Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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‘The fact remains that Richard III never produced the Princes alive to counteract the rumours, or explained their disappearance. Whatever happened to them, he musthave known about it. They were his prisoners, held straitly in the innermost reaches of the Tower, and guarded by his faithful Constable, Brackenbury.’
‘That name seems as familiar to me as that of Tyrell,’ I interrupt. ‘I have read of them in books, but I’m sure I have seen those names somewhere else. It will come to me soon.’
‘It might be credible that Richard had the boys removed from the Tower in the wake of the conspiracies,’ the Lieutenant says. ‘If no one knew where they were, there could be no further attempts to rescue them. But I still think Richard himself made them disappear.’
‘Could Buckingham could have been involved?’
‘I think not, my lady. Bishop Russell said the Princes were alive in September, but by then, Buckingham was in Wales, miles away. How could he, or any agent of his, have breached the Tower’s security without being discovered? If he had murdered the Princes, the King would certainly have discovered it, and it’s inconceivable he would not have made political capital out of that in the charges against Buckingham. Such knowledge would have been a powerful weapon in his hand.’
‘You speak sense, Sir. But what of Henry VII? The thought did occur—’
‘Hush!’ the Lieutenant hisses. ‘You must not speak so of the Queen’s grandsire. It is clear he was as perplexed as everyone else. He’d had the Tower searched for the bodies, but none were found, so he could not say what had become of the Princes. Why else would he have taken the threat posed by the pretender Perkin Warbeck so seriously? Warbeck pretended for years to be Richard, Duke of York, and convinced several of the monarchs of Europe before he was exposed as a fraud. He had the King terrified. No, Henry VII did not kill the Princes. Who else could have done it but Richard III?’
‘Unless Katherine Plantagenet was right, and he had the Princes moved.’ I so want that to have been the case.
‘My lady, you are forgetting two vital things,’ Sir Edward says. ‘First, if the Princes had been at Sheriff Hutton, what happened to them after Bosworth? Did they just disappear?’
‘Maybe they escaped abroad.’
‘That would have been the wisest course, for they posed as much of a threat to King Henry as they had to King Richard. But there is no proof of their being alive after the September of 1483.’
‘There is no proof of anything!’ I lament. ‘It’s all possibilities! It seems that every trail goes cold.’
‘After eighty years, what else can you expect? But there is another aspect you have not taken into account, my lady. Richard III was a twisted and ruthless man – a tyrant; there is no other word for it. He had his opponents beheaded without trial; he used scandalous and false precepts to stake his claim to the throne. These things are incontrovertible. We must ask ourselves if such a man was also capable of murdering his brother’s children, whom he had dispossessed.’
‘But Katherine did not see him as a tyrant. She saw much that was good in him.’
‘She saw him as she wanted to see him.’
‘Yet he had been a loving and careful father all her life,’ I point out. ‘Surely that argues that there was some good in him? And maybe those things he did – maybe he did them because he felt he had no choice, because his enemies were plotting to destroy him.’
‘Reading between the lines in these papers, I think he exaggerated that threat; he lied about those weapons, don’t forget. Yet I think that we should give him the benefit of the doubt for now, for there is, after all, no proof that the Princes were murdered.’ Sir Edward’s face creases in his endearing, craggy smile. ‘You have fired me up again about this mystery, my lady. For years it has nagged at me. It was the fact that no bodies were found; certainly something very secret – and possibly evil – took place here in the Tower, and I’ve often hoped there might still be a clue somewhere. This account by Richard’s daughter is most illuminating, something I never dreamed I would see. And perchance there are other sources.’
‘Other sources?’
The Lieutenant lowers his voice. ‘Much was suppressed, I’m sure. I believe there is far more to this mystery than we could ever suspect. There may also be histories I have not read. I am dining with a friend of mine, an alderman of the City of London, next week. With his help, I may be able to gain entry to Sir Richard Whittington’s library at the Guildhall, and see what records are kept there. I will report back to you.’ He stands up. ‘But now I must go, for it grows late. I bid you goodnight, my lady. I have enjoyed our most enlivening talk. I would it had taken place in happier circumstances.’
‘I too, Sir,’ I say with feeling. Yet it has offered me a welcome respite from my troubles and fears.
With my mind full of the Princes, I am nervously anticipating hearing those voices again tonight; and hear them I do, as I lie wakeful in my bed, their thin cries plaintive, like a whisper on the breeze. I shudder. It could be anything, I tell myself. Why should it be the lost sons of King Edward? Or am I myself conjuring up voices that are not there?
Kate
November 1485. Westminster Palace.
After they had returned from their outing to the City, William was much gratified to receive a summons to sup with the King and several other lords in the evening. The Tudor, it seemed, was making an effort to court popularity.
William began fretting about what to wear. His shirt was not fine enough, his best gown stained. Kate rubbed the stain and brushed the pile, then sat down to embroider the neck of the shirt. He nodded at her, more grateful than he would express, then left, saying he had to meet someone.
Kate unwrapped her few purchases, thinking joyfully of John. She was utterly relieved to know that he still lived and was safe. Maybe, God willing, he would try to contrive a meeting. She knew the dangers, but she was willing to risk much just to speak with him, and when they had known the rapture of being reunited, she could ask him about the Princes.
Life was suddenly looking much brighter. Her heart lightened. If you waited long enough, good things happened, and prayers were answered.
Taking advantage of William’s absence, she put on her cloak and sped down to the gardens to get some air, and to look out for John. The nights were drawing in much earlier now, and it was already dusk. She walked along by the river wall light of step, glad to feel the evening breeze on her face. There she came upon a boy kicking a ball along one of the paths. He was about seven or eight, a well-dressed, sturdily built child with a slightly lugubrious face.
‘Hello,’ she said, as he approached her.
‘Good even, Madam,’ he answered politely, and bowed. He had clearly been well drilled in courtesy, and his fine clothes proclaimed him of noble birth. ‘The Duke of Buckingham at your service,’ he said grandly.
The Duke of Buckingham? This must be the son of the traitor who had rebelled against her father. The last she had heard, this boy had been smuggled into hiding after his father’s arrest.
She curtseyed. ‘The Countess of Huntingdon, my lord.’
‘I have just been restored to my title,’ he told her with evident pride. ‘I was made a Knight of the Bath at the King’s coronation.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’ She smiled. ‘You are in high favour it seems!’
‘It has not always been so,’ he told her, a shadow crossing his fresh young face. ‘You must have heard of my father, the old Duke.’
‘I met him several times,’ she said. ‘He was hearty company.’
‘Aye, but he tried to overthrow the usurper Richard and lost his head for it. I had to go into hiding after that. My nurse shaved my head and dressed me as a girl; it was horrid. I hated it! But she got me away, and now I am restored to my rightful inheritance.’
Kate wondered if this bright young lad might know something of his father’s motives for rebelling against his king. There could be no harm in probing gently, surely. ‘Why did your father wish to overthrow Richard?’ she asked.
‘Because Richard had had the sons of King Edward put to death, of course.’ The answer came out almost unthinkingly.
‘How did your father know that?’
The boy scratched his curly hair. ‘I don’t know. But he hated the usurper because of it. After he was arrested, he craved an audience with him. He made out he wanted to plead for his life, but really he meant to kill Richard with a hunting knife he had hidden in his bosom. But the usurper refused to see him. He died bravely, my father.’
Kate suddenly realised they were not alone. Two dark figures were approaching along the path. When they emerged into the light of the flare set in a nearby wall bracket, Kate recognised the cold features of the Lady Margaret. With her was a man in clerical garb whom she did not know.
‘My lady of Huntingdon, we meet again,’ the Countess said, as Kate curtseyed, never taking her eyes from that austere face. ‘I see you have made the acquaintance of my ward, the Duke of Buckingham. Come, my young lord, it grows late, and I’m sure you have detained the Countess too long with your prattle.’ She put an arm about the boy’s shoulder and made to lead him away.
‘I was telling her about going into hiding, and how my father intended to kill the usurper.’
‘Indeed. I am sure my lady here found that most interesting,’ the Lady Margaret said, with a chilly smile at Kate.
‘Yes, she did, and we talked about my father’s rebellion!’ the boy told her.
‘Did you?’ His guardian exchanged glances with her clerk. ‘Well, thank you, my lady, for keeping this young coxcomb entertained. His tongue does run away with him, I fear, usually on matters way beyond his understanding.’ The young Duke made a face. ‘Come,’ the Lady Margaret bade him, ‘it is time for prayers and bed. Good evening, Lady Huntingdon. If this young man should trouble you again, tell him to discuss something more edifying.’
Kate knew she had been warned off. She was perturbed by the Lady Margaret finding her talking of sensitive matters with young Buckingham. William would not like it at all, so she would not dare to mention the encounter to him. She was not supposed to be out anyway, as it was. Yet she hadn’t said anything remotely treasonous; she had but asked a couple of questions that anyone with any curiosity might have asked. It was the boy who had brought up the subject of his father and done most of the talking. Surely no one, even the King’s menacing mother, could take issue with that?
William returned later that evening, ushering in, much to Kate’s surprise, a stranger – clearly a lady of rank. She was a slender gentlewoman in middle life, her oddly familiar face pale, yet showing traces of great beauty. She was clad in a dark gown of soft wool bordered with fur, and one of the new long-lappeted hoods. She was regarding Kate intently and seemed tense and ill at ease.
‘I have a visitor for you, Kate,’ William said quietly. ‘This lady is Mistress Katherine Haute. She is your mother.’
Kate stared at the woman, utterly bewildered and confounded, with all sorts of emotions welling up inside her. The familiarity of that face – of course, she could see it now: it was so like her own.
‘But how …?’ she stammered.
‘My dear, I have made it my business to find out about you,’ the woman said. ‘When your father was alive, I knew you were well cared for. That gladdened my heart, for I was unable to play any part in your life. My duty was to my husband and our sons. My husband had forgiven me for – for what happened, and did not wish to be reminded of it; he insisted I put it behind me. It was not what I wanted, in fact it cost me dear, but you will know that a woman has no choice in such matters.’
Kate nodded, glancing involuntarily at William. He was standing there watching them impassively. She wondered at him allowing this meeting.
She guessed that her mother had not had an easy life, and suspected it had been one long reparation for her sin. You could see that in Katherine Haute’s face. Those lines had been etched there by suffering.
‘I knew of your marriage,’ Katherine Haute went on. ‘We live up in Hertfordshire, but my husband and his family have links to the court, so we are kept well informed. And James did relent sufficiently to tell me that you had married my lord of Huntingdon. I was pleased for you: it is a good match.’ She smiled warily at William, who did not respond. ‘Then I heard of Richard’s death at Bosworth. You must not think, my lady, that I did not love him. I never told him how I felt because I was aware that he did not feel the same way about me. He never knew.’ Her voice tailed off sadly. It was true. Kate remembered her father saying they had not loved each other.
‘Please sit down,’ she invited. Katherine Haute gave her that nervous smile and took the stool by the fire.
‘When I heard of your father’s death, I was worried for you. I feared you would find life difficult without his protection. And when James said we would be coming up to London for the coronation, I resolved to see you, if I could. I reasoned your lord would be here to attend upon the King, and I hoped you would be with him. And so, as soon as we had settled into our lodgings – James has taken rooms in Fleet Street – I sent secret word to your lord at the palace, asking if he would arrange a meeting. And so he has, and may God bless him for it.’
William reddened and muttered something gruffly about being pleased to oblige, and he didn’t see any harm in it.
‘My dear,’ Katherine Haute said, ‘if I can do you any service within my little power, I am ready to do it. I know it is far too late, and that I can never be a proper mother to you, but I would at least be your friend, and have you know that, God willing, I will always be here for you.’ And she rose and held out her arms. With a cry of happiness, Kate went into them. It was like coming home.
They talked for hours, long after William had gone off to his supper with the King. They told each other more of their life stories, and laughed and cried in equal measure. And then Kate found herself confiding to this lovely lady who was, incredibly, her mother all her doubts and fears about the disappearance of the Princes. She knew instinctively that she could trust her.
‘I have heard those evil rumours too,’ Katherine Haute said. ‘Of course, I never believed them. That was not the Dickon I knew.’ It was so good to hear that.
‘I wanted, if I could, to speak with Queen Elizabeth, because she might know something,’ Kate said.
‘I was supposed to be visiting her today,’ her mother told her. ‘That’s what I told James, and indeed, I should see her before he comes to collect me. I’ve known her for years. She and James are cousins. I will ask her if she will receive you.’
‘She may not wish to see me. I am the daughter of her enemy, and Henry Tudor is hostile to me. He thinks I am withholding information about the Princes – he may even imagine I am seeking it as a means of bringing him down! But all I want to know is the truth about my father. It could be difficult for the Queen, associating with me.’
‘Then, my lady, I will ask her myself what she knows, and come back to see you in the morning, at eleven o’clock. I can tell James she has invited me to dine with her.’
‘Would you? Oh that would be so kind,’ Kate breathed. ‘And please do not call me my lady! I may be a countess, but I am your daughter, and I would like you to call me by the name we both bear.’
Katherine Haute looked at her with brimming eyes. ‘Then you should call me Kat, for that is how I am usually known in the family.’
‘Nay,’ Kate said. ‘If I may, I will call you Mother.’
Katherine
October 1561. The Tower of London.
‘The furnishings ordered by the Queen have arrived from the Wardrobe,’ Sir Edward announces. At last! I can now leave the Bell Tower for a more commodious lodging.
‘I thank you for your trouble, Sir,’ I say, wondering why the Lieutenant looks so uncomfortable. ‘The stuff will come in useful, I am sure.’
‘My lady, er – I am somewhat embarrassed by what the Queen has lent. Most of it is so old as to be unusable.’
‘I am sure her Majesty is unaware of that, and it was not what she intended,’ I say hastily.
‘My thoughts exactly, my lady,’ the Lieutenant replies, as our eyes meet, conveying something else entirely. ‘I will have it all brought up, and you may choose anything you think suitable.’
He escorts me to the rooms that have been prepared for me. They are panelled with oak and have latticed windows, and will do very well. But they face Tower Green and the chapel, and I know that every time I look out I will be reminded of my poor sister. Yet I will be far more comfortable here, and these lodgings are a more fitting residence for my son than the Bell Tower.
The furnishings sent by the Queen are indeed decrepit. The six tapestries might cover the walls and shield the draughts, but they must be hundreds of years old, and certainly look it. The pair of Turkey carpets might have been fine once, but they are threadbare and dirty. The oak armchair is rickety, its wood cracked, the stuffing spilling through rents in the rubbed cloth-of-gold padding on its seat and arms. An old purple velvet cushion lies upon it, a dark stain disfiguring its centre.
‘There is a bed, too, in pieces,’ Sir Edward says. ‘It’s not worth bringing it up here, it is too mean a thing, so I will have the one you used in the Bell Tower brought in.’ A disintegrating damask counterpane has been laid over Honor’s pallet bed; it was probably made centuries ago. Sir Edward shakes his head. ‘A sorry jumble, my lady. As for the footstools, I forbear to show them to you.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘I recognise them as King Harry’s, from the days I was at court. He would rest his ulcerated leg on them. The velvet is stained with pus, and is too far gone to clean. In truth, I am ashamed, my lady, that you should be so discommoded.’ Insulted, I think. These items were sent to slight me. They convey what Elizabeth thinks of me.
‘I am very sorry about this, my lady,’ Sir Edward continues. ‘My wife and I will lend you some furnishings. And in compensation, I will have your maids and your pets sent for. They shall keep you company and make you and the babe merry.’
And so it is that my old bed is brought in and reassembled, with new hangings of silk damask and a fine counterpane striped in red and gold silk; and Mrs Ellen, Mrs Coffin, my maids and my two lap-dogs, Arthur and Guinevere, are brought to the Tower, along with a more recent acquisition, my pet monkey, Jester. With them arrive four of my good gowns and French hoods, and several changes of body linen, which Honor lays away in the chest at the end of my bed. Effortlessly, after an emotional reunion – for she has been in this place before, in far more tragic circumstances – Mrs Ellen takes charge, while I suckle and cuddle my child, with chaos all around me.
Arthur lies sleeping on the coverlet of the bed; Jester, perched on a stool, feeds daintily on a few morsels left over from the supper I could not face eating, and of which the dogs made short work. Guinevere gnaws a bone at my feet. And Sir Edward Warner regards them all with despair.
‘My lady, they are wrecking the furnishings, and the servants are complaining about the messes they make. I beg of you to control them.’
‘I am trying, Sir Edward. Please do not take them away. They do cheer me, and I need it.’
He sighs. ‘I would not deprive you of good cheer, my lady, but these three are a handful. And, having permitted them to be here, I will be accounted responsible for the damage.’
‘I will do my best,’ I promise. ‘I am so sorry. Arthur, Guinevere, Jester: you are very naughty animals!’ Three pairs of soulful eyes look at me appealingly, and Jester tries again to climb into the cradle, but I tell him no, sharply, to demonstrate to the Lieutenant that I mean to keep my word.
He sits down by the fire, shaking his head at them. ‘I came to tell you that I visited the Guildhall Library. I was not allowed to search for myself, but when I explained that I was looking for any records from the reign of Richard III, a clerk brought me the Great Chronicle of London. It contains testimony from those who were eyewitnesses to events. Alderman Smyth and I spent some hours going through it, and I do declare, he is now as interested as I am in the matter of the Princes.’
‘And did you find anything that sheds light on our mystery?’ I ask eagerly.
‘Some things that were especially interesting,’ he tells me. ‘The chronicle, in referring to the murder of Henry VI, after his final defeat by Edward IV, states – I have it here; a moment please!’ He draws from the pocket of his furred gown a folded paper covered with notes. ‘Ah, yes: The common fame went that the Duke of Gloucester was not altogether guiltless. If that’s true, Richard was seasoned in blood twelve years before the disappearance of his nephews. Alas, the affairs of kings are deadly games.’
‘As I am finding,’ I comment drily. ‘I hope they are not deadly for me!’
‘My lady, our sovereign lady may be strict, but she is just.’
I forbear to answer that. ‘Did you discover anything more, Sir Edward?’
‘I did. This chronicler clearly did not approve of Richard. He accused him of executing Hastings unlawfully without any process of law, and said it was this one act that convinced the citizens that the Duke aimed for the throne. He wrote that Hastings was killed only for his truth and fidelity to Edward V. Later, he says that the Princes were held more straitlyin the Tower.’
‘Katherine Plantagenet mentions their being behind bars. It probably means the same thing. Sir Edward, where do you think the Princes were held?’
‘In Caesar’s Tower, most certainly. It is the innermost and strongest part of this fortress, and some of the upper windows have bars. It is the safest place to keep prisoners hidden from the eyes of the world.’ He shakes his head sadly, and turns back to his papers. ‘Under the heading Death of the Innocents, the chronicler repeats all the rumours that were circulating after the Princes’ disappearance. People were saying they had been murdered between two feather beds, or given a venomous potion, and so forth – all speculation. But listen to this: Certain it was they were departed from this world, of which cruel deed Sir James Tyrell was reported to be the doer.’
Tyrell again. ‘It’s what Katherine Plantagenet heard. That name – trying to place it is vexing me sorely, because it might give us a clue …’
‘Tyrell was merely reportedto be the doer. But the fact that he was actually named the murderer as early as 1484 might be significant. And why Tyrell? He was not well known, so why should his name be tossed about?’
‘I agree, Sir, it is strange.’
‘It cannot but have done him harm. And Richard too, of course. The chronicler says the people grudged so sore against him because of the death of the innocents that they would rather have had the French to rule over them!’
‘Now that is saying something!’ I observe.
‘There is another serious accusation against King Richard in this chronicle,’ Sir Edward continues, ‘that there was much whispering, even among his northern people who had loved him, that he poisoned his wife so that he could remarry.’
‘That’s news to me. Do you think it could have been true?’
‘It is impossible to say. By then, men would have believed anything of him.’
‘Yet he could have counteracted everything! Why did he not, unless he was guilty? Could he not see that these rumours were destroying him?’
‘Well, my lady, he should have – he came to a bloody end because of them. Maybe he underestimated their power to bring him down. It’s clear that most of his subjects hated him. After he was slain at Bosworth, the Great Chroniclesays, his body was despoiled to the skin and he was trussed up like a hog or vile beast, thrown over his own herald’s mount, and so carried naked into Leicester. And then he was indifferently buried in St Mary’s Church. Henry VII had his remains moved to the Grey Friars, which became known as the Tyrants’ Sepulchre, because Cardinal Wolsey was buried there too.’
‘So much for gaining a crown,’ I reflect, thinking that, in the end, Richard III, like my sister Jane, had paid with his life for usurping the throne.
‘Had it not been for his ambition, he might have grown old and respected by all, for he had the makings of a great prince.’
‘Unless the Wydevilles had done for him first.’
‘Yes, that was what he evidently feared. But I wonder. Was that just a pretext? Well, we may yet find out. When Alderman Smyth perceived I was disappointed that there was not fresh light on the Princes in the Great Chronicle, he told me in secrecy he had something in his house that might interest me. He said he dared not speak of it in public, because it might, even now, be dangerous to do so. Naturally, I asked him why, and he said it was one of the books that had been suppressed by Henry VII. Apparently it was Smyth’s grandfather’s. I know no more, for he would not divulge its title, and he has sworn me to secrecy anyway. I should not be telling you this, but I know I can rest assured you will not speak of it.’
‘I could not even if I would, shut in here!’ I say with some spirit.
‘Of course, of course,’ he answers, looking embarrassed. ‘Anyway, I am going to visit him tomorrow. Afterwards, I have some stores to check, and some prisoners to question, but I will come to you as soon as I may. And, my lady, you should take heart. There are many that love and support you, as became clear in the City today.’ And with that unexpected revelation, which instantly revives my hopes, Sir Edward leaves me.
Kate
November 1485. Westminster Palace.
It grew late, and still William had not returned from the King’s supper. He would be enjoying himself, Kate thought, restored to the circles in which his rank and allegiance entitled him to move. She thought bitterly of how readily he had betrayed that other allegiance he had owed to her father, and yet it did not seem such a bitter betrayal now, for the events of this day had blotted out much of the misery and grief of the past months. Seeing John, and the spark of love flaring undimmed in his eyes, and then meeting the mother she had never known – no wonder she was finding it hard to sleep!
She felt an unaccustomed quivering in her belly, like a butterfly’s wings, and supposed it was her excitement manifesting itself. But a few minutes later she felt it again, and knew it for what it really was: her child, making its existence felt for the first time. She had not come so far along during her first pregnancy. A sense of wonder filled her as she placed her hands on her stomach, rejoicing in the life within. Truly, God had been good to her this day.
She rose from the bed, put on her nightgown and sank to her knees on the prayer stool below the latticed window; and there, in the moonlight, she gave thanks for this gift of new life, and the blessings and promises of love that had been vouchsafed her.
When she rose, she saw that a sealed letter had been pushed under the door. She snatched it up. There was no imprint on the wax, and no signature. The fine script she recognised instantly, though: it was John’s. She broke the seal and devoured his words:
My heart, burn this when you have read it. I came to Westminster to make my submission to the King and swear to him not to maintain any felons, as he is pleased to call those men who have been in hiding with me. I have done this at my father’s earnest entreaty. He would have his son at liberty to be a comfort to him in his old age.
In return for my allegiance, the King did me the honour of permitting me to precede him in his coronation procession, and he has been gracious enough to appoint me to his Council.
Know that I still cherish my inordinate love for you, still feel that furiosity and frenzy of mind of which the poet wrote. I know I need not repeat all the words, you have them by heart, as I do; but saying them brings you so vividly to mind, my dearest lady, that I can almost imagine that you are here with me.
Like the poet, I have no peace when I think of you. I burn for you eternally. The sweetest remembrance of all is of our one night together. It is not enough for a lifetime. Make shift to come to me tomorrow, I pray you. I will be by the fountain in New Palace Yard at nine o’clock in the morning. Let it look as if we are meeting by chance, and pray give me some hope that I may know the sweet joy of our loving again.
Kate’s heart beat fast as she read and re-read the letter, then clutched it joyfully to her bosom. John had taken a tremendous risk in pushing it under her door, yet he would surely have known that William was otherwise occupied. Probably he had been at the King’s supper himself.
He had been here at Westminster, probably for weeks. He had even played a part in the coronation! Secluded as William had kept her, she had not known of it.
She would go to him, of course she would. Neither William nor Henry Tudor, nor the whole company of Heaven, was going to stop her.
Interlude
October 1561. Whitehall Palace.
‘Her Majesty is not pleased to hear that many of her subjects – and some of her courtiers to boot – are sympathetic to the Lady Katherine Grey,’ Mr Secretary Cecil fumes. ‘Here are the reports – read them!’ And he indicates a pile of papers on his desk. He and the Earl of Sussex have arrived early for the council meeting, and as yet are the only ones seated at the long table.
Sussex, a fair, florid man, leafs through the reports, grunting. ‘They remember Protector Somerset, “the good Duke”, as they called him. Hertford is his son, so it’s only to be expected, I suppose.’
‘To them, he is a gallant hero, defying the Queen’s unkindness and wrath to marry the lady he loves,’ Cecil sniffs.
‘Some see the Lady Katherine as another like her sister, the Lady Jane,’ Sussex murmurs, reading on. ‘They view her as a brave Protestant heroine.’
