Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘I have some good news for you both, which shall be a comfort to us all,’ he said. ‘I have decided that you are to be wed before I leave this, my castle of care.’
Married now! Kate knew her distress must be visible in her face. She had thought it would not be for months yet. Desperately, she tried to compose herself, aware that everyone – her betrothed, her father and his courtiers – was looking at her.
‘Bishop Stillington has consented to perform the ceremony in the castle chapel,’ the King was saying. ‘Given the circumstances’ – his voice faltered slightly – ‘it will be a small wedding. But never fear, Kate, we will feast you as becomes a bride, and make merry, eh?’ He gave her a weak smile, which she tried to return. She thought: in his grief, he has forgotten that I love another, and that this news of my wedding can only grieve me.
‘Afterwards, you will ride with the court to Durham, and thence to York,’ the King informed them. ‘I should like to keep Kate with me for just a little longer.’ He looked at her wistfully, and it was all she could do to keep from crying. ‘But then you must go into Wales, and guard it for me, William; guard it loyally. The Tudor skulks in Brittany, and who knows what mischief he is plotting!’
‘I am your Grace’s man unto death,’ William declared, bowing.
‘You will be well rewarded, I promise it. Kate, my child, the Queen is waiting to assist you with your wedding attire. Go to her now.’
Kate dipped in another curtsey. William was giving her that look again, and there was a hint of lust in his eyes that had not been there before.
Emerging from the Queen’s lodgings, weary of trying to look pleased with the fine fabrics that had been displayed before her, and of standing still while the tailors pinned them on her, Kate turned urgently to Mattie.
‘Go seek out my lord of Lincoln,’ she directed her. ‘Bid him be in the chapel at midnight, as you love me.’
Mattie looked at her, comprehension dawning. ‘So that’s how it is,’ she said. ‘You are to be wed, yet you are still seeing your young lord. Have a care, mistress!’
‘I love him!’ Kate said brokenly. ‘This will be the last time, I vow it. After that, I will belong to my husband and my life will be over. But I swear he will never have any pleasure of me!’
Katherine
September 1560. Whitehall Palace.
The court is an in uproar, and no wonder! Lord Robert Dudley’s uncherished wife has been found dead, her neck broken, at the foot of a flight of stairs at Cumnor Place, near Oxford. Such a scandal has not erupted in a long time. It is all over the court, and no doubt will soon be all over Christendom too; and the word on everyone’s lips is murder. Tongues wag ceaselessly, and suspicion centres on Lord Robert, but fingers point secretly – and sometimes not so secretly – at Queen Elizabeth. The Dudley scandal is so sensational that it seems she may never recover from it. There is even talk that King Philip is urging her to wed Lord Robert in order to discredit her, so that he will then be able to press my claim to the throne.
But he does not know Elizabeth! I would wager a fortune on her never having allowed Robert Dudley to pass beyond caresses; and I saw for myself how dismayed she was, not only at Amy Dudley’s death, but at the realisation that Lord Robert was now a free man. Him she loves: I do not doubt that; but she will never surrender her body or her autonomy as queen.
Yet there remains talk of my marrying the Archduke Ferdinand or – horrors – even Don Carlos. Bishop de Quadra returns to that theme whenever we meet, and I smile and profess myself flattered, yet remain non-committal, telling him that he must seek my sovereign’s permission for my marriage. Maybe he knows I am stalling – and goodness knows, I have good reason to do so! Because at last, at long last, there is hope for my sweet Ned and me.
Only yesterday, Sir William Cecil approached Ned and informed him it had been noticed that he sought me out whenever he came to Whitehall. Ned was much alarmed, for he feared Mr Secretary was about to forbid him to see me again, but no! He asked Ned if there was goodwill between us – but Ned was so afraid of our being parted that he said there was no such thing.
Cecil told him he knew of the Spanish plot to marry me to the Archduke or Don Carlos. Ned could not hide his astonishment when Sir William said he would like to forestall that plot by arranging my marriage to a loyal Englishman. But, he added, as he saw now that there was nothing between us, he would forbear to pursue the matter further. ‘And good day to you, Sir,’ he had ended.
Ned did not know what to do. He feared a trap, that Cecil’s words were a lure to ensnare him into admitting that there has been talk of a marriage between us, against the Queen’s express wish. So he detained Cecil and told him that he had long admired me from afar and should be honoured to marry me, if it were the Queen’s pleasure. And Cecil said he would be our friend and speak with her Majesty! We could not have a better or more influential advocate! At last I can dare to hope that our long wait will soon be over.
Days, then weeks, have passed – and nothing, no word, no sign from Mr Secretary. When I saw him this morning, he merely nodded courteously and hurried on, his arms full of scrolls. I am going mad with frustration, desperate to know if he is still our friend, and if he has spoken to the Queen on our behalf.
And now there are fresh rumours, that the Scots want me as a bride for the Earl of Arran, another imbecile half-wit who is Queen Mary’s heir, unless she bears a son. Perchance the lords of Scotland see this marriage as a means of uniting the two kingdoms, in the event of both Mary and Elizabeth dying childless. They say de Quadra has bet a hundred crowns that it will come to pass. Well, they can negotiate all they like, but I will not have the lunatic Earl, nay, not even if the Queen herself commands it – which she will not, I am certain.
There is talk too – will it never cease? – of another Spanish bid to entice me away to Spain, by means of some loyal Catholic English gentleman acting for King Philip. What especially vexes me about these continual plots to marry or carry me off is that I, the person most concerned, am never consulted! It’s true: my royal blood is a curse.
But now some good news! Against all expectations – although some say it is because she is at present vexed with my rival, the Queen of Scots – her Majesty has suddenly decreed that I be restored to the post of Lady of the Privy Chamber that I had held under Queen Mary. And she has received me there today, right graciously, in the presence of Bishop de Quadra.
‘I look upon the Lady Katherine as a daughter,’ she tells him, raising me from my curtsey and embracing and kissing me. For an instant, the Bishop looks as amazed as I, but we both recover ourselves quickly.
‘Now that she is an orphan, I am considering formally adopting her,’ the Queen continues, smiling at me – although her eyes remain cold. I can barely express my thanks. What game is she playing at now?
I am not surprised when, later, after I am dismissed from my new duties, which are little more than to bear the Queen company when she wants it (which I suspect will not be often), de Quadra is waiting for me.
‘Any feeling between her Majesty and yourself, Lady Katherine, can hardly be that of mother and child!’ he observes with a smile. ‘Methinks she is making much of you in order to keep you from intriguing with the likes of me and the Scots.’
‘Do you think it might presage my being acknowledged heir?’ I ask, unable to restrain my exhilaration at the prospect.
‘Who can say?’ The Bishop shakes his head. ‘Knowing this Queen, it could mean anything. I will make some enquiries.’
Two days later, de Quadra is waiting for me again.
‘I have spoken with Sir William Cecil,’ he tells me. ‘I asked him if the favour shown you by the Queen heralds any particular announcement. He took my meaning immediately. The answer is no. Her Majesty, he said, is of the opinion that Henry Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon, who is descended from the old royal blood of this realm, has a greater claim than yourself. I asked him if her Majesty would consider naming you as her successor, but he said by no means, because the English always run after the heir to the crown rather than the wearer of it.’
It seems I must settle for a compromise: marriage, rather than the throne. For me, the choice is an easy one. I would rather have my sweet Ned than be the greatest queen crowned.
Kate
May 1484. Nottingham Castle.
John was waiting for her in the chapel. She could see him in the shadows beyond the dim light cast by the single lamp on the altar, signifying the eternal presence of God. He came and clasped her hands, gazing into her eyes without speaking, then his arms went around her.
‘You are sure about this?’ he breathed in her ear, threading his fingers through her hair.
‘Never more,’ she whispered. ‘But we cannot be together here.’
‘No, but I have found us a place.’ He smiled at her: she loved his smile; it was open and boyish, and it always made her melt. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Before we go there, my love, there is something I want to do, something important.’
He led her to the altar, with its golden crucifix and the statue of the Virgin with her Babe, and stood there beside her, still holding her hand and looking into her eyes.
‘Hear me, Kate. I will give you my promise. I, John, take thee, Katherine, to be my true lady before God, and I vow I will love you always, until death and beyond.’ She looked at him wonderingly, tears starting in her eyes, for she was overcome by the awe of the moment.
‘Now you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Your turn …’
‘I, Katherine,’ she swore, ‘take thee, John, to be my true lord in the sight of God, and hereto I pledge thee my love, until death and beyond.’ The words came strong and clear, impelled by the conviction that, whatever was to come, this was her proper wedding, even without any witnesses to make it valid.
And then, hand in hand still, they crept out of the chapel, through the sleeping castle and along a dark stone passageway lit only with one dying torch in a wall bracket. At the end of it John unlocked a door and led Kate into a small chamber sparsely furnished with a tester bed hung with green curtains. And it was in that bed, presently, that they lay together; and it was as if God had sent His angels down to smile upon them and hallow their union.
Katherine
October 1560. Whitehall.
My bosom companion, Jane Seymour, has been at court with me through all the late tortuous shifts of fortune, solidly supporting me and Ned, and going back and forth between us, passing messages, notes and love tokens, and helping to arrange snatched meetings, which are few and far apart, for we know now that we have been watched by Mr Secretary Cecil.
But Jane is not well. Her cheeks, once rosebud pale, are now flushed with an unhealthy hue; her gowns hang loosely upon her; and there is blood on her kerchief when she coughs. She gets out of breath easily these days, and suffers terrible sweats at night.
Jane loves Ned more than any other human soul; and it is her dearest wish to see him well and happily married.
‘There could be no better wife for him than you, my dear Katherine,’ she tells me, hugging me fondly. ‘I will do all I can to help you two achieve the happiness you deserve. God knows, you have waited long enough for it!’
‘The time is now right, at last,’ I say. ‘There was never a better moment to press for her Majesty’s consent.’
Ned frowns. ‘Will there ever be a right moment? I fear she will never give that consent. We have to be realistic. Look at the way she keeps her many suitors dangling – this waiting could go on for years!’
Jane is thoughtful. ‘Why not present the Queen with a fait accompli?’ she suggests. ‘Marry in secret now, then throw yourselves upon her mercy. If the thing is done, she must relent.’
‘Of course!’ I agree, excitedly. ‘When the Queen realises that it is purely a love match, and that we intend no threat to her, she will surely forgive us. And we have Sir William Cecil on our side, remember. He will support us, you may count on it!’
Ned shakes his head. ‘I think not. I met him by chance today. He asked me how I did, the usual pleasantries, and then he said he was still hearing rumours that I was in love with you and hoping to wed. He advised me to cool my ardour, and walked on.’
‘But he was in favour of our marriage,’ I say helplessly.
‘Sir William must know that this marriage makes sense,’ Jane says. ‘He ought to be on your side, Ned,’ she adds. ‘It was our father who first gave him a post at court and set him on the road to the greatness he enjoys today.’
Ned looks dejected. ‘That counts for little now. But Lord Robert might help us. Now that the coroner has cleared him of the murder of his wife, he is again influential with the Queen. And, Katherine, his brother was once married to your sister. But wedding without the Queen’s permission? The thing is fraught with dangers, and might be construed as treason.’
‘How can it be?’ I flare. ‘I am not recognised as heiress presumptive. If I were, then it might be treason, but I remain a private person. The Queen cannot have it both ways!’
‘You have been restored to the status of princess of the blood,’ he reminds me. ‘Therefore your marriage is a matter of public concern. Usurp the Queen’s privilege, and you may yet be accused of treason.’
‘There is no law that says I would be guilty of it!’
‘Have you forgotten that the Queen herself warned you not to wed without her consent?’
‘Things have changed since then,’ Jane puts in. ‘The Queen and her Council must know that a far more deadly threat than your marriage comes from Spain or Scotland. Do it, Brother! Do not sacrifice all you hold dear for the want of a little courage.’
‘I will think on it,’ Ned says reluctantly. ‘If I seem unenthusiastic, it is because I do not wish to bring down the Queen’s wrath on us both. Katherine is too dear to me for that.’ And he stoops and brushes my lips with his own.
Kate
May 1484. Nottingham Castle.
Kate stood before the altar with William, barely hearing the words of the nuptial Mass. This travesty of a ceremony was a perversion of everything that marriage should be, yet she stood there meekly, every inch the King’s daughter in her sumptuous gown and train of black-figured cloth of gold, with tight scarlet velvet sleeves and a surcoat of white silk. Over her shoulders flowed her luxuriant hair, loose in token of her supposedly virgin state. If only they all knew!
She made her vows to William without a tremor. They meant nothing.
She knew John was behind her somewhere. He had said he would be. ‘Think of me when you are at the altar,’ he had said, as they had lain together in the blissful peace that had followed rapturous lovemaking. ‘I will be thinking of you, and of our true vows.’
She had given him her word, and she had kept it. She was his, and no one could take that from her, not even her new-made husband standing by her side.
*
Not for Kate and William a small bedchamber with an old bed hung with dusty green curtains; instead, they were assigned two spacious rooms overlooking the town below. In the larger of the two stood a red-draped bed with a carved table beside it, upon which had been left a silver tray bearing a glass ewer with a silver stopper and jewelled wine goblets. In front of the fireplace stood a long carved cushioned settle, and from the beamed ceiling hung a gilded chandelier, its candles flickering in the breeze from the open window. No detail, no comfort had been overlooked.
But there was small comfort in the thought of what lay ahead. At least, Kate thought, I do not have to face being deflowered by this stranger. It had been painful enough with John, yet he had been gentle with her, and the hurt had soon been replaced by a wondrous new sensation of pleasure. She could not bear to think about that now; her sense of loss was too acute.
When Mattie had gone, having turned down the sheets, plumped the bolster, unlaced and laid away the beautiful wedding gown and brushed her mistress’s tresses until they shone, Kate climbed into bed in her chemise and sat there waiting, her heart pounding. She thanked God for one small mercy: that, because the court was in mourning for the Prince, there was to be no public bedding ceremony.
Soon William appeared, clad in a silk robe. ‘Well, here we are, wife,’ he said, pausing to pour them some wine. ‘I hope you are not afraid of me.’ He handed her a goblet.
‘No, my lord,’ she answered, but gulped down the wine gratefully, averting her eyes as her husband shed his robe and climbed naked into bed. She had a glimpse of sinewy limbs, white flanks and thick thatches of black hair over his chest and between his legs.
‘A toast to our marriage,’ said William, and they clinked goblets. When he had drained his, he laid hold of her. Before she had time to catch her breath, he was raking up her shift, clambering on top of her and forcing an entry. She gasped a little, for his thrusting was painful after all and there was no need to fake any discomfort. When he was done, he slumped beside her, panting, and she lay there, her head turned away, her heart empty. What had been so exalting last night meant nothing at all today. Was this how it was to be for always and always? And was William not going to speak even one word of love to her?
She made an effort. She had to do something to make her marriage bearable. ‘Do I please you, my lord?’ she whispered. There was no answer. Instead, William began snoring.
Katherine
November 1560. Hampton Court Palace.
One morning, as I am walking my dogs through the gardens overlooking the Thames at Hampton Court, I espy my beloved, kissing – for all to see – the hand of Frances Mewtas, a Gentlewoman of the Chamber to the Queen. Unaware of my presence, they talk privily, those two, and she giggles, then Ned bows and goes on his way, leaving her flushed and smiling to herself.
How couldhe? It is not to be borne! Have I waited these long years for Ned, only – with marriage at last in our sights – for him to forsake me for that trollop Mewtas?
Grief and rage burning within me, I race back into the palace, forgetting all decorum and not caring who sees me looking flustered and dismayed, and hasten in search of Jane Seymour. She will know how to deal with her faithless brother! She wants this marriage as much as I do.
I find her in her closet off the maidens’ dorter, and Ned with her. They both stare at me, so wild I appear.
‘How dare you?’ I rail at him. ‘I sawyou making advances to Mistress Mewtas just now. Don’t try to deny it! I suppose this is why you will not commit to marrying me.’
Ned looks horrified. Covering the distance between us in two paces, he grasps my shoulders and looks fiercely into my eyes.
‘What are you saying?’ he asks. ‘I have never held that lady in any esteem, or anyone else for that matter. I thought that, if people saw me flirting with her, aye, and with others too, they would cease conjecturing that there is anything between you and me. But, as God is my judge, I have never, ever betrayed you. I adore you, Katherine! And so let’s be done with all this waiting, for I will marry you out of hand, as soon as we can find a convenient time.’
‘Oh, Ned!’ I cannot speak further for very joy and relief, and Jane is clapping her hands in delight.
‘When will that be?’ she asks.
‘When the Queen’s Majesty returns to London,’ Ned says, and kisses me passionately, not caring that Jane is looking on.
Kate
May 1484. The Augustinian Friary, York.
Kate looked out of her window at the muddy waters of the River Ouse, which flowed past the friary guest house where the royal party was lodged. Further along, to her right, lay the Guildhall, where they were to be entertained to a feast tonight, and to the south was Clifford’s Tower and the ancient castle. Beyond, in the meadows across the river, was the Micklegate Bar, the royal entrance to York, through which they had come in procession a few days ago, to be welcomed by the Mayor and the city fathers. The King had led his company to the great Minster, to give hearty thanks for being safely returned to the north. It was obvious that his heart lay here, in the bracing air of Yorkshire, although Kate knew that part of it had been sealed forever in that sad little tomb at Sheriff Hutton. He and Anne had gone there, alone, two days before. Their faces had been stricken when they emerged from the church and rejoined their waiting entourage.
She sighed. Tomorrow, she and William would say farewell to the King and Queen and depart for Raglan. She was dreading that moment, hating to leave her father and stepmother, especially when their grief was still so raw. And her lost lover, John: she would be saying a silent goodbye to him too, for a long, long while. She had seen him about the court often since her marriage, but they had had no converse. It was what they had agreed when they parted after their one blissful night together. Kate had to live with William, after all. Even so, she sometimes thought she would die of yearning for John.
After a fortnight of marriage, she knew William little better than she had before. He observed the courtesies by day, lay with her every night, and was at her side whenever convention demanded it. No one could have faulted him. Yet he hardly talked to her, and there was no spark of any sort between them. She bore his attentions patiently, but they were joyless, and left her weeping silently into her pillow every time. This had nothing to do with love! This was mere duty, and she had begun to see married life as a long, dreary, barren road stretching out endlessly ahead of her.
She had tried; oh yes, she had tried. She had started conversations, made little jests or asked questions calculated to prompt some discourse. William always answered politely, but he never engaged with her beyond that. She knew he did not love her, and was grateful for it. Yet why did he not co-operate in making things easier and more pleasant for them both? He seemed to look upon her as one of his chattels, no more, and to assume that she was happy being left to gossip with Mattie over their embroidery. He made no attempt to restrict her in any manner; he was generous in his way; but he was simply indifferent to her. Let her bring him her good dowry and bear him heirs, and he would require no more of her. She wished she had not bled John’s seed away days after her wedding.
It was time to make ready for the banquet. She summoned Mattie.
‘My, you do look a glump!’ the girl said cheerfully. She had spent the afternoon with Guy, her sweetheart. William had agreed to take him on, and the happy couple were to be married when they reached Raglan. ‘Missing Lord Lincoln, are ye?’
‘Horribly,’ Kate said. ‘I do not know how I bear it. But Mattie, nevermention his name once we leave here. My lord does not care much for me, but he would care very much if his good name were sullied.’
‘I promise, my lady,’ Mattie vowed. ‘Now, it’s the crimson tonight, isn’t it?’ And she helped Kate into a figure-skimming velvet gown with tight sleeves that belled out at the wrist, a low neck edged with a border of gold damask, a skirt that trailed in rippling folds on the floor, and a silk hip belt from which jangled gold ornaments. Then she drew her mistress’s hair back into a tight plait and pinned it coiled to the back of her head. Over this she fixed a tub-shaped hennin covered in damask that matched the border of the gown, and atop it pinned the winged butterfly headdress of stiffened gauze. Once the unwieldy thing – now the height of fashion – was in place, Kate found she must keep her head level and not move it for fear of sending the whole contraption tumbling to the ground. Wearing a head covering, even one so elegant, was another of the things she hated about being married. She wondered how Queen Anne and the other great ladies of the court managed to move so serenely and effortlessly. Oh, how she longed to go about with her hair flowing free again!
The feast was lavish, the city burghers puffed out in their furred robes anxious to attend to their King’s every comfort. There were cheers for Richard when he entered the Guildhall, and for once his careworn face lightened. There had been no whisper of a rumour up here, Kate reflected, and felt heartened.
In the morning, she and William rose early, heard Mass and ate breakfast. Then they attended on the King, who greeted them warmly and announced that he was bestowing on them, jointly, fifteen manors in Somerset, Devon and Cornwall. It seemed he could not shower them with sufficient bounty. He had made them rich enough to keep great estate, and he had done it for her, and to keep William loyal. She doubted he had needed to. William did not have the imagination to plot treason. Loyalty to the House of York was rooted in his family anyway.
Her father told William he had confirmed him in his earldom, and William stolidly expressed his gratitude.
‘Now, Son Herbert,’ the King said, ‘these honours, and the gift of my daughter, are not for nothing. In return, you will hold south Wales for me against the Tudor, for there is no doubt that he will make another attempt on England sometime soon. In the meantime, I will look to the north.’ His face suddenly twisted with pain. The Prince, of course, was to have been his representative there.
He pulled himself together with an effort. ‘I mind to set up the King’s Household in the North, which will be established at Sandal Castle under the rule of my nephew Lincoln, who is now to represent me in these parts. He will also have charge of Sheriff Hutton Castle, where I intend to house the heirs of the House of York in safety. Warwick will be sent there, his sister Margaret and, because it will benefit him, my bastard, John of Gloucester.’
He paused. ‘I will tell you something, both of you, that is as yet a great secret, but will be made known when I think it politic. Warwick is next in line, but cannot succeed me. He is a fair lad, but his wits are not up to the demands of kingship. God knows, I fear my own wits are not always up to it either! Therefore, I intend to name Lincoln my heir.’
Kate started at that. She barely heard her father rehearsing all the compelling reasons why Lincoln would make a good king. She could only think that, had Fate arranged things differently, she might have been queen of England, seated beside John on his future throne. John II, he would be; given the example of the first King John, it was not the most auspicious of styles – yet her John would cause the name to ring with renown, she had no doubt of it.
‘A wise choice, Sire,’ her husband said. ‘The noble Lincoln has the mettle for it.’
‘Aye, indeed,’ the King agreed, watching Kate speculatively for a moment. She caught his eye and lowered her gaze. ‘And now you must make haste,’ he said. ‘You have a long journey ahead of you.’ His voice sounded strained. He was feeling this parting as keenly as she was.
The Queen came, wine was brought, and they all drank a toast to a bright future for Kate and William, and the confounding of the King’s enemies. Then Kate summoned a page to bring in the parting gift she had commissioned for her father: a framed portrait of herself, very fine and like, wearing the beautiful blue gown she had worn for his coronation and her diamond-shaped pendant. He gazed at it in admiration, then a sad smile creased his face.
‘You could not have given me anything better,’ he told her. ‘Now I shall have a daily reminder of you to take wherever I go. Thank you.’ He kissed her lightly on the forehead.
At last, with the goblets drained, and Kate grateful for the warming wine running through her veins and dulling the pain, it was time to say goodbye. She and William knelt for the blessings of her father and stepmother, and then were raised and embraced.
‘God go with you, my daughter,’ Anne said, smiling at her sadly. It was the warmest she had shown herself in months.
Richard folded Kate tightly in his arms. ‘You are most precious to me,’ he murmured. ‘I pray Our Lady to have you in her special keeping.’ She felt him tremble as he said it, and when he broke away from her, she could see he was near to weeping.
‘Love my daughter well, son Herbert!’ he commanded briskly.
‘Your Grace may be assured of that,’ William declared, taking Kate’s hand and kissing it. As he led her from the chamber, she felt choked, and could not bear to look back at those two forlorn figures in black, standing bereft before their chairs of estate, surrounded by all the empty trappings of majesty.
Katherine
November 1560. Greenwich Palace and Whitehall Palace.
When the court moved to Greenwich, Ned returned to Hertford House in Westminster, and there he fell ill of a fever. He wrote in anxious vein to Jane. To my dismay, his courage appeared to have deserted him. He was wavering again, fretting about how our wedding might be accomplished.
‘It is his sickness that speaks,’ Jane said, looking sick herself. ‘Do not let it upset you.’ But I did. These past days have been a nightmare, for I have thought of nothing but what I might do if Ned forsakes me. I could not live. It is as simple as that.
Yet now comes another letter.
‘He asks me to further his suit!’ cries Jane. ‘He says that, although your marriage must be secret, he intends to do all properly, according to custom. Thus he will propose himself formally to you, and you will be betrothed; and your wedding will then take place. All this he insists upon, so that your children shall be of undisputed legitimacy. He asks if you are content to agree. Oh, Katherine, it really is going to happen!’ And she embraces me heartily.
‘Content? I am the happiest woman alive! Pray tell my dear love that I am well inclined to whatever arrangements he desires to make, and that I shall give him my resolute answer in person when the court returns to Whitehall next week.’
