Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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‘They forget she has been plotting with the Spaniards,’ Cecil says drily. ‘But what most people seem to be asking is why a man and his wife should be put asunder and imprisoned!’
‘I see there’s a lot of speculation that they will be attainted or even put to death; or that the Queen will have Parliament declare their child a bastard; many say the Lady Katherine should be named heir to the throne; and I see that you, my lord, are suspected by a few of being privy to her marriage.’ Sussex grins.
‘Pure nonsense!’ Cecil retorts.
‘But tell me, are any of these other rumours true? Does the Queen still intend to have the child declared baseborn?’
‘I believe so. Yet she is disturbed to find that there is a tide of opinion in the Lady Katherine’s favour, and anxious lest she herself appear in an unsympathetic light, when in truth, she is the person most injured by this pretended marriage. So she will do nothing just yet. In the meantime, her Majesty is disposed to show some avour towards the couple, to placate public feeling.’
Katherine
October 1561. The Tower of London.
Sir Edward Warner arrives at five o’clock, just as supper is being served. He orders an extra place to be set, then dismisses the servants and himself serves the baked meats to us both and slices the pie.
‘What I have to tell you is for your ears alone,’ he says.
‘You saw the book, then, Sir Edward?’ I ask eagerly.
‘Yes indeed,’ he answers, his angular face looking unusually animated. ‘It was a manuscript chronicle I had never heard of or seen before, from the abbey of Croyland, which was near Lincoln; and whoever wrote it had much to say about Richard III!’
Could this be the truth at last? I pray it will be. It’s irrational, I know, but I cannot rid myself of the notion that the fate of the Princes augurs well or ill for the safety of my child.
‘The author described himself as a member of the King’s Council, so he was at the centre of affairs and clearly well informed,’ Sir Edward tells me. ‘He wrote his chronicle during a visit to the abbey, nine months after Bosworth. As it was written under Henry VII, it is only to be expected that the writer was hostile to Richard III. Yet it’s plain he had no good opinion of him anyway.’
‘Then why was his book suppressed? Henry would surely have approved.’
He frowns. ‘My lady, that exercised me and Alderman Smyth somewhat. We perused the chronicle together closely; as I said, he has become interested in the matter, although he thinks it is still dangerous to speak openly of certain things. You see, the Queen’s Grace’s title is inherited from Henry VII, and Henry married Elizabeth of York, who had been bastardised by Richard III. Henry must have had her legitimacy confirmed by Parliament. Yet I have never read anywhere that he did so.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘In the Croyland Chronicle there is the text of an Act of Parliament of 1484, entitled Titulus Regius; it confirms Richard III’s right to the throne. In it are laid out the grounds of his claim, namely his brother’s precontract with one Eleanor Butler; and it confirms the consequent bastardy of Edward IV’s children by Elizabeth Wydeville.’
‘I still don’t understand the significance,’ I say. ‘Surely that Act was repealed by Henry?’
Sir Edward lowers his voice. ‘I’m sure it was. But it was done discreetly. If you were Henry VII, and your Queen’s legitimacy had been impugned, would you want everyone to know about it? Henry must have known that his claim by blood was weak, and that there were many who would regard it as such until he strengthened it by marrying the Yorkist heiress. He could not afford to have his enemies producing evidence that she was baseborn, and denying his right to rule. So my belief is that he suppressed all copies of Titulus Regius, which is why the Croyland chronicle had to go too.’
This makes good sense. ‘But how did Alderman Smyth come to have it in his possession?’
‘It was in a coffer of old books and papers left him by his grandfather. His family came from Lincolnshire originally, and his great-uncle was a monk at Croyland, which was a mighty abbey in those days. There were two other old chronicles in the chest: Alderman Smyth showed them to me. They were hand-illuminated and very fine. His belief is that his uncle saved them from the King’s men at the time of the Dissolution. They were burning lots of old chronicles then, and most of the monks’ libraries were lost.’
I am too excited to eat. ‘Pray tell me, good Sir Edward, what else is in this chronicle?’
He smiles. ‘Much that isn’t flattering to Richard III. The author disapproved of him thoroughly, thought him dishonest and deceitful, and criticised him for extravagance and sensuality, and even for executing a man on a Sunday. He claims that he himself tried to be fair and unprejudiced, and wrote his history without hatred or favour – and I think he did. He says, for example, that Richard had a quick mind and high courage, and was vigilant in state affairs; and I noted he does not accuse him of murdering Henry VI; instead, he hints that Edward IV was responsible.’
I sigh. ‘It is very confusing, having accounts that contradict each other. The Great Chroniclesaid Richard was there when Henry VI was murdered. How can one ever arrive at the truth?’
‘Ah, my lady, there you have put your finger on the problem with history!’ Sir Edward declares, wiping his fingers on his napkin, then offering me the plate of apples. ‘One has to weigh the sources well, and my belief is that this chronicler was closer to affairs than whoever wrote the Great Chronicle. He had inside knowledge of state matters.’
I crunch into my apple; it’s sweet but a bit shrivelled, the best of the store having been eaten already.
‘Again, I made some notes,’ the Lieutenant says, and produces a sheaf of papers from the capacious pocket of his gown. ‘Croyland believed that Richard was plotting to take the throne from the time he learned of the death of his brother, King Edward. He states that after Richard, Duke of York, had been taken from the sanctuary to join his brother, Richard openly revealed his plans, and he and Buckingham did as they pleased.’
This tallies with Katherine Plantagenet’s account. And there’s another connection somewhere, I’m sure of it.
‘Richard then acted openly like a king,’ Sir Edward continues, ‘but the Croyland chronicler insists the precontract story was just a colour for his act of usurpation. He implies that many on the Council thought it fraudulent too, but consulted their own safety, warned by the example of Hastings. And so, he writes, Richard occupied the kingdom.’
‘Is there anything about the Princes?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yes. He says the sons of King Edward remained in custody in the Tower; he mentions them being here under special guard during Richard’s first progress through his realm, which he undertook after his coronation. They remained in the Tower while the coronation, the progress and the investiture of Richard’s son as Prince of Wales were taking place.’
I interrupt: ‘I know who this writer was! He was the Lord Chancellor, the Bishop of Lincoln, who told Katherine that the Princes were alive at the time of the investiture in September.’
‘Of course! Croyland Abbey would have been in his diocese. Katherine wrote that he went back to Lincoln after Henry VII dismissed him.’
‘What else does he say?’
‘He does not mention the Princes again. It is very strange.’
‘But surely a man in his position must have known what became of them? He’d known about their whereabouts up till then.’
‘Well, my lady, if he knew, he wasn’t telling.’
‘It would have been safe to tell in Henry VII’s reign.’
‘Hardly, if the Princes had not been murdered.’
I gape at him. ‘You mean, you think Russell kept silent on the matter of the Princes because he knew they had been sent into hiding?’
‘It’s possible. He knew the Princes were in the Tower up to September, so it follows that he probably knew what happened to them after that. The King trusted him, so he must have been privy to many state secrets. In 1486, when he wrote his chronicle, it would have been perfectly acceptable to accuse Richard of their murder. Russell didn’t scruple to accuse Richard of other crimes or castigate him for his vices, so if he knew or suspected that he had had the Princes put to death, he would surely have said so. But all he says is that Richard suppressed his brother’s progeny. Suppressed, mark you, not murdered. Perhaps Katherine Plantagenet came close to the truth when she wondered if the Princes were at Sheriff Hutton. But if so, what happened to them after Bosworth?’
‘Surely, if they were there, King Henry would have found out about it?’
‘Assuredly he would. Elizabeth of York knew much, I am sure, and maybe that was why she was kept in subjection by the King and his mother.’
‘Sir Edward, I still wonder … If Henry had discovered that the Princes were at Sheriff Hutton, what would have been the logical, nay, the safest thing to do with them?’
The Lieutenant looks hard at me. He says nothing.
‘By vowing to marry their sister, he had effectively acknowledged them to be the legitimate heirs to York. But if they still lived, Edward V was the rightful king. And he would have been fifteen – old enough to rule. Sir Edward, no threat to Henry could have been deadlier.’
‘You forget, my lady, that Henry had the Tower searched for their bodies – three times. And he clearly viewed Perkin Warbeck as a serious threat; for years, Warbeck threatened his throne, and the measures Henry took against him are proof he really did fear that Warbeck was not an imposter. He cannothave known what had become of the Princes. If he had, he would have dealt with Warbeck speedily and summarily.’
‘Yes, I suppose you are right, Sir. It’s just that I should like to think that the Princes survived. That’s what Katherine tried to prove; it mattered a lot to her.’
‘Is that why you pursue this quest for the truth?’ Sir Edward asks gently.
‘That’s one reason, yes. And …’ I find I cannot speak. I am suddenly close to tears, remembering that my son too is a threat to the throne. This matter goes very near to home. ‘I’ve always been interested in the Princes,’ I say hastily.
Fortunately, Sir Edward has not noticed my distress. ‘These papers have revived my interest too, my lady. I had thought there was no more to be found out. But in keeping with my family motto, Go straight and fear not, I must now press on until the end!’ We laugh at that, and he even pats my hand, acknowledging that we are in this together. For once, we are not prisoner and gaoler, but two friends united in solving a compelling mystery. Then the Lieutenant turns back to his notes, peering at them in the dying candlelight.
‘Going back to Bishop Russell,’ he says, ‘he mentions the rumours of the Princes’ murder, and writes that, within weeks, they had had their effect, and Richard was seen by his subjects as a wretched, bloody and usurping boar. More crucially, Russell writes that many in Parliament were strongly critical of the legality of the Act Titulus Regius, but that even the stoutest were swayed by fear to approve and pass it. It seems that very few believed that tale about a precontract.’
‘I think Katherine convinced herself that her father believed it.’
‘We can only commend her for her loyalty.’ The Lieutenant takes a page from his sheaf of papers. ‘The Bishop made this observation about Richard’s forced loans: Why should we any longer dwell on things so distasteful and so pernicious that we ought not so much as to suggest them?But then he writes – and this may be significant: So too with other things that are not written in this book, and of which I grieve to speak.’ He looks up. ‘What do you make of that, my lady?’
‘Can he be referring to the Princes?’ I ask. ‘If so, it reads ominously.’
‘It might just be an oblique reference to the King’s morals, of which the Bishop had a low opinion. Maybe he did not wish to be explicit on a subject like that.’
‘Was Richard III immoral? His daughter writes of his uprightness and good morals.’
‘She, I fear, saw the man she wished to see. Yet the Bishop viewed the death of Richard’s son as a judgement on a man who had pursued his interests without the aid of God. That’s pretty damning. He also condemned the King’s pursuit of his niece Elizabeth as an incestuous passion, abominable before God. He says the Queen’s illness grew worse because Richard shunned her bed, claiming it was by the advice of his physicians. Then he adds, Why enlarge?It’s obvious what he thinks of that excuse! In fact, he goes so far as to assert that the King hastened his wife’s death by being unkind to her. Afterwards, he says, Richard’s councillors dissuaded him from marrying Elizabeth, warning him that if he did, the whole of the north would rise against him and impute to him the death of the Queen. But only reluctantly did he abandon the idea.’
‘That doesn’t show Richard in a good light.’
‘No, but in Russell’s account of the Battle of Bosworth, he writes that, in the fighting, and not in the act of flight, Richard was pierced with many mortal wounds, and fell in the field like a brave and most valiant prince. But if that sounds like praise, remember that immediately afterwards the Bishop states that Providence gave a glorious victory to Henry Tudor. He was just being fair, as he had averred: it’s well known that Richard died bravely. And that, my lady, is all. None of it is conclusive, and although it still appears that the Princes were probably murdered, there is no proof, and there are still some things that don’t make sense.’
He shakes his head, looking vexed, then pauses. ‘You seem tired, my lady. You should rest. Again, I have enjoyed our discourse. I bid you goodnight.’
When he has gone, I fall to pondering if this mystery of the Princes will ever be solved. It may be that what happened to them might never be known. It is highly improbable that they still live, and since no one has heard from them in nigh eighty years, the likelihood must be that they did die at Richard III’s hands.
Sir Edward visits me some days later to say that he has looked through the Tower records and is certain there is nothing of interest to us.
It is so frustrating. There must be some clue, somewhere! I read through Katherine’s account again, checking to see if there is anything we have missed. But there is nothing. All we have are dark hints, rumours and Bishop Russell’s curious statement that the Princes were suppressed. How can two boys just disappear, leaving no trace as to what became of them?
No sooner do I ask that question than I find myself looking out of my window at the grim walls of the Tower around me; and suddenly the answer seems very obvious.
Kate
November 1485. Westminster Palace.
Kate crept down the spiral stair near her lodging. It was a bitterly cold morning and she had put on her warmest gown with her fur-lined cloak over it, taking care to conceal her face. William had insisted upon that. She had told him she was going to see her mother, and prayed that God would forgive her the lie. She wasgoing to see Kat Haute, but not for two hours and more, so it was only a white lie. She did not think there was any risk of Kat coming to seek her out earlier.
William had made difficulties, as she had thought he would. Couldn’t her mother come here? he had asked, frowning. No, she’d told him, she had asked Kate to meet her in St Stephen’s Chapel. They wanted to give thanks together for being reunited, and then they would stay for the ten o’clock Mass. And may God forgive me, she’d prayed inwardly, hoping William would not insist on coming with them. But he didn’t. He was going hunting with the King and other favoured lords, and could talk of little else. At eight o’clock, he’d set off to join the royal party.
She had looked anxiously about her as she left her room, taking care to lock the door behind her. There was no one about – or so it seemed. But as she descended the stairs, she heard a sound above her – muted, stealthy. Someone was coming down behind her. When she paused to listen, they paused too. Then there was silence. There had been a landing above her. Maybe whoever it was had turned off there, their business entirely innocent. This was a palace, she reminded herself firmly: people came and went all the time. She waited a little, but all stayed quiet, so she continued on her way.
The staircase spiralled down through a corner turret. At the bottom, she pushed open the heavy nailed door and forced herself to stroll past the guards and walk at a sedate pace towards the fountain.
John was waiting there, looking like a hero of legend: tall, vital, splendid and illustrious – his beloved Chaucer’s perfect gentle knight in person. And he was smiling jubilantly at her. Her heart leapt!
But as she reached the fountain, she saw the smile on John’s face give way to an expression of horror. Without warning, strong arms grabbed her brutally from behind. She screamed, and instinctively reached out to John, but she was being pulled away, and she was appalled to see a man-at-arms rush forward and pinion him, holding a dagger to his throat.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ John roared. ‘Let her go! What is the meaning of this?’
Shrieking, and in terror for them both, Kate grabbed the stone rim of the fountain, but her fingers were roughly prised away. ‘Don’t struggle, my fine lady!’ a harsh voice muttered, as she was dragged back in the direction of the stairs. She screamed and kicked, fighting against her captor, but his grip was like a vice.
‘Help me!’ she shrieked, shocked at what was happening. It wasn’t real … It couldn’t be …
‘Stop at once!’ John yelled. ‘Let her go, I said! She has done nothing to deserve this.’
A man in black, his weapon drawn, lunged forward, threatening John. ‘Yon lady is under suspicion of treason,’ he growled, ‘and if you attempt to obstruct us in our duty, you too will be placed under arrest.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ John spat. ‘She came here for a lovers’ tryst.’
‘One suspected traitor meeting another, more like!’
‘No!’ Kate howled, indignation and despair overwhelming her. She saw that people had come running to hear what the commotion was, but were being held back by the King’s guard, who had materialised as if from nowhere.
John’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘Ignorant knave! Do you know who I am? I have the King’s favour. Do you think I am such a fool as to plot against him?’ he roared.
That, alas, was the last Kate heard, for her assailant had forced her back through the turret door, and he and another burly man were half pushing, half hauling her up the stairs, she struggling and screaming. Still pinioned, she was manhandled into her room and flung down on the bed before Gwenllian’s horrified eyes, her fingers smarting where they had been bent back.
‘Give me the key,’ her captor demanded. Fumbling, Kate removed it from her pocket and, shaking with shock, anger and indignation, handed it to him.
‘How dare you treat me so roughly?’ she gasped. ‘I am with child. I mean none ill. My husband shall know of this.’
‘Rest assured, lady, he will,’ the man told her, with a nasty grin. Then he locked her in.
Katherine
February 1562. The Tower of London.
Time drags. It is too cold to go out into the garden. I have been a prisoner in the Tower over-long, and yearn for my freedom. Little Edward is a delight, but a child should not be confined to these rooms. He should be taken for walks, see faces other than those that are familiar to him – and know his father.
I have not seen Ned since I was forced, near weeping, to leave him behind in the chapel on the day of the christening. Yet Sir Edward allows him to write to me regularly. Ned’s letters are mainly declarations of love, which are the breath of life to me, yet sometimes they touch on the precariousness of our situation, with which he is naturally preoccupied. In the last one, he wrote:
Do not think I regret our marriage, yet by it I destroyed my credit with the Queen, and prejudiced your chance of being named her heir. Even so, sweet wife, I will never deny our union, not though it bring me the Queen’s favour.
And, of course, being me, and always thinking the worst, I had to wonder if he had seriously considered doing that. Now, though, I believe he wrote those words to reassure me of his devotion. And I have replied in kind, assuring him of my steadfastness.
The letters are a great comfort to me, although the Lieutenant is kindness itself, and does his best for us both. I might wonder if he was a little in love with me, save for the fact that he speaks of his wife Audrey with tender affection. She spends most of her time at Polstead Hall, their home in Norfolk, yet sometimes she lodges here in the Lieutenant’s house, although I’ve never seen her. I wonder if she is a touch jealous of the attention her husband gives me – yet I’m sure she has no cause.
*
When the Lieutenant visits me one freezing February evening, looking very pleased with himself, I expect him to tell me that my hopes of freedom have come to fruition, yet he has come on another matter entirely.
‘I have something to show you, my lady,’ he says eagerly. ‘May I sit down and warm myself by the fire? It is bitter outside.’
‘By all means,’ I say, trying to stifle my disappointment, and he takes the stool opposite my chair.
‘This,’ he says, producing a book, ‘contains an account of the murder of the Princes in the Tower.’
‘ Murder?’ I have been praying, against all reason, that those poor innocents escaped such a fate.
‘Yes, my lady – it was murder, I fear. You may read it for yourself.’ He passes me the book, which is entitled The Union of the Two Noble and Illustrious Families of Lancaster and York, the author being Edward Hall.
‘But I have read Hall’s chronicle,’ I say. ‘We had a copy at Bradgate, and I’m sure there is nothing about the Princes in that.’
‘It is true, there is nothing in the first edition, my lady, which must be the one you had. I have read that myself. But this is a much more recent edition, and in it you will find incorporated Sir Thomas More’s history of Richard III.’
‘Sir Thomas More wrote about Richard III?’
‘Aye, and it seems he had access to sources lost to us, for his account is the most detailed of them all. I was amazed to find this book on sale in Paul’s Churchyard as I was passing by the cathedral yesterday – I had no idea they had brought out a later edition of Hall. You may keep it if you wish, and see what you make of it. I should be most interested to know your opinion.’
‘Have you formed one, Sir Edward?’
‘I must say I find this convincing. But I will leave you to make up your own mind.’
I take the book to bed with me, setting an extra candle on my bedside table in case I have need of it. I know I will not sleep until I have read to the end.
I know little of Sir Thomas More, save that he was a devout Papist who was Lord Chancellor of England, and that he was beheaded thirty years ago for refusing to take an oath acknowledging Henry VIII’s marriage to Anne Boleyn. I’ve heard too that he was a great scholar, and indeed I am astonished by his breadth of knowledge – but there are many things in his book that startle me.
First, he repeats a lurid tale that Richard III was born after two years in his mother’s womb, with teeth, long hair, a crooked back and one shoulder higher than the other, although Sir Thomas does write scornfully that either men of hatred had reported the truth, or nature had changed its course!
He accuses Richard of slaying Henry VI without commandment or knowledge of Edward IV – which is going further than any other account I have read, and indeed differs from some.
More did not believe that Richard was in danger from the Wydevilles; he suspected that he had had designs on the throne even before his brother’s death. He wrote how the citizens of London donned armour after Richard’s coup, fearing it was aimed at the young King himself. Katherine mentions that too. Like others, More says that Richard decided to eliminate Hastings because he was opposed to all his schemes.
I hold my breath as I read More’s long account of the council meeting in the Tower at which Hastings was arrested, uncomfortably aware that Caesar’s Tower, that forbidding white keep where these events took place, is just a stone’s throw from where I lie. He says Hastings was allowed no time for any long confession before he was hustled to his death, which corroborates what Katherine witnessed. There are so many details in More’s account – where did he discover them all?
He says that as soon as Richard had both the Princes in his charge, he ‘opened his mind boldly’ to the Duke of Buckingham. What to make of that? Did he tell Buckingham he meant to take the throne? Or did he, as Margaret Beaufort told Katherine, reveal a more sinister plan to him? I shall have to discuss all this with Sir Edward. He will understand it better than I.
More disapproved of Richard’s attempts to declare Edward IV and the Princes illegitimate. He states that the only fault of Rivers and Grey lay in being good men, true to Edward V. And he describes Richard as a close and secret king from the first.
Here’s an intriguing detail: More writes that when the deposed Edward V, then being in the Tower, was told that he should not reign, but that his uncle should have the crown, he was abashed and began to sigh, saying, ‘Alas, I would my uncle would let me have my life yet, though I lose my kingdom.’ More musthave had access to secret information about what was going on in the Tower, otherwise how could he have known such a thing? Did he make it up, just to tell a good story? I think not. I have the strong impression that he was a man of staunch principle, and only wrote of what he believed – or knew – to be the truth.
He has much more to say about the Princes. He tells how they were both shut up in the Tower, and all others removed from them, except for a ruffian called Black Will Slaughter, who was appointed to serve them and ‘keep them sure’. It saddens me to read that young Edward, sick in his jaw, lingered on in heaviness and wretchedness, never even bothering to tie his hose. This all fits with what Brother Dominic and Bishop Russell and others wrote, but none of them gives these details.
Later, More says, the number of the Princes’ attendants was increased to four; one was Miles Forrest, ‘a fellow fleshed in murder’, which sounds chillingly ominous, and as I read on, my flesh crawls even more. Immediately after learning about the conspiracies to free the Princes, More says, King Richard devised to fulfil the thing he had long intended. For he believed that, his nephews living, men would not allow him the right to the realm. He decided therefore to be rid of them without delay.
I read how he summoned a man he trusted named John Green, and sent him to Robert Brackenbury, the Constable of the Tower, with a letter commanding Brackenbury to put the Princes to death. But Brackenbury refused to commit such a dreadful deed, even though he should die for refusing.
The King, thinking his command was being carried out, now revealed to Buckingham that he had ordered the killing of the Princes; and it was this that caused Buckingham to desert Richard. Buckingham then went home to Brecon and considered how best to remove this unnatural uncle – More calls him a ‘bloody butcher’ – from his throne. I find it all believable. Why else would Buckingham, who had staunchly supported Richard, suddenly turn on him?
More’s account is compulsive reading, and I cannot turn the pages fast enough. I hope I am about to find out what really happened to the Princes. I read that when John Green returned to the King and told him of Brackenbury’s refusal to carry out his order, Richard was angry. But then Green told him that his loyal servant, Sir James Tyrell, was so desperate to be promoted that he would agree to do anything to please his king. And so, writes More, Richard decided to entrust Tyrell with the murder of the Princes, and dispatched him to Brackenbury. That fits with what Katherine wrote about Tyrell journeying to London to obtain wardrobe stuff for Prince Edward’s investiture. At last I feel I am making sense of this mystery.
With Tyrell, More continues, rode a strong knave called John Dighton. When they got to the Tower, Tyrell, in the King’s name, commanded Brackenbury to give up the keys for one night, the night he had appointed for the murder. I shiver again, for the scene of that dreadful deed is only yards away from this very room. I have no difficulty now in believing that those voices I have heard in the night are the shades of the Princes, crying out to be rescued.
I can hardly bear to read on, but I must. Near to weeping, I learn that Tyrell removed Slaughter and the other attendants, then ordered Dighton and Forrest to kill the Princes. At midnight, he positioned himself outside the door to the chamber where those poor boys lay sleeping, and waited there while his henchmen entered the room by stealth and pressed the feather pillows hard over the faces of the two innocents, who – More says – struggled in vain before finally giving up their souls to God. Then the murderers laid out the bodies naked on the bed, and called for Tyrell to inspect them.
Instinctively, I lean over and look upon my son sleeping peacefully in his cradle, and marvel that anyone could be so cruel to a defenceless child. I cannot bear to think of the Princes’ lives being cut off in the flower of their tender years – two little boys who not long before had been the hope of England. How bitter a thing it is to be cursed with royal blood! And I have suffered cruelly for it too – although never as cruelly as they did.
My eyes swim over the part where Tyrell makes the murderers bury the bodies in secret. It is very late when I lay down the book, long past midnight, and I feel wrung out, but slumber eludes me. I cannot forget the terrible things I have read. I toss and turn, overwrought, thinking of the fate of those wretched boys. I shudder to think what Katherine would have made of all this. Did she ever find out the truth? She could never have read More’s account, written as it was many years later.
