Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"

Автор книги: Alison Weir

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Cecil gives me a long look, but says no more. When I take my leave, I am trembling.

I know there is gossip about me in the Privy Chamber. Conversations cease as I enter a room, and I catch the maids whispering and glancing in my direction. Then one day two of the ladies attendant on her Majesty draw me aside.

‘Lady Katherine, forgive me,’ says the gentle Lady Northampton, ‘but I have heard disturbing talk of great goodwill between you and the Earl of Hertford.’

‘Aye,’ says pretty Lady Clinton, ‘and that is not all that is said.’ Her eyes glance down briefly at my belly.

‘There is nothing between us!’ I flare. ‘Even Mr Secretary has spoken to me of these rumours, but I have reassured him that they arejust rumours! I don’t know what all the fuss and ado is about.’

‘It is Mr Secretary who has asked us to speak with you,’ Lady Northampton reveals. ‘He fears he was unhelpful in his approach to you, and that we, as women, might put the matter better. But my dear, he is assured by reliable reports that you and my Lord Hertford are more than mere friends, and he urges you to make a clean breast of all to the Queen.’

‘There is nothing to tell her!’ I protest, my voice sounding shrill. ‘Lord Hertford is a good friend of my family, no more. My mother regarded him as a son after he was betrothed to my sister Jane. His mother was my guardian, and I was bosom friends with his sister. How could I not be close to him? The rest is lies, and I am astonished that people should believe them!’

‘Then forgive us,’ Lady Clinton soothes. ‘We have spoken out of turn, and Mr Secretary is clearly mistaken. Yet he did say we should warn you to beware of keeping company with the Earl, so we felt we should do so.’

I accept her apology graciously, thank them for their concern for me, and go on my way, but my breath is coming fast and uneven, and the child in my belly is squirming in what must be discomfort. I cannot endure it here at court much longer. I must get myself away!

I have said nothing lately of my lord of Pembroke, but he has been hovering on the periphery of my vision for some months now, either paying me extravagant compliments or dropping heavy hints about how desirable a second marriage between myself and his son would be. In the wake of those threats of my being abducted by either Spain or Scotland, he thinks it would be seen by the Queen as a safe course.

Pembroke is quite open about his ambitions. He wants a royal bride for his son, a bride with a good claim to the throne. He foresees a royal dynasty of Herberts regenerating down the centuries. And now that Lord Hertford is out of the way, that royal bride might welcome his son’s attentions once more. Harry, I must concede, has grown into a very personable young man; if I were not in love with Ned, or wed to him, I should welcome this match. But although it would once have been the answer to all my prayers, it is no longer.

Now Pembroke comes again, imploring me to accept his son’s suit.

‘I cannot,’ I tell him. ‘I must not marry unless the Queen approves it, and in truth I am not inclined to do so.’

‘May I remind you of something, my lady?’ Pembroke asks smoothly. ‘When, all those years ago, I spoke of annulling your marriage to Harry – which was for political reasons only, I assure you – you both told me it had been consummated. Were that the case, the annulment would be worthless, and you would still be man and wife. Even the Queen could not dispute that.’

I am chilled listening to his words. ‘It was not true,’ I say. ‘We made that up so that we could be allowed stay together.’

‘You were vehement enough about it back then,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.

‘We were desperate at the prospect of being parted. I assure you, my lord, it was a lie.’

‘There is gossip that you love the Earl of Hertford these days. Perchance that is colouring your remembrances.’

‘It is only gossip,’ I snap, ‘and I resent the implication, my lord.’

‘Then pray accept my apologies, my lady,’ he says, bowing, and takes his leave. Yet I suspect he will not go away.

The stomacher is tighter than ever. And, to my utter distress, although I have sent many letters addressed To my loving husband, I have had no word from Ned since he left England.

The Queen still shows a great misliking towards me. Her manner is even sharper and colder than before. She will undoubtedly have heard the gossip; and if Cecil heeds it, she must too. Worse still, being in daily contact with me, does she suspect I am with child?

Each morning finds me wan and weary. I do not sleep at night. I lie awake in terror lest Ned has abandoned me, praying that a message or letter from him will arrive soon. Does he love me still? Or have they ordered him not to communicate with me, or even intercepted his letters? I would not put anything past them. In truth, I have been such a mope that I could hardly blame Ned if he chose to abandon me.

I resolve at last to write to him about my condition. He promised he would not tarry in France if I found myself with child, and assured me I should not face the consequences alone. Whatever his feelings for me now, I must hold him to that. This is his child too, and I am his wife.

It is near midnight. I light my candle and find pen and paper. I am quick with child, I write, my handwriting straggly because I am trembling. I pray you therefore to return and declare how the matter stands between us.

In the morning, I seek out Master Glynne and beg him to forward my letter to his master without delay. He takes it and bows, touching his cap, and disappears down the stairs. Then, as more days pass, I wait, and wait – and wait. There is no reply from Ned.

Nor is that all. The latest talk is that my husband, having attended the coronation of the new French King, and seen all the sights, has tired of Paris and is seeking new pleasures in Italy. It is said he has corrupted young Cecil with his idleness and dissipation, and that they have both been wallowing in filthy pleasures and spending like water the money provided by careful Cecil.

My world collapses in ruins. Hope shrivels and perishes. To die in childbed would be a blessing.

Weeping uncontrollably, I seek solace in the kind arms of Mrs Ellen.

‘Hush, child, you should not give credence to rumours,’ she counsels, stroking my damp hair back from my fevered brow. ‘And think: was your young lord ever given to fornication and the kind of life of which these rumours accuse him? Is it in character?’

I have to admit it is not. ‘I was ever one to fear the worst,’ I murmur.

‘Then pay the gossip-mongers no heed! Their calumnies may be spread deliberately to discountenance you and drive a wedge between you two.’

A little heartened, but not really reassured, I retire to my lonely bed. Even if Ned is true, I reflect miserably, I have a more immediate problem to solve.

What am I to do?I am waxing ever greater with child, and time is running out. And if Ned really has forsaken me – for he has not replied to any of my letters – who can help me?

Then one day, on my way to the privy chamber, I come face to face, after so many years, with Harry, my former husband. He bows courteously – how different from when we knew each other in our youth – and when he rises and smiles at me, I see how tall and comely a man he has become. He cannot compare with Ned, of course, but Ned has betrayed me, I am sure.

I smile back, and we go our different ways. But later, I fall to thinking. Desperate problems require desperate remedies. Pembroke, who has great influence with the Queen, wants me to marry Harry, and Harry, by the warmth in his smile today, is not averse to that. Were I to take him, I could have my revenge on Ned and find a father for my child.

Yes, there are difficulties. I am wed to Ned. But that is a secret; Jane Seymour, the only witness, is dead, and I have no means of tracing the minister, who is unlikely to come forward and confess he married us in the face of the Queen’s displeasure. If I deny that the wedding ever took place, it would be only Ned’s word against mine; and sadly, I think he will not dare to make any protest.

I make a decision, then change it. Then I make another, and waver about that too. I go round and round in circles, trying to anticipate how I would feel in every circumstance. Even if I can find the courage to repudiate Ned, dare I accept Harry’s suit? I am too far along in pregnancy for him ever to think the babe might be his. I can feel it kicking lustily now, can even see the outlines of its tiny hands and feet, pressing against my belly. Yet I know Harry to be kind and chivalrous. If I tell him about my terrible predicament, he might help me. It is asking a great deal, though, expecting a lord of high rank to father another man’s child, yet I think Harry is rare among that breed, and that he would do it. The legal niceties could be sorted out, I am sure.

The decision is made. I have no choice, I tell myself. I write to Harry. I say I am ready and contented to renew our acquaintance and look favourably on his suit.

Back, by return, comes a joyful letter, accompanied by a miniature portrait of himself enclosed in a locket, and a ring set with a small sapphire, symbolising fidelity. Harry writes that we must stand by our tale that our marriage was consummated, for there is the Queen’s consent to be obtained; he adds that he looks forward to our being reunited as husband and wife.

The Queen’s consent! But will she give it?

I am pondering my terrible dilemma when the order comes for me to attend her Majesty on her annual summer progress; this year, she is to visit her good subjects in Essex and Suffolk. Now I am trapped indeed. There is no good excuse that I can give, apart from feigning illness, and my courage deserts me even at the prospect of that, for the Queen has little patience with bodily weakness and is apt to lash out if she suspects one of us of malingering. And if she guesses the real cause of my ‘malingering’… well, I dare not think of it. Oh, dear God, what am I going to do?

*

That there is gossip about me at court I can well imagine. Even I, seeing myself going about the court now, would be asking questions about my big belly. And yes, I have seen people looking covertly at me, murmuring together and – increasingly of late – avoiding me.

Does the Queen herself suspect? Is that the cause of her displeasure? Surely not, or she would have taken me to task before now. I doubt she could have contained her wrath. No, I do not think she is aware of my condition, although she cannot be unaware of the gossip. Maybe she does not believe it, even of me. I may be safe for a little while longer.

Yet Harry’s latest letter comes as a terrible shock, especially after the loving ones he has sent me, and all the thoughtful gifts. I tremble with mortification as I read it. Someone – God knows who – has obviously talked, and he is furious with me, aye, and indignant too, for leading him to believe I was chaste. He says I abused his trust to cover my whoredom and adultery, not to mention Ned’s knavery. He demands I return his letters and his presents, and storms:

Do not think I will risk loss of honour to lead the rest of my life with a whore that almost every man talks of. Through the enticement of your whoredom, you sought to entrap me with some poisoned bait under the colour of sugared friendship. I thank God I am not touched by the loss of a few tokens and gifts that were got out of my hands by cunning, to cover your abominations, and his likewise.

If I ever knew desperation, it is now. I am in terror lest Harry report my offences, and crushed and shamed by his cruel condemnation. God knows, I am no whore; I have never given myself to a man not my husband, so it is wicked and unjust to slander me so. As for loss of honour, he should look to himself, for no true gentleman would treat me so despicably!

I have to act soon. The Queen must not hear of my condition from Harry or his father. And clearly, others know of it now.

On the night before the progress begins, Sir William Cecil hosts a farewell dinner for the Queen in the great hall of the hospital of the Savoy in London. The revelry continues long into the night, but I am bruised and smarting because of Harry’s letter, and so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. The next day, we depart for the royal manor at Wanstead, and there, Ned’s brother Henry brings me a packet. A letter from my husband at last! But all it contains is a pair of gold bracelets, a gift from Paris with a brief note of greetings from him, sent weeks ago. There is no letter. At that, I let fall the pretty jewels to the floor, tumbling myself into despair. Dear God, let me have just one word from him, in response to my urgent letters! One little word of love, or better still, a message to say he is coming home.

There are ladies in the court whom one could only describe as bitches. They are the ones who taunt me with gossip, or laugh snidely behind my back, encouraged by the Queen’s evident disfavour. And now, when I go abroad bravely displaying my new bracelets, they seem to have some new cause for laughter, and take great pleasure in telling me that I am not the only recipient of love tokens from Lord Hertford.

‘It seems he purchased a dozen of them!’ they trill. And it is true, there are others sporting similar trinkets.

He has abandoned me, I know it at heart, and soon I will be shamed as a fool before the whole world.

At the palace of Beaulieu, I find a letter pushed under my chamber door, just as I am retiring to bed exhausted after another lavish feast. It is a second angry missive from Harry, who is clearly out to have his revenge on me. He was my friend, he writes, but he is now sorry for that. He demands I return the letters and gifts he has sent me, without delay. Or else, he threatens, to be plain with you, I will make you and your whoredom known to the whole world.

I do not summon Mrs Ellen or anyone else. As I unlace my stays, weeping, and with difficulty, and see the mound of my poor constrained belly exposed, I know I have no choice any more. I must go to the Queen.

Kate

Summer 1485. Raglan Castle.

Weeks afterwards, news reached the castle that Queen Anne had passed away at Westminster. Kate mourned her profoundly, wishing she had had a chance to make things right between them. Anne had had her doubts about King Richard, and Kate had thought that disloyal. Yet hadn’t she had her own suspicions? She of all people knew how deeply those doubts had tormented Anne. And since she had overheard Richard Herbert’s revelations, those horrible uncertainties had resurfaced in her own mind, leaving her even more in turmoil than before.

Kate thought she might go mad if her doubts were not resolved, once and for all. They ate at her. She would go to her grave obsessing about them, she thought. She waited in trepidation for news of the King’s marriage to Elizabeth of York; if that went ahead, she would have to believe that the rumours had been well founded. None came. Instead, her brother John – in one of his brief, rare letters – wrote from Sheriff Hutton that Elizabeth of York had joined the household there with her sisters. Clearly the marriage was not to take place – or not immediately.

William told her that the King had granted them yet another annuity. Later she wondered if it had been to ensure William’s loyalty, because the next piece of news that reached Raglan was bad. Her father had had good reason to send Elizabeth of York north to a secure place, for Henry Tudor’s invasion was now expected at any time. William had received fresh orders to hold south Wales against the invader, and was now away much of the time ensuring that the local magnates stayed staunch to the King and that efficient defences were in place. Richard himself had moved to Nottingham, where he was mustering the forces he had commanded his lords to array. The whole kingdom was, it seemed, up in arms.

But for whom? Kate was terrified for her father because there was no question that the rumours about the Princes’ disappearance had undermined his following. William himself, when he was fleetingly at home, expressed doubts about the loyalty of the great nobles, for some lords had already defected to Henry Tudor.

‘The King relies heavily on Norfolk, Northumberland and Stanley,’ he said, ‘but I would not trust Stanley. His wife is the traitor’s mother.’

‘Norfolk is loyal, I am sure,’ Kate said. ‘But what of Northumberland?’

‘Who can say? Let us hope they will all support the King when the time comes.’

‘Will there be a battle?’ she asked fearfully.

‘Assuredly, unless Henry Tudor is killed or taken by stealth first. I have the coast guarded; he cannot attempt a landing here in the south. But he must march through Wales or England to confront the King’s forces – and who knows what might happen on the way?’

‘I pray to God that some loyal subject puts an end to his evil designs,’ Kate cried. ‘I cannot bear this uncertainty much longer.’

William rode away again, making it his business to keep watch over the territory under his command, ensuring that, as far as possible, all was safe and secure, and that the men he had cozened, arrayed and instructed were prepared, and his captains vigilant. Kate rarely saw him. She and the Countess were busily provisioning the castle for a siege, just in case Henry Tudor came this way. It might all be a waste of effort, she thought, as she went through another long list of foodstuffs with the steward, but they were taking no chances.

It was a hot August. The grass turned brown in the sun’s rays, and streams dried up. It would not be easy for men wearing armour to fight in this weather, she realised uneasily, and prayed it would not come to that.

Another letter arrived from her brother John. He sounded excited, and with good cause, for he was bound for Calais, England’s last outpost in France. Their father the King had appointed him Captain of Calais, and although he was too young at eleven to carry out his duties by himself, he was going to be taught them by those who were fulfilling them for him. Imagine, dear sister, he wrote, your brother, Captain of Calais!

William came home in a foul temper.

‘I cannot stay long. Henry Tudor has landed at Milford Haven!’ he announced. ‘Carmarthen and Brecon are safe for the King, but I fear some traitors have gone over to the Tudor. I’ve sent a fast rider to warn King Richard of the invasion.’

Kate felt a deep tremor of fear. It had come at last, the conflict they had all been dreading.

‘God help me, I failed to prevent those traitors from crossing the Pembroke River to join Henry Tudor,’ William fumed, crashing around the hall in frustration. ‘I was not far behind them too. At least I have blocked the southern route to England, but the bastard is marching north, so I must leave you again, and do my best to intercept him. I just need a few provisions to keep me and my men going, and the arrows in my store.’

‘Take care, my son,’ the Countess enjoined. ‘I shall pray constantly that you come back to us safe with good news.’

‘God speed you, my lord,’ Kate added, with unusual warmth: it was her father whom William was going to defend.

Katherine

August 1561. Ipswich, Suffolk.

Blessed be God – for it puts her in a sweet temper – the Queen has spent a most enjoyable day visiting the town of Ipswich and meeting the local dignitaries and the people; and she has now returned in a high good humour to the magnificent house of Sir Edmund Withipoll, where we are lodged. It is called Christchurch Mansion, and was a monastery before King Harry dissolved it, but there is little left from the monks’ days here. Costly oak panelling clads the walls, the chambers are appointed with richly carved beds and chairs and tables, and we are served our supper on silver-gilt plates. Her Majesty is well pleased with the hospitality, and Sir Edmund expands visibly with pride at her praise. I pray God her good mood lasts until I have a chance to make a clean breast of my heavy matter.

I have eaten barely a morsel. My laces are unbearably tight and I know I cannot hope to conceal my condition any longer. I have no choice but to confess all and beg for the Queen’s mercy.

As soon as my royal mistress has retired for the night, I hasten to the fine chamber assigned me, and take from my travelling chest the little silver casket that goes everywhere with me. I hunt through the contents, looking for the deed that Ned gave me a few days after we were wed; it is the proof of our marriage that I must show the Queen. To my horror, it is not there. I scrabble frantically through my papers again, but it is still missing. What am I to do?My heart is pounding: I am in terror.

I have thought much lately about what Ned said, weeks ago, about getting influential people on our side. I clutch at the idea as at a straw. In my present state of mind, I fear I am likely to make a mess of things.

Ned mentioned approaching Lord Robert Dudley, but I could not, for very shame, confess everything to a man. It must be a lady of my acquaintance, one who is friendly towards me, although of those there is precious little choice these days.

I opt for someone known to my family for many years: Mrs Saintlow, a Lady of the Privy Chamber, a wealthy, forceful, strong-willed woman who carries much influence with the Queen – ‘a rock within the sea’, as I’ve heard her called. Bess Saintlow – or Bess Hardwick as was – was once a lady-in-waiting and good friend of my mother, and I have known her since I was seven. She is sensible and reliable, even though at times, despite her evident goodwill, I find myself overwhelmed by her personality. Yet she has shown such regard for me as to make me godmother to her daughter Elizabeth, and to keep a motherly eye on me at the court.

Bess will help me, I am sure of it! Why did I not think of her before?

I wait until the household is quiet, then I tap at her door.

‘Who goes there?’ she cries in her strident voice.

‘It is I, Katherine Grey,’ I reply, as low as I can.

‘Pray come in,’ Bess calls.

The room is warm with candlelight. Bess is sitting up in bed in her nightrail, an account book spread across her knees, her long red hair tumbling about her shoulders, and an embroidered nightcap tied under her chin.

‘Lady Katherine,’ she exclaims, ‘whatever is wrong?’ I realise I must look a sad sight, with my eyes red from weeping.

‘Oh, dear Bess,’ I sob, and sink onto a stool. Out it all comes, my woeful story, blurted in fits and starts between much nose-blowing and dabbing of my eyes.

Bess hears me out in unnerving silence, then, to my amazement – for she is a strong, stiff-backed lady – bursts into furious tears.

‘You rash little fool, why have you involved me in this treason? Do you want to get us both sent to the Tower? Think you I would risk my good credit with the Queen for this? God’s blood, Lady Katherine, I am very sorry to hear that you have married without the consent of the Queen’s Majesty and of your friends, and I would you had made her Majesty privy to your trouble from the first, you foolish girl. Pray get yourself gone from my sight! Go to your bed, while I think what should be done with you, and hurry – my husband will be here soon!’

Thus chastised and castigated, with no chance given for argument, I creep back to my chamber, feeling as if the world is about to fall on me.

In the morning, Bess pointedly ignores me, and in church I am aware of certain courtiers whispering and nodding in my direction. I must act, now!

Lord Robert Dudley is my only hope. A year on, the scandal of his wife’s end has died a slow death, and he is again close as can be to the Queen, although all talk of their marrying has been stilled. Some say he shares her bed at night, giving the lie to her oft-repeated declarations that she means to live and die a virgin. But I cannot believe, knowing her as I do, that she would allow even him that final intimacy.

Remembering that we are brother– and sister-in-law, his own long sojourn in the Tower in the wake of his father’s fall, and his banishment from court last year, Lord Robert might help me. He, of all men, knows what it is to suffer the pains of royal displeasure. I summon my courage and resolve to seek him out.

There is no chance during the day, for we have to accompany her Majesty to dine at the house of a leading citizen, Thomas More, on the high street, and afterwards go to inspect the impressive high tower built by a wealthy merchant at Freston, outside the town – although I am in such a state of trepidation that I cannot pay much heed to this most curious building.

Later, after supper, I watch Lord Robert fawning upon the Queen, never straying from her side as the court enjoys an interlude acted by local players and then settles to gambling as usual. When the gathering breaks up near midnight, and I am near dead on my feet for weariness, I have not found a single opportunity to speak privily with my lord.

Retiring to my room, I am on a knife-edge. I hardly know what I am doing. I cannot delay any longer. I mustsee Lord Robert – in my mind, he has become my lodestar, my rescuer and my saviour, and so I wait until all are in bed, and then, taking my candle, go stealthily to his room, taking care to tread silently, because it is next to the Queen’s own bedchamber.

I tiptoe the last few paces, terrified lest I should waken her Majesty. I listen at Lord Robert’s keyhole. What if I find them together within, in bed even? But all is quiet. There is no sound beyond the sturdy oak doors.

I tap lightly on Lord Robert’s. No response. I tap again. Nothing. As carefully as possible, I try the door and, to my relief, find it unlocked. Summoning all my courage, I lift the latch and slip into the room. Moonlight streams through the open lattice windows; it is a warm, balmy night. A figure rears up in the bed.

‘What the devil …?’

‘Please, Lord Robert, hush!’ I whisper urgently. ‘It is Katherine Grey. I must speak with you. I need your help. I am desperate.’

‘What?’ He sits up. I can see his form clearly in the moonlight. He is bare-chested and quite a feast for female eyes, with his hirsute muscular torso, dark good looks, tousled black hair, neat beard and chiselled features. Not for nothing does the Queen call him her Gypsy. His face, however, is in shadow.

‘What are you doinghere, Lady Katherine?’ he hisses, sounding none too pleased to see me. ‘The Queen lies only next door! Do you want to get us both into trouble? If she heard us and came in, there would be a lot of explaining to do!’

‘My lord, I beg of you!’ I cast myself down on my knees by the bed, weeping; unable to help myself. ‘A few minutes of your time is all I crave. Hear me out, please! I beg you to be a means to the Queen’s Highness for me. My very life may depend on it.’

He does not look surprised, although my distress seems to soften his heart a little.

‘Very well,’ he whispers. ‘But be quick, and keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’

It takes more than a few minutes, of course, but he listens as my sorry tale unfolds, shaking his head at intervals and at one point burying his face in his hands and sighing, as if he cannot bear to hear more.

When I have finished, I remain kneeling there, looking at him beseechingly, but his voice comes low and disdainful.

‘And you want me to intercede for you with the Queen, and tell her what you have done? Why should I do that? You have acted with the crassest folly. Did you never take warning from what happened to your sister and your father?’

‘I have not committed treason!’ I protest.

‘Some would say you have, and that, in defying the Queen’s express order not to marry without her consent, you are a rebel too. Are you mad, Lady Katherine? Do you not understand that you are near in blood to the throne, and the peril in which that places you?’

‘I but married the man I love!’ I weep.

‘You little fool. You thought to defy the Queen and all good order and sense by taking a husband for love, rather than waiting for a suitable one to be found for you. In one of your estate, that is sheer insanity. By yielding to your lewd affections, you have defiled your royal blood by an unlawful union. And if this be not treason, then I might remind you that your intrigues with Spain may yet be viewed as such.’

I am in full flood now, racked by silent sobs.

‘Go now!’ Dudley commands me coldly. ‘I can have no part in this. You have compromised me enough this night.’

I rise, gathering the remnants of my dignity. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you, my lord,’ I whisper brokenly. ‘Goodnight.’

After taking care to close the door quietly behind me, I hasten away from that hated chamber, stung by Lord Robert’s cruel words. And yet, if I am honest with myself, I have to confess that there was truth in them. I have been a fool – a fool for love, indeed – but, as God is my witness, I never meant harm to any. What to do now? If Dudley will not speak for me, who else is there?

I lie down with a heart of lead, knowing that nothing can avert the tempest that must surely erupt in the morning.

Kate

August 1485. Raglan Castle.

They waited anxiously for news, Countess Anne in the chapel, on her knees, and Kate in her chamber, watching the empty distance from her high window, hoping to see a messenger bringing glad tidings. Far below, in the fields, the peasants were gathering in the harvest. It was such a peaceful scene that it was hard to believe that somewhere to the east, men – her father and her husband even – might be dying violently in the field, while the future of the kingdom hung in the balance. She felt sick with worry.

It was towards the end of the month that William at last came home. She saw him approaching with his escort, and flew down to the courtyard to greet him, with the Countess and the rest of the household not far behind her.

‘My lord, what news?’ she cried.

He looked down on her impassively from his great destrier, then his gaze moved to the people crowding behind her in the courtyard. He remained in his saddle and addressed them in ringing tones, not looking at his wife. ‘There has been a great battle in Leicestershire,’ he told them, ‘at a place called Bosworth. The usurper Richard has been killed and we have a new king – Henry VII, by the grace of God.’