my crowned sovereign. I turn my head – how could I not? – and our eyes meet for a heartbeat. It is three months since I last saw my love. I smile – but he, like so many other people have done, looks away.
Part Two
Innocent Blood
Kate
July 1483. Windsor Castle.
KATE THOUGHT HER father looked magnificent in his royal mantle, seated on White Surrey at the head of his vast retinue, as he led the great procession through the lower ward and out of the gates of Windsor Castle. He was bound for London, and then Oxford, on the first stages of a great royal progress through his kingdom, the purpose of which was to greet his new subjects, and to court and win their loyalty.
She had stood by the mounting block as Queen Anne offered the stirrup cup and the King bade them a formal farewell and went on his way. She watched as his slight, erect figure on its magnificent destrier passed through the gates of Windsor, then searched desperately for a last sight of John de la Pole, who rode with the lords who followed their King; elegant in his black and gold doublet and a black bonnet with a curling feather, he waved to her gaily and blew a kiss. With a bereft heart, she stood looking after him until he had long disappeared from sight.
It was frustrating being left behind, but it would not be for long. The Queen had been slightly indisposed – a summer fever, the doctors had said – and did not feel up to travelling at the moment. It had been arranged that she and Kate would miss out the first stops on the progress and travel directly to Warwick Castle to join the King there. And then – oh joy, Kate thought, her heart soaring – she would be reunited with John! The days could not pass quickly enough.
‘It will be good to be in Warwick again,’ Anne said, as Kate joined her in the Queen’s chamber, a spacious apartment hung with gorgeous painted and gilded fabric, and graced with a fair stone fireplace and tall lattice windows. ‘I was brought up there.’
‘Will we be going to Middleham?’ Kate asked. She was still nostalgic for her old life, but these days she could think of little but John. They had met several times in the Dean’s cloister garden behind the new chapel that was a-building and would be dedicated to St George. The first time, John had given her a pink rose; he said it matched her cheeks. He was always paying her poetic compliments, calling her his ‘flower of beauty, excellent above all others, lovely, good and wise …’. He’d told her of his family, of his irascible sire, his lovable mother – her father’s sister, Elizabeth – and of the great houses he called home: Wingfield in Suffolk and Ewelme in Oxfordshire. He made her feel so important and special. She knew now, beyond any doubt, that she was in love with him.
The long days of their separation seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. She did not know how she would bear them. How inconvenient of the Queen to be ill at this time! She caught herself up at that. Anne was not strong, never had been. How could she think so unkindly of her?
Anne was watching her. ‘Where have you been?’ she chided. ‘I said I long to go to Middleham, to see my little boy.’ Kate started.
‘I beg your pardon, Madam, I was thinking about the progress.’
‘And a certain young man.’ The Queen smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.
‘I – you know?’ Kate asked, floundering. But she had done nothing wrong, nothing of which she was ashamed. John had never even attempted to kiss her.
‘There are no secrets in courts,’ Anne said. ‘You have been seen together, more than once; my ladies like to gossip. Dear child, I must caution you to be careful. I understand what it is to be young and smitten, and my lord of Lincoln is a very handsome young man with a persuasive way about him. Yet he is eight years older than you, and the game of love he plays is common at court. He knows he can never have you, so for him it is purely chivalrous dalliance.’
‘It is no game!’ Kate cried. ‘We love each other, I swear it. And he is unwed, and so am I, so why can he never have me?’
‘For a start, you are first cousins; you could not marry without the Pope’s dispensation, and that might prove expensive, given the close kinship. Forgive me, Kate, but you are baseborn. He is the Earl of Lincoln. He is destined to succeed his father as Duke of Suffolk, and should – God forfend! – anything befall my son the Prince, he may be in line for the throne itself.’
‘We can overcome all!’ Kate cried. ‘I may be baseborn, but I am the daughter of the King, and he has often spoken of arranging a great marriage for me. And John loves me! He will not quibble at seeking a dispensation.’
‘Has he spoken of marriage?’
‘Not yet. But we have only known each other a short time. He has spoken much of love, though, so I have no doubt his intentions are honourable.’
‘Oh my sweet Kate, how innocent you are,’ Anne exclaimed. ‘When men speak of love, they are not always thinking of marriage. And when they speak of marriage, they are thinking of rich dowries and lands.’
‘Surely my father will give me a rich dowry?’
‘Indeed he will. He has said so. But it is he who will choose the man you marry.’
Kate was beginning to feel desperate. ‘Then I will tell him I want to marry John.’
‘Might it not be best to wait and find out if John has marriage in mind? Or if his father has chosen a bride for him already.’
‘John is not betrothed. He told me so.’ She could remember the moment: they had been standing in a window embrasure late one evening, looking out at a starry sky. It was one of those moments she felt she wanted to hold on to forever. John had asked her if she was pledged to anyone, and had squeezed her hand when she had told him she was not, and then he had said he was not pledged either. At the time, it had felt like a promise. She had been certain he had been hinting that he desired to wed her, and her heart had soared again.
Anne was silent. ‘You run ahead with yourself, Kate. Listen, child: this must go no further until I have spoken to your father about it. We must find out his wishes in the matter.’
‘Will you speak for us?’ Kate’s spirits were suddenly uplifted.
‘I will ask him if he approves,’ Anne corrected her, and would not be drawn further.
Katherine
November–December 1553. Whitehall Palace.
Jane and Guilford are to be tried on the fourteenth of November. Although the Queen has assured me that the trial is merely a formality, and that a pardon will follow when the time is right, the announcement strikes dread into my heart. It reminds me how perilously close Jane has been brought to her utter ruin. May God grant that the Queen stays firm in her resolve to show mercy.
I wish I could see Jane and comfort her, and tell her that all will be well, that her Majesty is warmly disposed towards our family and bears her no malice. But I have not seen her for four months, and she is allowed no visitors.
I am in great fear lest this trial prejudice my own future. I told Renard that I, for my part, would be content to embrace the Catholic faith, but that, in all duty, I had to discuss the matter first with my parents, and I was sure he would understand that I needed to choose my moment. He warned that I must not say a word to my lord and lady about the possibility of my being named the Queen’s heir, which of course leaves me in a dilemma, because how else do I justify to them my sudden conversion?
Renard was deferential, yet he did not court me as before. Mayhap I have taken too long in making up my mind. Perchance he is not as warm in my cause as he was in September. And maybe this coming trial is too vivid a reminder that my close kin were traitors to the Queen only a few short months ago.
My life is a continual tempest. I am tormented by my need for Harry, and the devastation I feel in the wake of his snubbing me at the coronation, but somehow our paths never cross at court. I am sure he is avoiding me. Then there are new rumours that I and my sisters are to be declared bastards, on the grounds that my father was already wed when he married my mother. It’s nonsense, but rumour-mongers care naught for the truth! I suspect that the tale originated with the French ambassador, who probably knows by now that Spain and the Empire are putting their weight behind me in regard to the succession. It is all too much, and I find myself continually on the verge of tears, with only Arthur and Guinevere to comfort me.
My mother seeks me out one rainy day as I am taking some exercise in the long gallery with my dogs, brooding upon my woes.
‘I have to talk to you,’ she says, and leads me to the lodging she shares with my father; it is deserted just now, for he is at the cockpit, watching prize birds tear each other to pieces.
My mother seats herself in her chair. ‘I will not waste words,’ she says. ‘They are putting pressure on us, your father and me, to convert to the Roman faith. I think you know something about this. They said you are willing.’
‘Monsieur Renard did approach me about it,’ I say carefully. ‘He told me it was the Queen’s wish. I said I would consider it, but that I wanted to discuss it with you.’ It is not quite the truth, but it is near enough.
‘Indeed. It was the Privy Council that approached us,’ she tells me. ‘We told them it was out of the question, but they tried to bribe us, saying that great benefits would follow.’
‘And they will!’ I blurt out.
My lady stares at me in astonishment. ‘What do you mean? Out with it, girl, and tell me the truth!’
‘The Queen wishes it, I know that,’ I say, aware that I must dissemble well if I am to deceive my hawk-like mother. ‘She has said so, therefore it must follow that she will be generous to those who do her will. I can think of nothing that would please her so much as the conversion of her close kin.’
My lady gives me a long, penetrating look, then relaxes a little. ‘I did discuss with your father the possibility of our converting back to the Roman faith. I said it would go better for Jane, with her trial looming, if we complied with the Queen’s will. But he is unshakeable.’
A week later, though, I learn that, bullied by my mother, my father has at last agreed to be received once more into the faith of his youth. It is all over the court that they have both recanted the Protestant religion; it is a feather in the cap of the Catholics.
*
Jane and Guilford have been tried and condemned to death.
‘Rest assured, Lady Katherine, I am resolved to be merciful,’ the Queen told me kindly when she broke the news in the privacy of her closet. ‘However, the formalities had to be observed. My councillors demanded it. I promise you it was a fair trial, and the witnesses were allowed to speak freely. I warned my judges that I would have no intimidation, and that it was my pleasure that whatever could be produced in your sister’s favour should be heard.’
‘I thank your Majesty for your great mercy,’ I said and, falling on my knees, kissed her hand fervently. Tears were spilling down my cheeks.
‘Do not distress yourself, child,’ the Queen said, lifting me up. ‘In a short space, I will order the Lady Jane’s release. When I have a son.’ Her eyes took on that dreamy look we are all coming to know so well, as she turned away to gaze for the thousandth time at Master Titian’s splendid portrait of Prince Philip, to whom she is now betrothed.
‘It will not be long until he is here,’ she breathed, sounding like a girl in love.
‘Oh, I do wish for your Majesty’s happiness!’ I cried.
‘Bless you, dear child,’ she smiled.
Not everyone likes the idea of this marriage. Go out into London, and you will hear outraged protests about it. The people do not want ‘Jack Spaniard’ in England. They say openly that they would rather die than have the Spanish rule here; that Philip will be a harsh master, and bring in the Inquisition to torture and burn Protestants; and that this marriage will make England just another province of the mighty Habsburg empire. At court, there are lewd jokes about the Prince’s debauchery and whispers about his thieving nature. The Queen does not hear them – or chooses not to acknowledge them. Her mind is made up, and she fancies herself in love; she will not hear of any opposition to her marriage.
Personally, I think Prince Philip looks an attractive man, with his full lips and proper features; I can see why the Queen is so smitten with his portrait. I pray that he will be kind to her, for she is eleven years his senior, and looks it – and she is so full of maidenly modesty that it was some while before she could even bring herself to say the word ‘marriage’ in the presence of her councillors. She told us that herself, blushing furiously. I cannot imagine her bedding with a man!
The Lady Elizabeth is much discountenanced by the news of the Queen’s marriage. Her long hooked nose is much out of joint, for she is her sister’s legal heir, and if her Majesty bears a son, she – like me – will never succeed to the throne, which I am sure is what Elizabeth desires fiercely.
Maybe she should not have made so much fuss about going to Mass, for if she had put herself out to please the Queen, her Majesty would trust her far more, and would look more kindly on her as her successor. But Elizabeth has dissembled once too often, and now she sulks about the court, intriguing with the French ambassador, or urging Queen Mary to let her go to Hatfield or Ashridge, or another of the many houses she owns. But always the Queen refuses. She remains suspicious of her sister, and understands the necessity for keeping her where she can be watched.
There has been little love lost between Elizabeth and me since my actions made it clear to her that I was not going to spy for her or support her stand on religion. When we meet, she is polite, even talkative, but never warm. Yet today, when I am standing all forlorn in the deserted maidens’ dorter, having fled here to try to calm down after receiving the news of my sister, she seeks me out.
‘I heard about the Lady Jane’s condemnation,’ she tells me. Her voice is gruff; she seems unusually moved.
‘The Queen herself told me the news, your Grace,’ I say, trembling. ‘Even though she has promised mercy, it is a terrible thing to hear. Burned alive or beheaded, at her Majesty’s pleasure …’
‘I hear Jane took it well. They say she was calm when she walked from the Guildhall with the axe turned towards her. The crowds were silent when they saw she had been condemned.’ Elizabeth shudders; of course, her mother, Anne Boleyn, was beheaded for treason and other shocking crimes when Elizabeth was very young. How terrible it must be to live with that knowledge. No wonder she is so affected by today’s news.
‘Jane is innocent,’ I say. ‘The Queen knows it.’
‘How many are called traitor who are innocent?’ Elizabeth asks, unnerving me.
‘Dear God, how did we come to be in this situation?’ I wail, breaking down in tears.
‘Because of your Tudor blood,’ Elizabeth says. ‘It is a curse as well as a blessing. And since you are a woman, men seek to use you to satisfy their own ambitions, as Northumberland did with Jane. They sought to use me too, but I was cannier – and luckier. We poor creatures are but pawns on a chessboard. Even the Queen – if she marries – will be at the mercy of her husband.’
‘ Ifshe marries? It is certain that she will.’
Elizabeth flushed. ‘A slip of the tongue. Of course she will. But she will be no better off than any country wife. God’s blood, I will never marry. I’ll have no man rule me.’
I am sorry for her cynicism, and that she accounts love so lightly. Unlike me, she has not known the happiness of marriage. And yet maybe she is wiser than I, for those who fly high with happiness set themselves up to be dashed down with sorrow. I still relive that terrible moment in Westminster Abbey when Harry looked away.
Forgetting in whose presence I am, I sink down onto a bed, crying hopelessly, emitting great tearing sobs. Despite the Queen’s assurances, the full horror of Jane’s sentence keeps overwhelming me, and I cannot get it out of my mind. Burning is such a dreadful death. When I was very young, I saw a woman burned at the stake in London. Mrs Ellen hid my eyes, so I only watched for a few awful seconds, but I have never forgotten it, or the screams of the condemned. Not Jane! Please God, not Jane!
Elizabeth rests a hand on my shoulder.
‘I am sorry you have fresh occasion for sorrow,’ she says, more kindly than I have ever heard her speak. ‘You must have faith. Be obedient to Him whose strokes are unavoidable. He will not test you, or your sister, beyond your endurance.’
It is comforting to realise that Elizabeth has a more sensitive side. I cease crying and struggle to my feet, reaching in my pocket for my kerchief.
‘I am sorry, I forgot my manners to your Grace,’ I sniff. ‘I thank you for your kind advice, and I will take comfort in God.’
The moment of closeness has passed. Elizabeth regards me coolly; her mood, ever mercurial, has changed again. ‘It is said you will convert to the old religion,’ she says. ‘Is that from conviction, or because Spain wants it?’
How does she know that? The French ambassador, of course!
‘If I convert, your Grace, it will be because I am persuaded it is the right thing to do,’ I say, righteous with indignation. But her barb has hit home. I wouldbe changing my religion primarily to further my own ambitions – and she has made me feel badly about that.
‘Well, go and pray to your God – whoever He is,’ she says, reverting to her usual acerbity. She cannot but regard my conversion as anything other than apostasy.
‘I thank you for your kindness, your Grace,’ I say, suppressing my resentment. ‘I will do as you enjoin me.’
‘It will only be efficacious if you follow the true path,’ she says coldly, and disappears through the door with a swish of her green silk skirts.
I am beginning to suspect that Elizabeth hates me; I think I have always known it. What else can there be between us but rivalry? We are both too close to the throne for comfort; and she may have more than a suspicion that there is a move afoot to supplant her in the succession.
If her parting thrust made me feel guilty, her behaviour in the days and weeks that follow compounds it. I am, after all, the daughter of parents who were hot for the cause of church reform in King Harry’s reign, and came out as Protestants under King Edward, so I was mostly brought up in the new religion. Jane, of course, is one of its most passionate exponents, and had she been let to rule over us, I make no doubt but that England would have stayed firmly Protestant. But instead we have Catholic Mary, who has brought back the Mass and the holy images that were once deemed idolatrous, and made England’s peace with Rome. It has been a marvel to see so many hitherto ardent reformers suddenly confessing that they have secretly been Papists all along, so what choice do I have, if I want to survive at court – and if I want to be queen?
Elizabeth has seen through me, and makes it clear she despises me for my pragmatism. She shuns me at every opportunity, and utters bitchy remarks in my presence about people who are too craven to follow their conscience. Oh, she is clever: she speaks in reference to herself returning to the faith of her childhood with a whole heart – but I know where her darts are aimed. She thinks to occupy the moral high ground; yet this is the lady who complained that her belly hurt when it was time to go to Mass, or that she didn’t understand this or that finer point of Catholic theology. Her, with her brains and acute intellect!
To be honest, never having been much of a scholar, and having come under Queen Mary’s patient influence, I cannot now comprehend why being a Catholic is so wrong. Indeed, I have discovered that there is much about it that appeals to me. I love the sweet statues of the smiling Virgin and her Babe that the Queen has set up in her chapels, the silvery tinkling of bells at the altar, the spicy waft of incense and the comfort of knowing that the saints are praying for me in Heaven. Indeed, to my good cheer, I have learned that there is a whole panoply of them, of whom I might beseech a timely intercession with the Lord God, each having a special patronage. And I must confess myself glad to be spared the interminable sermons of the Protestant preachers, having never been able to sit still and suppress my yawns in Sunday services, much to my mother’s annoyance. How she would prod me sharply in the arm, to make me pay attention! It is a relief to have all that behind me.
But Elizabeth is cut of a different cloth. She will stand there, demure and maidenly in her unadorned black and white Protestant garb that she affects because she knows it riles Queen Mary, and with her long red hair loose over her shoulders in token of her virgin youthfulness – another way of showing herself in a more favourable light than the ageing Queen – and look disapprovingly down that sharp, hooked nose at the jewelled crucifix I have taken to wearing on my breast; and she will give me that hurtful, withering glance that brands me a hypocrite.
Her dislike is palpable and, of course, there are other reasons for it. When we do meet, she takes pleasure in telling me that my skin is too pale, my hair too fine and too light in colour, or my figure too thin, twisting her own luxuriant red locks in her fingers as she speaks, or smoothing her cheeks, or spanning her slim waist with her hands. She cannot bear to think that anyone might be more beautiful or attractive to men than herself.
I suspect that what lies at the root of her dislike is fear. She knows full well that I am next in line to the throne after her; and therefore, whatever attributes I might have to recommend me – and she makes it plain that, in her opinion, they are not up to much – I am her rival.
I know I must be wary of her; she is her father’s daughter.
Jane Dormer, who serves alongside me in the Privy Chamber, is one of her Majesty’s maids-of-honour and closest friends, and a young lady more sweet, pious or learned you could not hope to meet. When the Queen herself sends her to me, it becomes apparent that my position in regard to religion is of the highest importance to her Majesty.
Mistress Dormer bids me follow her into her Majesty’s oratory, a closet richly decked out with blue and gold hangings, with an altar on which stands a bejewelled crucifix and a painted statuette of the Virgin and Child, and a prayer stool covered with a costly Turkey rug.
‘We can be private here,’ Dormer says, smiling kindly. ‘Do not look so anxious, Lady Katherine. There is nothing to fear. Now – Monsieur Renard has approached you in regard to the succession to the throne.’ It is a statement, not a question. My heart starts thumping with excitement. This is the moment I have waited for.
‘You can imagine how important – nay crucial – your conversion to the Catholic faith is to the Queen,’ Jane says. ‘And that of your lord and lady too. However, I am charged to tell you that your father has this day recanted, which has caused her Majesty great distress, for he has changed his coat twice now, and clearly cannot be relied upon.’
Her words strike ice into my heart. ‘I am deeply sorry to hear of my father’s offence,’ I stress. ‘I would not wish his fault to be imputed to me.’
‘Nor is it,’ she assures me. ‘But her Majesty is hoping to hear that you have now come to a decision over your own faith. I believe you have had some weeks to think about it. If you have any questions or doubts, I am here to assist and advise you.’
‘I thank you, Mistress Dormer, but I have made my decision,’ I say, feeling I am on the brink of something momentous. ‘Please tell her Majesty that I will willingly and gladly convert to the Catholic faith.’
Kate
August 1483. Warwick Castle.
When Queen Anne’s party finally arrived at Warwick, riding through the mighty new Tower House gate after what seemed an endless journey in sweltering weather, they found the court buzzing with talk of a conspiracy to set the deposed Edward V back on the throne. King Richard greeted them affectionately, but later, when they supped together privately in the solar, he dismissed the servitors as soon as the first course had been brought in, and unburdened his troubled mind.
‘My throne is not as secure as I thought,’ he said darkly, clenching his fist as it lay on the table. ‘Never mind my just title, or that magnificent coronation, or my efforts to court the favour of my subjects: they hate me. They do not cheer when I pass, or return my greetings. Instead, they mutter or call out against usurping northerners, whom they hate as a matter of principle, ignorant fools.’
‘There will always be distrust between southerners and northerners,’ the Queen said.
‘Madam, I cannot discount the half of my kingdom,’ Richard answered. ‘I am king of the south as well, and it is in the south and west that these conspiracies originated. Confederacies were formed, assemblies gathered unlawfully, their purpose to free my nephews from the Tower. Some were plotting to divert the gaolers with a blaze.’
‘Gaolers? Are the Princes now prisoners?’ Anne’s shock was evident.
Richard frowned. ‘Madam, in the circumstances, I have had to order a close guard to be kept on the Lord Bastards.’ His emphasis reproved her for calling them princes. ‘But they are safe and well cared for. You need not trouble yourself about them.’
‘They are children! They cannot lead their lives in captivity.’
‘Nor will they,’ Richard assured her. ‘As soon as I am safely established on my throne, they will be set free, and provided for honourably.’
Kate was relieved to hear that, and she could see her stepmother visibly relaxing. Cheered, she helped herself to another slice of lark pie. Her father smiled at her.
