Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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When I am done, there is a long pause while he looks over what he has written.
‘How would you describe the minister?’ he asks.
I tell him as accurately as I can, aware that I may be bringing a heap of trouble on the priest’s head. ‘He wore no surplice,’ I recall. ‘But Sir, my husband gave me a wedding ring. Look!’ I show him the elaborate band on my finger, and open the links so that he can read the inscription. He looks at it without comment.
‘Are you sure you cannot recall the minister’s name?’
‘I never did hear it.’
‘Would you know him if you saw him again?’
I consider for a moment. I do not want the minister’s punishment on my conscience. ‘I am not sure.’
‘Would Mrs Leigh know where to find the deed of gift?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘I know not.’
‘Tell me what you remember of the morning of your wedding.’
I recount that hasty walk to Cannon Row and the events that followed. ‘And thereafter, in my heart, I thought of the Earl as becomes a wife. So it was no small grief and trouble to me when I found his passport to France. I only saw it by chance. And after he had gone, I knew myself watched by the court, and feared people had discovered I was with child by him.’
The Lieutenant clears his throat. ‘Tell me of the love practices between you and the Earl of Hertford.’ I look at him, shocked and embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, I am instructed to ask,’ he says, a little shamefaced, for I can sense he is a decent man.
‘I cannot, and will not,’ I declare. ‘Pray do not press me, for the answer will be the same.’
‘I will not press you, for shame,’ Sir Edward says. Sighing, he rises to his feet and gathers up his things. ‘Thank you, Lady Katherine,’ he says. ‘That will be all for now.’
‘Sir,’ I cry, a little wild. ‘Have you any word of my husband?’
‘I am not at liberty to discuss him with you,’ the Lieutenant says, as, bowing, he leaves me.
Again, I rummage through my casket – as I have done several times before now. Ned’s deed really is not there. I am distraught, realising I have mislaid the only proof of my marriage.
My first night as a prisoner. I go to bed early, as I am exhausted. Honor helps me into my nightgown, then turns down the bed and departs, and I am left alone with my terrifying thoughts. I try not to think what it must be like to feel the steel of the axe slicing into one’s neck. It is something I used to dwell on much, of course, but now the imaginings I try to ward off are beyond horrible.
Outside my window, the glorious sunset has given way to a velvety blue night. I have lit my single candle now, having sat here without light for a long time as the dusk deepened, lost in my ceaseless fretting. Forcing myself not to think of worse things, I have been imagining myself arguing my case with the Queen. It galls me that I have had no chance to convince her of my innocence. Whatever has passed between her and Lord Robert Dudley, she must have some idea what it is like to be in love, and to be loved in return. So why does she not look more kindly on me? Is it because she is incapable of love? I could easily believe it.
Lying wakeful in this horrible place, far from my beloved, I cannot stop my teeming thoughts straying in his direction. Where is he now? Is he still beyond seas? Or have they summoned him home? He could even be here, in this very Tower, not far away from me. The thought is at once comforting and alarming, for has he not committed treason in wedding me, a princess of the blood?
It has grown late, and chilly, and there are dark shadows beyond the bed where demons may well lurk, and night owls hooting in the trees outside. Their eerie cries send shivers of unease down my spine and make my skin crawl. If an owl were to land on the roof of this tower, it would be an omen of death. Suddenly, I am praying for the owls to fly away, but they keep up their unearthly din, and that seems ominous too.
I wonder how many other poor wretches have been shut up in this room, weighed down with fears as I am. How many of them left it only to go to their doom? Were any allowed to go free? And if not, have they really departed this place? Might it be that some unquiet souls yet linger, and that they walk at night? In the gloom, my imagination is alive with horrifying possibilities. In this dark watch of the night, I can easily convince myself that I may face the same fate as my sister – and that the ghosts of those who have gone before are about to materialise.
I am shaking, desperate for the warmth of human company, but it is late and everyone must surely be asleep by now. I call out: ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ but there is no answer. I rattle the door, which remains stubbornly locked, and call out louder, but no one heeds me. I stumble to the window and look out, expecting to find guards on duty below. I see no one but two girls walking below. One looks disturbingly familiar, but they are gone before I can get a proper look at her, and now it feels as if I am utterly alone in the middle of the Tower of London, a prey to my fears and the phantoms that must lurk in this place.
As the candle sputters and dies in a draught from the window, the room takes on a strange aspect. It looks different in the gloom; I cannot exactly lay my finger on how, but it is as if there has been a shift in atmosphere – as if, somehow, it is not of this time. Am I going mad? I fear so.
I must calm myself and try to think of my child. I do not want it to be affrighted by my terrors. Shivering in my chemise, and not entirely from cold, I climb into bed, ease my bulky body down between the sheets, and pull the heavy coverlet over my head, shutting out the menacing world. I lie tense, fending off frightening thoughts and feverishly reciting my prayers, but the words come haltingly.
And then I hear it, so softly at first that I think it might be the wind sighing in the trees, or some poor creature preyed upon by an owl. But no, there it is again – a child’s voice, barely audible.
Help me.
It is pitiful and plaintive, and very well bred.
Help us!
There it is again, stronger now! I lie rigid, not daring to move, and too terrified to come out from under the coverlet.
Help us, please!
The voice, higher in pitch, breaks on a sob. It seems to be disembodied, coming out of the night beyond my window. And now there are two voices. I am petrified. I could no more go and investigate than grow wings and fly.
‘Who calls?’ I whisper.
Silence.
‘Is anybody there?’ I cry, more boldly this time.
Nobody answers. I wonder if this is some kind of plot to frighten me to death. Was that what they did to the Princes? It would not be difficult in my case, I fear, for I am eight months gone with child, by my reckoning, and it is well known that a fright can precipitate a woman’s travail. And it would, of course, be most convenient for some I could mention if I died.
But there remains that strange atmosphere, that odd change in the aspect of the room, the ethereal quality of the children’s voices. I begin to suspect that no human agency is at play here, and that what I have heard was not of this world. In the darkness, such things are all too believable.
I lie still, waiting, holding my breath, alert to every sound. There is nothing but the soughing of the leaves beyond the window and a distant shout from the direction of the river. It seems that there has been a shift back towards normality; and as the silence reasserts itself and I calm down, I start to wonder if I imagined it all. But I am chilled when I think whose voices I might have heard.
Master Aylmer schooled us well in history. I grew up to be familiar with the popular chronicles of Richard Fabyan and Edward Hall, and because my parents kept a good library, I had even read parts of Polydore Vergil’s history of England. From these, Aylmer had drawn lessons in morality, with the varying fortunes of our kings and queens as examples. And one example he had held up was that of Richard III. All those old chroniclers said it was the common fame that King Richard had, within the Tower, secretly had put to death the two sons of his brother, King Edward. They had condemned the deed as a foul murder, and I grew up accepting that story as fact, for no one I knew, least of all Aylmer, ever questioned it.
They suffered and died here, those poor Princes. So if any ghosts haunt this place, it would be them. Was it their long-silenced, plaintive voices I heard? In the dark reaches of the night, it is all too believable.
In the morning, I decide that I must have dreamed it all. Soon after sunrise, the door is unlocked and Honor appears, and being restored to human congress lends me a new perspective on things. My fears today are for the realities confronting me, not the imagined terrors of the night.
At nine o’clock, Sir Edward Warner presents himself and enquires after my health, and if I have slept well.
‘No, Sir Edward, I had a nightmare that was too vivid for comfort,’ I tell him. ‘It is hardly surprising, given the desperate situation in which I find myself. But I took such a fright that I was fearful for my babe. I pray you, can you find me a midwife? I would be assured that all is well.’
‘I will do what I can, my lady,’ he assures me, and leaves the room.
Darkness falls, and I am no longer so certain that the voices of the night before were a dream. Alone, curled up beneath the covers, I try to pray, yet cannot concentrate, as my ears are attuned to any slight disturbance of the midnight silence. And then, as before, the voices come.
Help me! Help us!
Can this manifestation – for now I fear it can be nothing else – be heard in the Tower every night? Or is it just in this room? Or – and this chills my blood more than anything – is it intended for me alone?
There it is again! Pleading in tone, piteous … the voices of children, abandoned and maybe in dreadful danger …
Help us!
I gather all my courage and rise, cradling my swollen belly protectively in my hands. Beneath my fingers, I can feel the babe moving sleepily. My heart is hammering so hard I fear he might take fright from it.
I creep on bare feet to the window and look out, alert to every faint sound. And then I hear, disembodied in the air, and with nothing in sight to account for them, those awful words once more. Help us!
But they are long beyond help now. I fear it is I and my child who are in deadly danger. At the realisation, I start to tremble. Oh my God! They could murder us both, immured within these walls and helpless as we are – just like those little Princes were murdered. And our poor bones might lie here undiscovered like theirs for centuries, another of the secrets the Tower keeps hidden. Oh, sweet Jesus, save me and my child! Preserve us from the malice of our enemies. Let me live to behold my dear lord once more!
Sweating in panic, I pace up and down the room, hugging myself in distress and fear. I know I will not be able to sleep tonight. I am too frightened.
In the morning, I am rational again, although still disturbed in my mind. I find myself needing to know what really happened to those poor Princes. Despite being mere children, they were too close to the throne for comfort, and a deadly threat to their sovereign, just like me – and my unborn babe. If he lives, he may prove a similar threat to the Queen, and a focus for plots against her – as did Jane, and the Princes. He might not need to lift a finger, for there are many who would prefer a man on the throne, and who regard a woman ruler as unnatural and against Nature. Of course, Elizabeth is no Richard III, but the birth of a male heir to her throne might provoke her beyond reason.
Trembling, I wonder if there are lessons to be learned from the Princes’ fate, lessons I would do well to heed. Yet how could one can be sure exactly what happened to them? It is generally agreed that they were murdered by their wicked uncle Richard, but the means is often debated. And no bodies were ever found …
I wish I knew the truth about their disappearance. I know I am not being entirely rational, but I feel some strange affinity with those poor boys. I can identify with their peril because my own babe is under threat. I feel that, in some inexplicable way, their fate might have a bearing on his. But how could I, a prisoner in the Tower, find out the truth?
Suddenly, I remember that I may have the means right at hand. I hasten to my casket and take out the bundle of faded pages tied with old ribbon, which Harry and I found at Baynard’s Castle, in another life. These are the pages written, I believe, by Katherine Plantagenet. I had forgotten them until now, but I recall that I never deciphered them fully. I see again the barely legible words appreh … Raglan. Apprehended? Who was apprehended? Katherine herself? Does this mean she was arrested at Raglan Castle, the old Herbert stronghold in Wales? Could it be that these writings are those of a young girl like myself, imprisoned long ago? Is this why I felt an affinity with her?
I struggle through the closely written pages, trying to read the cramped script. Yes, this is about the Princes in the Tower, but it is not the story everyone knows. This mysterious daughter of Richard III had another version of it entirely. She believed her father to be innocent.
Given what I heard in the night – or thought I heard – I am not sure I can agree with her. My belief is that the Princes never left this place. Their unavenged bones still lie here somewhere. That is what all the world believes, and I have no reason to doubt it.
I struggle on, as the handwriting becomes increasingly spidery. There is more here than I ever read in history books. But at the end, frustratingly, the writing has faded away. It’s the date 1487 on the first page that puzzles me. Everyone knows that Richard III was killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, but what happened in 1487?
There is no end to the tale, no satisfying resolution. Nor is there any evidence that Katherine’s belief in her father’s innocence was justified. It seems to me she was deluding herself.
Did she ever find out the truth?
Kate
October 1485. Westminster Palace.
William was most unhappy when Kate told him she was forbidden to reveal what the King had wanted, and he was even less enamoured when, later that day, a page came saying that the King’s mother, the Lady Margaret, wished to see her, and would she come at once – alone.
Lady Stanley – the Lady Margaret Beaufort, who was Countess of Richmond by her marriage to Henry’s father – was now known as my lady the King’s mother. For lack of a queen, that formidable matriarch was ruling the court – and no doubt the King too, Kate mused. She remembered the woman’s cold eyes and haughty mien. The Lady Margaret was said to be very devout and learned, but Kate could only think of her as the woman who had plotted with Buckingham against her father. Traitress, she thought.
The Lady Margaret cut a far more regal figure than her son. She dressed like a nun in a severe black gown and pleated wimple; it was well known that she lived chastely (no doubt Lord Stanley had cause to be grateful for that, Kate thought irreverently). Her manner was quiet and dignified, and she spoke very softly. Only when she mentioned her son the King did she become animated.
She welcomed Kate coolly, then came to the point without bothering with the pleasantries.
‘His Grace the King told me he spoke with you this morning, and that we can rely on your absolute discretion.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘My son means to give England peace and strong government. His crown has come as of right to him, and God Himself has endorsed it by giving him the victory at Bosworth. He rules most rightfully over his people – our Joshua, come to save us from tyranny.’ Kate struggled to contain her anger. Was the Lady Margaret deliberately trying to provoke her?
‘But how can he embark on his great task when there are those who might undermine his just title?’ the insufferable woman was asking – rhetorically, of course. Dislike bristled from her; it was as if she was constrained to a disagreeable but necessary task. ‘Two years ago,’ she said, ‘the usurper, your father, told his friend the Duke of Buckingham – in confidence of course – that he had no choice but to have the sons of King Edward put to death, if he was ever to feel secure on the throne. It finished the friendship. The Duke could not countenance such an atrocity, and made an excuse to leave court. The usurper, unaware that there was a rift, continued to correspond with him, and in one of his letters he wrote something that Buckingham thought clearly indicated that the deed had been done. Indeed, Buckingham had no doubt of it, and he was horrified. It was then that he switched his allegiance to my son. He confided to him, and to me and our chief allies, what he knew; and we began to work for the overthrow of the tyrant.’
Kate seethed. What she was hearing was bad enough, but the woman was baiting her and enjoying her discomposure, knowing she could say nothing in her father’s defence that would not be construed as treason. Only with difficulty did she hold her peace while the Lady Margaret continued.
‘Soon, rumours were circulating that the Princes had been killed. We did not start these rumours, although we made use of them later. But we had no certain knowledge of how the boys had been murdered or how their bodies had been disposed of.’
‘May I ask, my lady, how you could be certain that they were dead? An ambiguous sentence in a letter could surely be taken two ways?’
The Lady Margaret eyed Kate distastefully. ‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? But you forget that the Duke knew Richard very well: how his mind worked, and how ambition drove him.’
‘I knew him well too,’ Kate said in a quiet voice. ‘He was my father, and Madam, I could never imagine him stooping to such a low and dreadful deed.’
‘Maybe you could not, but others could, all too easily!’ the Countess shrilled, abandoning her habitual calm for a moment. ‘Do you want me to rehearse the roll call of his crimes? What of the many rumours? They would not be stilled because they were believable – and they were true! My dear child, there are none so blind as those who will not see!’
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ Kate murmured, trying to control her fury, ‘I can only speak from my own experience.’
‘Well, you were young and had evidently not yet learned to judge human nature. But I think you know more than you are prepared to say. What have you heard about the Princes? If your father did not murder them, where are they?’
‘I know nothing, my lady, beyond what I told the King,’ Kate insisted, wondering why she was being questioned again. Evidently the King had notbelieved her, and hoped his mother would get more out of her. But he was wrong there! Yes, she did know more than she had given them to believe, but of what she had learned from Pietro, Bishop Russell and Bishop Stillington (although he had not said much), she intended to say nothing. Least said, soonest mended, she reasoned. No one should be called to account because of her.
‘So you do not know anything about their murder?’
‘I know nothing of a murder, my lady.’
The Lady Margaret gave her a hard look.
‘Are you being obstinate with me?’ she demanded to know.
‘No, my lady. I am as desirous as you are of having this matter brought to light.’
‘Well, we will have the truth soon, no doubt – and I can tell you what it will be. Now you may go. And if you recall anything that may have a bearing on this matter, you are to come and tell me at once.’
Interlude
August 1561. Hertford Castle.
Queen Elizabeth glares at her Council.
‘No evidence of a conspiracy? Are you certain?’ Her tone is disbelieving, her face above the delicate lace of her ruff thunderous and pale. She is extremely tense, and looks thin and gaunt.
‘No, Madam,’ Cecil says firmly. ‘The minister – if he ever existed – has gone to ground. Mrs Leigh has vanished too. And Mr Glynne, who helped me uncover this misconduct, is staying in Paris for now. He has nothing to add. We have questioned Mistress Saintlow again, but she knows no more than she told us to begin with. I am convinced, Madam, that had there been any conspiracy, we would have found evidence of it by now. But there is none, and it is significant that Lady Katherine’s support seems to have evaporated. As for the evidence of marriage, the deed of gift has been destroyed, along with the letters Hertford sent the Lady Katherine from France, in which he referred to her as his wife. My agent in Dover intercepted those, and hers to him, telling him she was with child.’
‘Is it certain that there were no marriage lines?’ asks Lord Robert, lounging in his chair. Cecil and the other councillors regard him with dislike. It is no exaggeration to say that Dudley is the most hated and envied man at court. What a silly girl Katherine was, appealing to him of all people, the Secretary reflects.
‘There never were any, according to Lady Katherine’s testimony. And no one appears to have been privy to this marriage but her maids and Lady Jane Seymour.’
‘I still think there was some greater drift in this.’ Elizabeth is obstinate in her opinion. ‘I am convinced there is more matter hid in this marriage than is uttered to the world.’
‘I can find none such, Madam,’ Cecil declares decisively. ‘We should focus upon the immorality.’
‘Is Lord Hertford on his way home?’ the Queen asks.
‘He is, and he knows the reason for his summons,’ Cecil tells her. ‘Fearing he might choose not to obey it, I told him that your Majesty does not mean to punish him, but that you require his presence merely in order to decide whether his marriage to the Lady Katherine is good and valid. I did not tell him that she is in the Tower.’
‘And what did he answer to that?’ asks Sussex.
Cecil looks at Elizabeth.
‘At first, he thought it would help matters if he stayed abroad until the scandal had died down. But – forgive me, Madam – when one of my secret agents at the French court expressed the opinion that his marriage to the Lady Katherine would but facilitate your own to Lord Robert here, he changed his mind and took a more optimistic view of his situation.’
‘God’s blood!’ shouts Elizabeth, banging the table and making her councillors jump. ‘Is there no end to this lewd gossip? And you can wipe that smile off your face, Robin.’ Dudley has the grace to look chastened. ‘Well, enough of that,’ the Queen continues. ‘At least Lord Hertford is on his way home, and then we can get to the bottom of this matter.’
Kate
October 1485. Westminster Palace.
Kate pondered much on what the Tudor had said about the Princes not being in the Tower now. It made sense to her. Her father had been a careful, cautious man. Once those conspiracies had come to light in the summer after the coronation, he might well have had the boys moved to a secret location whence there was no chance of their being rescued. He would have reasoned that, if at least one attempt had been made already, there would be others in the future.
So had the Princes been at Sheriff Hutton all along? Had they been taken there when the King’s Household in the North was set up under the governance of Lincoln? It had been a secure household of necessity, given the threat posed by Henry Tudor, and it had sheltered the heirs and bastards of York. Had the sons of Edward IV been of their number, secretly lodged there with their sisters?
Kate’s brother John had been there too, but he was still in Calais, his future uncertain with their father dead, and he had not replied to her recent letters. Even if she had been able to reach him, she would never have dared to commit such a dangerous question to paper.
But it was highly doubtful that the Princes were still at Sheriff Hutton. Henry Tudor would surely have checked, so desperate was he to find them. So if they had been there at the time Bosworth was fought, where were they now?
The answer, she was sure, lay with John de la Pole. Had he hastened to Sheriff Hutton after Bosworth and taken them into hiding with him? Were they the reason why he had disappeared after the battle? Had he perhaps taken them abroad, to their aunt, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, whom Kate had never met, but of whom her father had always spoken with loving respect? Margaret had helped shelter Richard when, as a youth, he had sought refuge with King Edward in Bruges after Edward had been driven from his kingdom by Warwick and Clarence. John had also spoken of Aunt Margaret with affection. Certainly she would willingly have offered a refuge both to the Princes and to him.
The more Kate thought about this, the more it made sense, and with that came a welcome feeling of relief that at last she had an explanation as to why her father had never produced the Princes alive. But it was still only speculation. She had to talk to John, or get a message to him, as soon as his whereabouts became known.
She wished she knew what had happened to him; not knowing was killing her. He might even be lying dead somewhere, his beloved body undiscovered. She caught her breath at that. No! Don’t think that way. He is an astute, resourceful man, and must be in hiding somewhere. All at once she was seized with an unbearable longing to see him – not just to look once more upon the beauty of his face, and to touch him; but also to ask him that crucial question: had he had the Princes under his charge at Sheriff Hutton?
It was late when William returned that evening, and she was nearly asleep when he came in, doused the candle and began to undress. She was grateful that her condition precluded his usual nightly attentions.
She turned over to face him. All discourse between them now was limited to necessities; there was no love lost on either side. Yet her curiosity was burning her.
‘My lord, I have been wondering. Is there any news of my cousin Warwick?’
William started. He had thought her asleep, and was evidently unprepared for her to speak to him, let alone ask such a question.
‘He’s in the Tower of London, if you must know.’
The news shook her. ‘What?’ Another prince in the Tower? ‘Why?’
‘By King Henry’s order. Presumably he feels that Warwick is a threat, being so close in blood to the throne.’
Yes. And he is also a threat because, simple lad that he is, he may blab about the Princes being at Sheriff Hutton, and expose the truth: that they may well be alive, though Henry doesn’t know where they are.
‘That is terrible. That poor boy could not commit treason to save his life. He has not the wits for it – and he is so young.’
‘The King, for all his virtues, is not a sentimental man,’ William said stiffly. ‘He is a political realist, and knows well it is not Warwick himself he need fear, but those who might act on his behalf.’
‘But that poor, wretched boy …’
‘It is a necessity, alas.’
Kate shed a silent tear for her cousin, who had committed no crime save that of being born his father’s son – and, perhaps, of knowing too much.
‘Is there news of my brother coming home from Calais?’ she asked, after William had risen from his prayers, used the pisspot, and climbed into bed.
‘I heard he was deprived of the captaincy, but he’s still in Calais, for all I know.’ How short a time young John had enjoyed his post in Calais, she reflected sadly.
‘You should keep your nose out of great affairs,’ William reproved, ‘and don’t go asking questions. It will be marked, surely.’
‘I do not intend to. But Warwick and John are my kinsmen, for whom I have much love. I ask only as their relation. And I was also going to ask if there are tidings of my lord of Lincoln.’
‘None, and good riddance I say. Now go to sleep.’
She slept; but in the morning, when William – commanding her to stay in her room – had gone to seek out old acquaintances and re-establish himself in the pecking order at court, she got out her papers and wrote down every last detail of her theory that the Princes had been taken, safe and well, to Sheriff Hutton. One day, she promised herself, her infant child would be able to hold his head up and say his grandfather’s name with pride.
Katherine
September 1561. The Tower of London.
Ned is here, in the Tower. Sir Edward has informed me that he was arrested at Dover, brought here under guard and imprisoned in the Lieutenant’s Lodging. I do not know whether to laugh or cry, for while I am heartened to know that he is nearby, I am aware that there are now three of us in peril of our lives.
‘May I see him?’ I ask eagerly.
‘I regret not, my lady. The Queen has expressly forbidden it. But my Lord Hertford sends you these, and asks after your health.’ He hands me a small posy of violets. Violets, for modesty, delicacy and chastity. I feel choked. It is as if my good reputation has been given back to me.
‘You are both to be questioned by the Privy Council, separately,’ Sir Edward tells me.
‘But I have told you all I know,’ I protest.
‘That remains to be seen, my lady,’ Sir Edward says, and makes to depart.
‘Please tell my husband I am in good health,’ I call after him, and he pauses and nods.
Later, in the afternoon, I am visited by five lords of the Council, among them the Bishop of London, and the Marquess of Winchester, he who placed the crown on my sister’s head in this very Tower.
‘Lady Katherine,’ the Marquess begins, ‘why did you not tell the Lieutenant everything?’
‘But I did,’ I declare.
‘Let us go over what Lord Hertford has deposed.’ He reads Ned’s own account of our wedding day, and I am shocked to hear that my lord has confessed all, even to the most intimate details, and find myself blushing hotly. Nevertheless, he has corroborated everything I myself told Sir Edward, even reciting the lines he composed for my wedding ring. Surely they must believe us now!
‘Why did you not give all this information in your first interview?’
For shame, of course; how could they have expected me to say such things to a man not my husband? Even now, I cannot bring myself to mention them. ‘I was in great agony of mind,’ I say, ‘for fear of the Queen’s Majesty’s displeasure. I was distressed at my husband’s absence, when I thought myself in a desperate case … being great with child …’ I cannot speak any more; I am quite broken down, and weeping uncontrollably. The lords sit in silence as a clerk writes down my words. The Marquess nods to the rest.
