Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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‘She dare not permit you to marry,’ the stiff figure in the chair croaks, ‘and I will tell you why. If you marry and bear a son, you will create a focus for dissension and rebellion, just like Jane. A beautiful young queen-in-waiting with a hearty boy in her arms – who could resist? But beware, daughter, for when that boy grows not so much older, you will find that the eyes and hopes of men focus on him, not you – and goodbye Queen Katherine!’
She snorts impatiently. ‘She shouldhave named you her successor by now. It is your right, and Stokes tells me there is a powerful lobby at court urging it. But Elizabeth only sees that you have set yourself up as a Catholic rival – and that you pose a threat just by existing. And, daughter, there is another pertinent reason why she sees you as a rival, trivial as it seems, but not trivial to her, who was ever vain of her looks, right from childhood. It is because you are beautiful and she is not!’ My lady’s tone is tart. ‘That increases your appeal, not only for men – and I warn you, she cannot abide a rival in that way – but for those who question her title to the throne, and they are many.’
‘The Catholics,’ I say.
‘Yes, and those who will never believe that King Henry was legally married to her mother, that strumpet Anne Boleyn.’
It is as well that the women have left us alone and closed the door, for now that Elizabeth is queen, such talk about Anne Boleyn would be considered seditious, even treasonable.
My lady eyes me speculatively. ‘You are truly a Catholic still?’
‘I must be practical. I have subtly let it be known that I am ready to champion the cause of the Catholics, and so win their support. King Philip is the most powerful prince in the world, and the strongest in Europe. He is backing me.’
My lady smiles. ‘So he will put pressure on Elizabeth to name you her heir. She is in no position to refuse. She needs his support. Remember, her throne is insecure: in the eyes of much of Christendom, she is a baseborn heretic with no right to the crown. You, Katherine, are of unquestioned legitimacy.’ She has lowered her voice, for her words are nothing less than high treason, and she could lose her head for them. Unbidden, I get up and go to the door, peering out to see if anyone is listening, but the women have gone. With relief, I espy them all through the window, walking in the garden on this unseasonably mild day.
‘I have done my best to attract King Philip’s support,’ I say. ‘I go to Mass openly on Sundays. I wear a crucifix and carry a rosary, especially where the Spanish ambassador can see me.’
‘I see you have used your head, my girl!’
‘I try to be circumspect. I do take care to make public displays of my faith, yet not, I think, so overtly as to incur the suspicions of the Queen.’
‘You have done well, Katherine, and I am pleased to see you are learning the game of politics,’ my lady beams. Such praise, coming from her, is rare.
‘What news of my son Seymour?’ she asks.
‘Good news! Queen Elizabeth has restored to him the earldom of Hertford, which was held by his father; surely, my lady, that would make him a fit mate for me in her Majesty’s eyes?’
She regards me sceptically. ‘Do not expect her to see any man as a fit mate for you. In truth, I do not see how this marriage you desire can be accomplished.’
Looking at my poor mother, slumped in her chair, I realise with a jolt that I should make haste to avail myself of the weight she carries with the Queen.
‘We need your help, my lady,’ I blurt out. ‘That is why I have come. Ned waits without. He has ridden over from Hampton Court. He – we – have something we must ask you. He wants to do things properly. Please hear what he has to say. We think you can help us.’
My mother sighs. ‘You had better summon Stokes.’ And she raises herself with an effort, and sits resting her hand regally on her cane.
‘What of Ned?’ I ask.
‘He can wait a while.’
Master Stokes arrives and fusses over my mother, settling her more comfortably in her chair, which she bears with grim fortitude.
‘Husband,’ she says, ‘there is much goodwill between yon belted Earl waiting without and my daughter. They wish to wed, and in my opinion, he is a very fit husband for her. It remains for the Queen to give her consent to their marriage.’
‘A fitting match indeed, my dear. But will her Majesty agree?’ he asks doubtfully, clearly used to being governed and guided by his wife.
‘She will make difficulties, of that you can be sure. Yet I have long had some influence with Elizabeth, and I am willing to attempt to persuade her.’
‘Then shall we see the Earl, my dear?’
My mother indicates the door with her beringed hand, and Stokes ushers Ned in. He bows elegantly before her, and she invites him to kneel for her blessing.
‘Welcome, Son Seymour,’ she says, with just a hint of amusement. ‘You may kiss me.’ And she smiles as he rises and bends his head to her. ‘You have something to ask me, I think.’
‘Yes, Madam.’ Ned’s voice betrays nervousness. ‘I have called upon your Grace formally to ask for the Lady Katherine’s hand in marriage.’
‘Then I gladly give my consent.’ She smiles. ‘I have long wanted you for a son-in-law, and I should like to see Katherine happily settled before I depart this life.’
Ned, standing beside me, grips my hand discreetly in a fold of my skirt and exhales with relief. He looks so handsome standing there, his cheeks slightly flushed, his eyes alight with triumph.
‘Well, daughter,’ my lady barks. ‘I have provided a husband for you, if you can like well of it, and if you are willing to frame your fancy and goodwill that way.’
‘I am very willing to love my lord of Hertford,’ I declare avidly.
‘Then it is settled. Now, Stokes, we must compass the best way of approaching her Majesty. Confronted by myself in person, she may instantly refuse; but a letter explaining the benefits of the marriage, and reaffirming our loyalty, may be read again and digested at leisure, leaving space for consideration.’
My stepfather claps Ned on the back. ‘Her Grace will write a letter for your lordship to the Queen’s Majesty.’
‘Nay, we will write one together, husband,’ my lady decides. ‘I pray you, devise a rough letter for me to copy, so that I may add my persuasions to yours, and thereby hopefully obtain the Queen’s goodwill and consent. But before I do that – a word in private, Katherine.’
The men bow and withdraw from the room.
‘Tell me again, girl – is this marriage what you really want?’ My mother pierces me with those hawk-like eyes that have lost none of their fierceness.
‘Yes, my lady!’ I cry. ‘I long to marry Lord Hertford!’
‘Then I shall do all in my power to see that you do. I failed one daughter, but I shall not fail another. I needed to make sure that you have enough fight in you for what may lie ahead. Now, I must write that letter, and then we shall celebrate!’
I am bursting with excitement, and when we are alone, Ned picks me up and whirls me round in delight, then kisses me heartily until I am near to swooning with pleasure. Soon – very soon – we might be man and wife, and all this tortuous longing will be behind us. My mind racing ahead, I see us happily married, seated at our hearth, our children at our feet; or being fêted at court as society’s golden couple, and even Queen Elizabeth, assured once and for all that we are no threat to her, smiling benevolently on us. I even envisage a time further ahead, and two people seated on thrones, queen and king together …
This happy reverie is interrupted by Stokes calling for us. They have finished writing the letter. It is brief and to the point, the best thing to start with, my lady explains, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. I take it and read the words that appear after the elaborate salutation required by courtesy:
The Earl of Hertford does bear goodwill to my daughter, the Lady Katherine, and I do humbly require the Queen’s Highness to be a good and gracious lady unto her, and that it may please her Majesty to assent to her marriage to the said Earl.
Is that all? Does my mother think such a letter sufficient appeal on my behalf? I pass it to Ned, and he reads it, frowning.
‘With respect, your Grace, we had hoped for more persuasions.’
‘Trust me,’ my lady says, grimacing. ‘It must not look as if we anticipate her Majesty’s refusal. This is just a beginning. I shall send the letter, and then, the ground being laid, I shall bestir myself to go to court and obtain her Majesty’s favour. I do not think she will refuse her old gossip. And now, I must go to my bed. I have had enough excitement for one day, and am feeling weary to my bones.’
She makes to rise, and both Stokes and Ned move to assist her. But as she walks heavily away, leaning on my stepfather’s arm, I see to my horror bright blood pooled upon her chair and staining the back of her gown. I know it cannot be her monthly flux, for her courses ceased three years ago.
I look at Ned and see him staring at the chair, then our eyes meet. I am beyond embarrassment, even though I know whence this blood must have come; instead, I am in dread, confronted with this terrible evidence that my majestic mother, the rock and mainstay of my life, and the hope of my future, is but mortal.
My mother has a humour of the womb, Dr Allen says. Rest should help, and infusions of geranium and rose. There must be no question of her leaving the house – and therefore no question of her going to court.
And because of that – oh, my sweet Ned, how can I bear it? – her letter cannot yet be sent to the Queen.
Kate
February 1484. The Palace of Westminster.
‘Madonna, last summer there was an Italian visitor to court, Dominic Mancini,’ Pietro Carmeliano said in hushed tones, although he and Kate were quite alone in the royal library. ‘He was my friend. He was in the train of the French ambassador, and his task was to send home reports of affairs in England. Thus he made it his business to know what was going on.’
‘What was he like, this Dominic Mancini?’ Kate asked.
‘He was a monk, a very devout and compassionate man, and wise too. He wrote an account of the rise of your father the King to the throne, but I never saw it completed, for it was unfinished when he left England last summer.’ Pietro hesitated.
‘Please speak freely!’ Kate urged. ‘Whatever the truth, I would rather hear it.’
‘Very well, Madonna. I will tell you everything.’ And he did.
‘Dominic got his information from several people at court, including Dr Argentine, who was physician to your cousin, King Edward. Forgive me, Madonna, but Brother Dominic was suspicious of your father’s intentions from the start. He thought him ambitious and cunning. He knew Edward had been well served by Earl Rivers and Sir Richard Grey, and was shocked when my lord of Gloucester had them executed.’
‘But they were a danger to my father,’ she protested.
‘Yes, Madonna, Brother Dominic knew that; he knew too that your father hated the Wydevilles and blamed them for his brother Clarence’s death. He found much to praise in Gloucester for governing the north well, for his renown in war, and for his exemplary private life. But even though Brother Dominic was appalled at the power wielded by the Wydevilles, he was impressed by the young King Edward, and praised him to the skies.’
Again Pietro hesitated. ‘Knowing that Gloucester hated and feared the Wydevilles, my friend came to believe that, from the moment he heard of King Edward’s death, the Duke determined to take the throne for himself.’
‘No, that was much later,’ Kate insisted, ‘when Edward V was proved to be illegitimate.’
‘Forgive me, Madonna. You asked me to tell you what I know, and I am only repeating what Dominic Mancini showed me in his book. And that was just his opinion, based on what he learned at court. I do not – how you say – comment on the truth of it.’
‘I am sorry, Pietro,’ Kate apologised. ‘Please go on.’
The Italian continued with Mancini’s account of the events following King Edward’s death, most of which was familiar to her. But she was disturbed to hear Mancini’s view of her father.
‘Brother Dominic was convinced that the Duke was in haste to remove all the obstacles that stood in the way of his plans. He believed he was driven by ambition and lust for power, and that he had set his thoughts on eliminating everyone who stood in the way of his mastering the throne.’
‘Everyone who was a threat to him, you mean!’ Kate interrupted. ‘He was trying to do things honourably, as he made plain at the time, but he was beset by enemies.’
‘That, I fear, was not Brother Dominic’s view. Would you prefer me not to go on?’ Pietro was regarding her unhappily.
‘Nay, I will hear it all, even if it is hateful to me,’ she replied. ‘Only then can I weigh it wisely. You see, I know my father. He is a good, upright man. Why did Brother Dominic slander him so?’
‘You tell me,’ Pietro said. ‘He had no involvement in your English politics. He was just an observer, and an impartial one too.’
‘But the information fed him may not have been impartial.’
‘Forgive me, Madonna, but I think he had wit enough to judge of that.’
‘And others might have judged it differently!’ Kate was angry. It seemed that, whatever she said to counteract Dominic Mancini’s view of her father, Pietro had a rational argument against it. But this Mancini might well have been fed a distorted and hostile view of events. It stood to reason.
‘Go on,’ she commanded, a trifle coolly.
‘As you wish, Madonna,’ Pietro said. ‘It seemed to Brother Dominic that Gloucester felt his future was not sufficiently secure without the removal of those who were faithful to his brother’s offspring. Hastings was killed on a false pretext of treason, not by the enemies he had feared, but – it must be said – by a friend he had never doubted. After that, Gloucester put up the hue and cry for Lord Dorset, but he had prudently escaped abroad. Then something ominous occurred.’
‘What?’ Kate’s tone was sharp.
‘After Hastings was removed, all the attendants who had waited on the King in the Tower were dismissed and debarred access to him.’
‘My father said he could not trust them,’ she argued. ‘He feared that Dorset had suborned them. How did Brother Dominic know that, anyway?’
‘Dr Argentine told him.’
‘Was Dr Argentine dismissed too?’
‘No, Madonna. He was treating the young King for a swelling of the jaw. The King was in much pain with his teeth and gums. The Duke could hardly dismiss his doctor. But the boy was now effectively a prisoner. Dr Argentine confided to Brother Dominic that Edward believed death was facing him and, like a victim prepared for sacrifice, sought remission of his sins daily. He was without all hope, and sunk in despair.’
‘No, I will not believe it!’ Kate cried out. ‘My father would never have countenanced him suffering thus. He kept on the doctor! Was that not a kindness? And the King was ill and in pain. Probably he feared he would die of his malady, not by violence.’
‘But Madonna, Dr Argentine seems also to have feared violence.’ The little Italian looked unhappy. ‘And it was just after that that the Duke surrounded the sanctuary with soldiers and forced the Queen to surrender the Duke of York into his keeping. For well he knew that York would be king if anything happened to Edward V.’
‘But my father feared the Wydevilles! That was at the root of it all. A child cannot seek sanctuary. It was not right to keep him there. And in the Queen’s hands, York was a threat to my father. But she would not give him up, and so he had to make her.’
‘Well, Madonna, you may put your own interpretation on these events. But Brother Dominic told me that soon after York was sent to join his brother, the two Princes were withdrawn into the inner apartments of the Tower, and day by day began to be seen more rarely behind the bars and windows. Occasionally people could see them shooting at the butts in the Lieutenant’s garden.’
Kate thought of Caesar’s Tower, that massive white keep: that was where they were being held, no doubt. It was said to be so strong and secure that no one could possibly escape, or attempt a rescue, so it made sense that her father had confined his nephews there. Given the plots to rescue Edward V, it had been a wise decision.
‘Gloucester then began acting like a king, putting off his mourning robes and wearing purple,’ Pietro was saying, and Kate recalled her father riding triumphantly through London in that great purple mantle. ‘He had the sons of King Edward declared bastards. He had corrupted preachers to proclaim them as such, putting forward some false tale about a precontract.’
‘It was not false!’ Kate averred.
‘Brother Dominic thought it was.’
‘Brother Dominic was clearly not a reliable witness,’ she countered.
‘That is as may be, Madonna. I but relate what he wrote. And he said that the lords in London, seeing the alliance of Gloucester and Buckingham, and perceiving that the dukes’ power was supported by a multitude of troops, became fearful for their own safety. They had heard of the fates of Lord Hastings, Rivers and Grey, and decided it would be hazardous to resist Buckingham’s calls for Gloucester to be acknowledged king. And so they consented, and Gloucester occupied the kingdom. Brother Dominic left England after the coronation. It was just before he departed that he told me he had heard that the Princes had ceased to appear at the windows of the Tower. He said he had seen many grown men burst into tears and lamentations when mention was made of them after their removal from men’s sight; already there was a suspicion they had been done away with. That was long before the rumours of which you speak.’
‘But it was only a suspicion,’ Kate insisted, clutching at the loophole in the argument, although again the uncomfortable memory of Lord Stanley weeping came to her unbidden. ‘Was there any proof?’
‘There was no proof, Madonna. Brother Dominic wrote that, as to whether the Princes had been done away with, and in what manner, he could not say.’
‘So his account is based on speculation,’ Kate said firmly. ‘Others might place another construction on these events.’
‘Indeed they might, Madonna. As I said, I but repeat what I heard. I trust you will not hold that against me.’ The little man looked nervous: he must know that much of what he had said might be construed as treason.
‘Of course not,’ Kate replied, but already she was aware that there would be no more afternoons spent in the library with Master Pietro Carmeliano. In her mind, he would forever be associated with this sordid fantasy of a tale. True, she had pressed him to recount it, and he had been reluctant; but its unfolding had been more disturbing and distasteful than she could ever have anticipated. And yet, despite that, she still believed in her father’s integrity, for Pietro’s allegations rode so ill with what she knew of him. It was all malicious invention, she told herself.
She did not linger after that – she wanted just to get away. And when she did, she asked discreetly around the court as to whether anyone had seen Dr Argentine. She wanted desperately to speak to him, for he, of all people, would perhaps know if the Princes still lived, and in what conditions. But no one could answer her. She met with blank looks and shaking heads.
Eventually, unwillingly, she returned to the library. Pietro must know the doctor’s whereabouts, surely. He was still there, scratching away with his quill pen.
‘I forgot to ask,’ she said. ‘Where can I find Dr Argentine?’
Was it fear she glimpsed fleetingly in Pietro’s eyes?
‘Why do you seek him, Madonna?’ he asked.
‘To find out more about my cousins, since you cannot tell me the latest news of them.’
‘Alas, I cannot. You are months too late. Dr Argentine also left England after the coronation, and where he is now I could not say.’
‘He was made to leave?’
‘No, Madonna – he fled.’
Katherine
August–September 1559. Eltham Palace, Nonsuch Palace and Whitehall Palace.
July brought news that the King of France was dead, killed by a lance piercing his eye during a tournament. His son, Francis II, being married to the Scottish Queen Mary, my cousin, now saw fit to use the royal arms of England in her right. It was a deadly insult to Queen Elizabeth, for it proclaimed her a usurper, unfit by stain of bastardy to wear her crown. And verily, from that moment, I am sure, she began to hate the Queen of Scots.
But something has come to light to convince Elizabeth that I am even more of a danger to her than Mary.
I knew nothing of it, I swear it. Kindly, supportive Feria had gone home and been replaced as ambassador by Bishop de Quadra, and although the Bishop has been lavish in his courtesy and compliments, I have never had any cause to trust him – rather the opposite. And now it has been discovered that the Spaniards were plotting my abduction to Spain, where I was to be wed to King Philip’s son, Don Carlos, and be proclaimed heiress-presumptive to the English throne. It is bad enough that Don Carlos is a deformed sadist with a penchant for torturing servants and animals, but worse still that Philip, de Quadra and all the others involved in the plot assumed that my consent was a foregone conclusion.
‘You have only yourself to blame,’ scolded Kat Astley, Chief Lady of the Bedchamber, when I came begging an audience with the Queen to protest my innocence. ‘You have shown yourself discontented and complained you are held in poor regard by her Majesty.’
‘But I did nothing to encourage the Spaniards,’ I wailed, seeing that the door to the privy chamber was still firmly closed to me.
‘Your discontent was enough,’ I was told tartly. ‘Aye, and your Romish faith. No wonder the Queen cannot abide you!’
I fled in tears to the safety of my chamber, and there flung myself on my bed and wept my heart out for very despair. And thus I have continued to this day, beset on every side by dread and fear: of what the Queen might do to me, if she chooses to believe that I was involved in that dastardly plan; of what others might yet be plotting on my behalf; and of how this might impact on Ned and me, and our hopes of marriage. In vain have I written to my ailing mother, begging her to send her letter to the Queen, or to come herself, if she can, to plead our cause; but there has been no reply. This I see as ominous: either she is too ill, or – I fear – she has forsaken me, thinking our matter too difficult.
At last, I have news of my lady, and it is encouraging: she writes that she is feeling a little better. And Ned is here! When the Queen began her summer progress, he himself was unwell, and sent word to say he was sorry he could not be present, but now he has returned to court, and the summer days suddenly seem sunnier and more golden. We seize every moment to be together.
‘There is great love between you two, I wis!’ young Lady Anne Russell trills. I look at her in alarm. I had not thought we had been so transparent. ‘Oh yes, the whole world is talking about you!’ she declares, to my dismay.
Three days later, in the maidens’ dorter, Douglas Howard, another of the Queen’s ladies, seeks me out.
‘I hear you are like turtle doves with Lord Hertford,’ she mutters, ‘and everyone is saying that nothing can come of it, for he is using you to further his own interests, and means you no good.’
‘What do you know of it?’ I seethe. ‘You and all the others? You have no idea! I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself!’ And I go to bed in a temper.
But Ned is true, I’d swear on that. Daily he gives me proof of his love. At Nonsuch, the most exquisite little jewel of a palace ever built, my uncle, the Earl of Arundel, lays on great entertainments for the delight of the Queen, and Ned and I have plenty of opportunities to meet at the lavish banquet the ornate masque, the hunt in the park, and the play performed by the choristers of St Paul’s. The revelry goes on until three o’clock in the morning, and then Ned and I escape to walk in the groves and kiss by the marble fountains. Such snatched moments are bliss to me.
Yet this idyll cannot last, and not long after our return to Whitehall, Ned comes to me with a long face.
‘It is not good news,’ he blurts out. ‘I have sounded out several on the Council now, and the answer is always the same. It is not the right time to consider our marriage.’
‘But why?’
‘Prince Erik of Sweden is here to pay court to the Queen. Until the outcome of that is known, we are advised to wait. In the meantime, I will do my best to win favour with Prince Erik. I hear he enjoys tennis.’
‘In that case, he must approve of you. He could not have a better opponent. But it is hard to have to wait. I would I were a private person and could marry where I pleased!’
‘Come, you would not like that, Katherine!’ Ned snorts. ‘And nor would I. Just be patient a while longer – and then, God willing, we can have it all!’
Kate
February 1484. The Palace of Westminster.
Kate fretted about Dr Argentine’s flight. Might he have known more than was good for him about the fate of the Princes? Had he meddled too far in matters that did not concern him, or had he simply been an incompetent doctor?
The thought struck her that her cousin Edward might have died of natural causes, or at the hands of the doctor who was trying to cure him. She had heard of many cases where the remedy had proved more fatal than the disease. That would have been reason enough for Dr Argentine to have fled. And it was easy, in this present climate, to see why her father would never have announced the death of his nephew, for people would surely have laid the blame for it at his door. They had been quick to call him murderer as it was!
It was all a tangled puzzle, and she found it hard to think straight. How could she make sense of the many loose ends? Could she keep on believing that her beloved father had done no wrong? Truly, she did not know any more.
When Kate sat down at the chessboard in the King’s privy chamber on the evening after her talk with Pietro, she found herself looking at her father afresh.
‘You are not paying attention, Kate,’ he chided. ‘I said, watch your knight. What ails you?’
She summoned her courage. ‘Sire, I have been much disquieted by foul rumours about my cousins in the Tower.’
Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You should not pay attention to pernicious rumours,’ he reproved.
‘Then my cousins are well?’
‘Why should they not be?’ His tone was defensive and sharp. Queen Anne, seated by the crackling fire, looked up from her sewing. She shook her head almost imperceptibly at Kate.
‘No reason at all, Sire,’ Kate said quickly. Her father frowned and said no more.
The next morning, after Mass, Kate stayed on her knees in the empty chapel, trying to make sense of everything. But it was all too much for her, and she found herself weeping uncontrollably. And that was how the Lord Chancellor, the Bishop of Lincoln, found her when he entered the chapel a few minutes later.
‘Why, my dear child, what is wrong?’ he asked in his mellow, cultivated voice. Kate lifted a tear-stained face in which her misery was written clear. She was relieved to see Bishop Russell standing beside her. She knew him for a just man of great learning and piety, a man of integrity who had sometimes been a guest at her father’s table. The sight of his strong, serene face calmed her.
She stood up, wiping her eyes. ‘I have done my father the King an injury,’ she sniffed. ‘But I would not have hurt him for all the world.’
‘I am sure that a young lady like yourself could not have done anything that was so very bad,’ the Bishop said kindly. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’
Kate realised that she would, very much. She needed reassurance about the dark matters that had been gnawing at her for weeks, and her talk with Pietro had only added to her torment. She was painfully torn: she could not bear to have those horrible things said about her father – and yet she was tortured by the possibility that there might be some truth in them. Every time she had tried to talk to John about her fears, he’d offered some comforting explanation; yet she suspected he was biased, immovably her father’s man. And then she would feel guilty about being so disloyal herself. But these terrible suspicions would not be stilled!
Bishop Russell was an experienced politician, well acquainted with the workings of the court, the Council and Parliament, and an honest man at the centre of affairs. If anyone knew the truth, it was he.
She sank down in the royal pew and his Grace seated himself comfortably beside her.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘there is no one to hear, and you may speak freely. Do not think that anything you say can shock me, for in my calling I have heard the whole panoply of the human condition; and this will be between ourselves only.’ He paused and waited, contemplating his episcopal ring.
‘There have been dreadful rumours these past weeks,’ Kate began, then faltered. Even now, she hated to give voice to them. ‘They accuse my father of murdering his nephews.’ There – it was said.
The Bishop was silent at first. He appeared to be considering. Kate was holding her breath in trepidation.
‘The King was ambitious, there can be no doubt of that,’ he said at length. ‘He wanted the throne, although when he first conceived that desire I cannot say. And he removed those who stood in his way. I know for a fact that Lord Hastings never conspired against him. So yes, he displayed a certain – shall we say – pragmatism. He may well have believed there had been a conspiracy. But innocent blood was shed.’
‘Innocent blood?’ Kate whispered.
‘I meant Lord Hastings – and Rivers and Grey,’ the Bishop replied, then fell silent.
‘And the Princes?’ She could hardly speak.
‘When the Duke of York was taken from sanctuary, his mother was assured that Gloucester intended no harm towards him,’ the Bishop recalled. ‘With that guarantee, she assented to the boy’s going. But from that day, the Duke openly revealed his plans. It was clear he was aiming for the throne itself. My dear child, you must forgive me for speaking too freely, but I am telling you the truth. Never think I am disloyal to my King. I serve him faithfully, and think no ill of him. Our Saviour teaches us that we must not judge our fellow men.’
