Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘Thanks be to God!’ Kate breathed, with heartfelt relief. At least John had managed to convince Henry Tudor of his innocence.
‘Well, I’m sure you’re pleased to hear that, my lady!’ Mattie smiled.
She was, oh she was!
But after that, life went on as grimly as it had done for months, and the only lightening of Kate’s existence came when Mattie gave birth to a daughter in the balmy days of early summer; yet even that was a bitter-sweet thing, for, seeing her maid with the child at her breast, Kate could not but be reminded of the infant she had lost, who would have been of a similar age had he lived.
One night, William appeared in his nightgown at her chamber door, carrying a candle. His ferret face looked gaunt in its flickering light.
‘My lord?’ Kate rose up in the bed, alarmed.
‘I would speak with you,’ he said coldly, looming over her. ‘I have received some news that will interest you. Your lover, the Earl of Lincoln, has married my niece, Margaret FitzAlan, Arundel’s daughter. You had best forget him now, for he is lost to you for good.’
He will never be lost to me, she thought fiercely, trying not to betray the engulfing emotion she felt. Our hearts are one for always: we vowed it.
‘It is of no moment to me, this news,’ she said, and meant it, knowing this marriage could mean nothing to John.
‘Then, since we are constrained to live together, you will not shrink from doing your duty, as my wife,’ William said, abruptly dousing the candle, stripping off his nightgown and climbing into bed beside her, much to her dismay. ‘I am prepared to accept that you did not betray your marriage vows,’ he continued, ‘and for that reason I am willing to take you back and use you as my wife. I need an heir – and a man must live!’
He mounted her then, without further preamble, driving into her as if he meant to punish her for all the hurts she had done him. She bore it in silence, as best she could, not daring to betray by any slight gesture how unwelcome it was to her. She had long ago learned to detach herself from what he did to her in bed; after all, it was not as if this was a new thing. She had to force herself not to think of how joyous it had been with John. That way lay insanity.
When he had finished, William got up without a word, put on his robe and went back to his own chamber. In the morning, if she had expected some improvement in his attitude towards her, she would have been disappointed, for he ignored her as before, and continued to do so. The only difference now was that he kept coming to her at night, demanding sex in his laconic, boorish way, and riding her as if he hated her.
Early in October, as the leaves were turning wondrous shades of red and gold and autumn returned to the land, Mattie, her apple-cheeked babe on her hip, brought another letter from Kat with news of the birth of a prince to the Queen.
‘He’s to be called after King Arthur,’ Kate said. ‘An auspicious name. No doubt the Tudor wishes to invest his dynasty with some semblance of Arthur’s greatness.’ Her tone was sarcastic.
In November, Kate realised that she was to bear another child. A grandson for my father at last, she thought, and resolved heartily to take up her pen again and commit to paper, for the benefit of this unborn innocent, her convictions about the murder of the Princes. The knowledge of her pregnancy had re-energised her and given her new hope. At last she had something to live for.
‘I am with child,’ she told William when next he came to her bed. He nodded slowly.
‘That is good news,’ he said eventually. ‘I will not trouble you tonight, then.’ Or any other night, she realised thankfully – not while she was carrying his seed. He was too careful a husband to break that sanction. Yet he seemed hesitant, reluctant to go from her.
‘You are well?’ he asked, his manner awkward. Of course his concern was for his son – the son he now hoped was growing inside her.
‘Yes, my lord, I am well. A little sick in the mornings, as before, but that is nothing.’
‘Good,’ he said, and paused again. ‘Well, wife, if there is anything you need for your comfort, let me know.’ Then he was gone. They were the first kind words he had spoken to her in a year; and she knew for a certainty that he would have extended the same consideration to his mare, had she been in foal.
Later that month, a carter came to Raglan, bringing strange tidings.
‘It’s certain that the Earl of Warwick has escaped from the Tower,’ he told the crowd that had gathered around him in the courtyard. ‘The word is everywhere. And it’s said that more will be heard of Warwick afore long!’
‘I do not believe it,’ Kate said to Mattie as they walked away. ‘Warwick would not know how to start a rebellion.’
‘But what if others are using him?’ Mattie pondered. ‘It’s been done before, as you well know, my lady.’
‘But would the people really prefer poor Warwick, a backward boy of eleven years, to Henry Tudor, a man of mature age and proven experience?’
‘The people favour right over might!’ Mattie declared stoutly.
‘I wonder if they care, so long as there is peace, and taxes are not too burdensome,’ Kate retorted. She felt tired. This new pregnancy was sapping her strength, and she needed to lie down. She seemed to spend most of her time resting these days. And William was so anxious about this child surviving that he kept urging her to do so.
He was kinder with her now, a little more unbending. His mother too had relented towards her, and something of their old friendship had revived. And that brought Elizabeth running back, eager to be friendly. Time is a great healer, thought Kate, and this pregnancy had brought its own blessings. But the greatest blessing, she knew, would be to see John’s face once more.
Christmas came and went, a much merrier occasion than it had been last year. Then there were the dead weeks of January, when the countryside lay covered with snow or frost and the peasants stayed huddled in their cottages, eking out the stores they had put by for the winter, and biding their time until February arrived, and with it Plough Monday, when they would venture forth to work the fields again.
At the end of February another letter arrived from Harpenden. Kat sounded worried. She wrote that the King had deprived Elizabeth Wydeville of her lands, and the Dowager Queen had retired with only a small pension to the abbey of Bermondsey. Why? wondered Kate. What could Elizabeth Wydeville have done to deserve being stripped of her revenues? Only last autumn she had stood godmother to Prince Arthur. Was it a threat, a warning to keep her mouth shut?
But there was more disconcerting news as Kate read on. Kat had recently been at court with her husband.
The Lady Margaret rules all there, she had written. The King is no very indulgent husband to the Queen. His aversion to the House of York is such that it finds place not only in his politics but in his chamber and his bed. To the Queen, he is not at all uxorious. It is said she leads a miserable and cheerless life, and certes she does not look a happy woman. She is beloved by the people because she is powerless and kept in subjection by the Lady Margaret, whose influence she resents.
*
Did Elizabeth of York too know more than was good for her? Did Henry Tudor keep her in this silken bondage because he knew – or feared – that she possessed dangerous knowledge of the fate, or the whereabouts, of her brothers?
The Dowager Countess, who had brought the letter, was standing by, and Kate showed it to her. ‘It saddens me that Henry should treat his Queen so distrustfully,’ Anne said. ‘It would not have been so had he married our Maud, but then Maud would not have brought him a crown.’
‘It seems strange that he treats both his wife and his mother-in-law so unkindly,’ Kate said. ‘It is as if he does not trust them.’
‘He was ever a suspicious child,’ the Countess said. ‘He grew up under the shadow of civil war, a pawn in a game of kings. It is only natural for him to wish to pre-empt any threat to his security. After all, both the Queen and her mother are of the House of York, and both meddled in high affairs in the last reign. As you know, your father, King Richard, planned at one time to marry Elizabeth of York, and she, I heard, was hot for it; but when he abandoned the plan, her love seemed to turn to hate. No doubt she felt scorned. There was talk that she began plotting with Lord Stanley on Henry’s behalf. William told me.’
Kate listened aghast: she had not known of this. No wonder Henry Tudor kept his Queen in subjection; he must have known all about her intrigues, and the fact that she had been hot for King Richard, as Anne had put it.
Kate’s babe had just quickened in her womb when another letter arrived from Kat, who informed her that the atmosphere at court was tense because a young man had appeared in Ireland, calling himself the Earl of Warwick and the rightful King of England:
But he cannot be the Earl of Warwick, because King Henry has just had the true Earl of Warwick taken out of the Tower for a day and paraded through the streets of London to prove to the people that the other is an imposter. James and I were up in London, and we went to see Warwick; I can tell you it was certainly him.
Two days later, William rose to his feet at the dinner table and called for silence. The chatter of his household subsided about him as he spoke gravely.
‘I have received a communication from the King’s Council.’ He looked briefly at Kate, his eyes cold, before addressing the company. ‘I am commanded to place this castle in readiness against a possible invasion. Henceforth, all of you – knights, retainers, squires, even menials – must be on alert. The Earl of Lincoln has fled the realm and is reported to have sought refuge with his aunt, the Duchess Margaret, in Flanders. He is suspected of having nurtured and instructed the Irish pretender, whose real name is Lambert Simnel, in a traitorous conspiracy against the King. It stands to reason, of course,’ he went on. ‘Lincoln’s house at Ewelme is near to Oxford, where the Simnel conspiracy was first plotted. There can be little doubt that he was the author of it. But notwithstanding the fact that the King has lately shown the real Earl of Warwick to the people, there are still ignorant fools who believe this Simnel really is him. Thus we must make ready, and be vigilant, in case the traitor Lincoln raises an army in Flanders and brings Simnel over from Ireland to press his false claim.’
He sat down and glared at a white-faced Kate. ‘Now you can see what a fine gentleman you condescended to,’ he growled. ‘It is as well you have put all that folly behind you, for you may rest assured he will be dealt with as he deserves.’
Katherine
May 1562. The Tower of London.
Sir Edward Warner has been summoned to court; he left after breakfast. The summons could be for a variety of reasons, but of course I am wondering if it concerns me and Ned. Ever since those painful examinations before Archbishop Parker, three months ago, when I briefly glimpsed my beloved again as we were conveyed in separate barges up the Thames, and then questioned at different times, going over the same ground as before, I have been fretting about the outcome. Surely there is now no question of us being accused of treason? If they had meant to do that, they would have done it long ago. And no one has actually used the word treason; they all focus on our marriage. They are obsessed with witnesses and the calling of banns and written proof. But supposing this investigation deems our marriage treasonable? What will happen to us then? And what of my poor child? Again, I cannot help thinking of the fate of the Princes.
Thus turn my thoughts, so I am nearly in a frenzy by the time Sir Edward returns, and when I see his grave face, I feel I might faint with terror.
‘Calm yourself, my lady,’ he says. ‘Sit down, I pray you. You are not in any danger, but the news is not what you will want to hear. I have had it from the Queen’s Majesty herself.’
I hold my breath, anguished with suspense. Sir Edward looks pityingly on me.
‘I am commanded by her to tell you that the Archbishop of Canterbury has found that, in the absence of any documents or witnesses, your marriage to Lord Hertford cannot be proved, wherefore it has been declared no marriage, and your carnal copulation unlawful and worthy of punishment. I regret that it is my duty to inform you that his Grace of Canterbury has censured you and Lord Hertford for fornication, and that you have both been sentenced to be imprisoned here in the Tower at her Majesty’s pleasure.’ He falls silent, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else.
This is calamitous and unjust. I can barely believe it. ‘We weremarried!’ I cry. ‘I am no fornicator, believe me. Before God, Sir Edward, we have been sharply handled; and the lack of proofs was our misfortune, not any fault in us. Why will they not believe us?’
‘I am very sorry for you, my lady,’ the Lieutenant says.
‘They have intended this all along,’ I wail, with sudden clarity. ‘They have sought to discredit me. Oh, the very shame of it! How shall I hold my head up after this? And my little son, what is he now? What shall become of him?’
Sir Edward says nothing. He does not need to. The word bastardhangs mockingly in the air between us.
‘Tell me, Lieutenant,’ I ask in bitterness, ‘is it now the fashion for those accused of fornication to be imprisoned in the Tower? Because if so, I wonder why half the world is not in here! And if that is all Ned and I are guilty of, then why cannot we be released?’
‘In faith, I do not know, my lady. I understand your anger. You have suffered much.’
‘Maybe they fear that, if we are freed, we will wed in another ceremony that none can dispute! Yes, that is why they are keeping us locked up! Have you seen my lord – what does he say?’
‘He says he will appeal against the sentence. Now, Madam, I pray you, rest a little. You are overwrought, and no wonder.’ Shaking his grizzly head, Sir Edward takes his leave. He clearly wants no part in this.
My life has become a nightmare. I am eaten up by the injustice of it all. I ammarried in the sight of God, and He knows the truth of it. I will notbe labelled fornicator or anything else! And my child islawfully begotten. When I get out of this place, I will fight this ruling in the courts, and defy the highest in the land to have the truth known, and neither Queen Elizabeth nor her entire Privy Council shall stop me!
Mrs Ellen and the other women try to comfort me. The Lieutenant performs many small kindnesses to cheer me. He even refrains from upbraiding my pets for making puddles on the floor or ripping the upholstery. But I am a raging tempest, either in a storm of weeping or a storm of fury. I snap at everyone, even my angry, bawling son. I could not feel more wretched.
I am lying abed one night and looking miserably at the moon beyond my window, wondering if I will hear those disembodied voices again, when the door opens and there is Ned, alone.
‘I bribed my guards!’ he whispers. They are the first words he has uttered to me in over a year. ‘I would comfort you, my dear wife, and lie with you!’ And in two bounds he is at my bedside, gathering me in his arms and holding me as if he will never let me go. And I, for my part, am passionately kissing him back, clutching at him and running my fingers over his body, unable to believe he is really here.
‘Oh, my sweet Ned!’ I cry.
For an hour, a little hour, the world belongs to us, and nothing else exists. Oh, how we love each other, naked between the sheets, tumbling over and over, hands and lips touching, caressing, pleasing, and then our bodies locking in rapture.
‘It has been so long, my love,’ Ned murmurs, as we lie stretched out across the rumpled mattress afterwards, my head on his belly, he stroking my hair.
‘I do not know how I have borne it,’ I tell him.
The babe awakens and snuffles.
‘How is my son?’ Ned asks, rising up and leaning over to the cradle. ‘Hello, Edward! You are a fine young lord!’ I watch them together for a moment, as Ned picks up the child, strokes his fine hair and tries to make him smile. I am filled with happiness to see them thus, and will not spoil it by pointing out that Edward is no longer legally a young lord.
‘Ned,’ I ask, ‘did the Queen give permission for us to be together?’
‘No, but Sir Edward said he would allow it. He said there was no reason why we should not console one another.’
My heart swells with gratitude. ‘He is a good man.’
‘He says we may meet whenever we please, so long as I pay the guards and take care to be discreet.’
‘He is a true friend, and has proved it in many ways, but this is the greatest blessing he has brought us,’ I say, and we fall to kissing again until a light tap on the door warns us that Ned must depart.
The Lieutenant comes with news for me.
‘My lady, I have just heard from the steward at the Minories. The old lady has returned; she has not been in good health, which was why he had not seen her. He told her about my interest in the tombs and the church, and she said she would gladly meet with me to tell me more about their history.’
‘That is encouraging news!’ I exclaim. ‘I never thought to hear more of her.’
‘Well, you shall. I will invite her here, and you may meet her. My orders are to allow no one but your attendants to see you, but I know I can trust you, my lady – and I myself will be present to ensure you behave yourself!’
‘Of course, Sir Edward!’ I say warmly. ‘I will speak to her only of the tombs, I promise.’
‘Her name is Elizabeth Savage. The steward was right – she was the last abbess of the Minoresses’ convent. Naturally, she does not like that to be known, so we will not mention it unless she does.’
Can this old lady help us in our quest? She thinks she is coming to discuss some old tombs, not the disappearance of the Princes. And she will surely be startled to meet me, probably one of the most notorious prisoners in the kingdom right now!
Kate
June 1487. Raglan Castle.
News came regularly to the castle, by letter or word of mouth, and the news nowadays was momentous – but, for Kate, distressing. John was in Ireland with a Flemish army. Under his auspices, Lambert Simnel, despite being branded an imposter by the King, had been crowned as Edward VI in Dublin Cathedral late the previous month. Henry Tudor had mobilised his forces against an invasion.
Rumours and speculation were rampant everywhere, and the country, which had been in a ferment of uncertainty for weeks, now erupted in panic at the imminent prospect of invasion.
Even though Kate had been careful to express no word of support for John and the rebels, and had voiced her own fears about the conflict to come, William remained cold towards her, acting almost as if it was her fault that her sometime lover was in rebellion against the King. As if she could do anything to prevent it, she thought resentfully. She had not seen John in more than a year and a half, and there had been no communication at all between them. She wondered if he still cherished her memory, as she did his; or if his marriage had jolted him into reality and caused him to put his youthful passions behind him. She wondered too if he had spoken out in her defence after her arrest. The fact that he had stayed in favour with the Tudor argued that he had not. But she could not believe he had forsaken her. He would have reasoned that pragmatism was the safest course for them both.
Why was he backing the claims of Simnel so vigorously, and at such peril to himself? He must have heard that the Tudor had exhibited the real Warwick to the people – something her father should have done with the Princes to quell the rumours that were destroying him. But perhaps her father had known what John’s actions had now proved: that producing the Princes alive wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. Because people believe what they want to believe, she concluded. Even now, there were many, their number increasing, who held that the boy in Ireland really was Warwick.
It crossed Kate’s mind that John had set up the whole charade as a pretext for claiming the throne himself. People would be more likely to rise up for Warwick, Clarence’s heir, than for himself, whose claim came only through the female line. Even Henry Tudor had not accounted John a threat in the way he accounted Warwick.
Something Kat had written suggested to Kate that there was more to this matter than appeared on the surface.
It is said that the boy Simnel first claimed to be Richard, Duke of York, the younger of the Princes in the Tower, but the word is that Margaret of Burgundy refused to recognise him as York, so it was given out that he was Warwick.
But what if Simnel was in fact Richard, Duke of York? What if poor Edward V had died of the illness that was eating up his jaw, and his brother had survived in secrecy? It made sense that he had been taken to Sheriff Hutton and entrusted to John’s guardianship – and that John, with his strong sense of honour, should have resolved to restore the true heir to the throne. Maybe pretending that York was Warwick was meant to dupe Henry Tudor into thinking he was dealing with a silly claim by an imposter. It was convoluted thinking, she knew, but there was so much that was mysterious about this affair of the pretender; and Kate had a strong hope that she might be nearing the end of her mission to clear her father’s dishonoured name. Her excitement conveyed itself to her child, which stirred within her, heavy now under her heart. The answer lay with John, she was sure. She had a strong feeling, in her bones, that Simnel was York in disguise.
Katherine
July 1562. The Tower of London.
I never thought I would ever come to regard the Tower as a bower of bliss, but that is what it became for a short time, even for us poor prisoners; and here I have enjoyed two of the happiest nights of my life, for Ned came again four nights later, and we consoled each other in the same loving ways, and were husband and wife in very truth. For that short space, too, we were a family, with our little boy to gladden us and take pride in. He thrives, sweet Edward, which is a joy and relief to us both.
In between those visits, we sent each other letters, expressing our pleasure to find each other still in health and unbowed after all the long months of anxiety and fear. I long to be merry with you!I wrote to Ned, signing myself your most loving and faithful wife, which I truly am, whatever the Archbishop may say.
‘You could not know how I missed you too, darling, how I worried about you when I was in France,’ Ned told me, as we lay entwined together that second night, all passion spent. His words ignited a painful memory. It was as if a cloud passed over the sun.
I could not help myself. I had to ask. ‘Those bracelets …’
‘Bracelets? Those French ones the Queen asked me to commission? There were two for you. Did you get them?’
‘The Queen commissioned them?’
‘Yes, so that she and her ladies should be gay on the progress. That’s what she wrote.’
‘Yes, I did get them. I just wanted to thank you.’ There was no need to question him. All had become clear. Elizabeth, to spite me, must have given her ladies to believe that Ned had sent them the bracelets as love tokens. So all was well between my love and me.
But last night, Ned arrived to find my door locked and me weeping with frustration inside.
‘Mayhap your guards have taken fright,’ he called softly, and verily I believed they had. But this morning Sir Edward presents himself, looking grave. There can be no more clandestine trysts. A new order has just come direct from the Queen, forbidding Ned and me to meet.
I miss Ned desperately. But at least our letters are not forbidden. I long to be with you again, my sweet bedfellow, I write. Ned responds in kind and sends me a book. This is no small jewel to me, I tell him. I will read it at once, with my heart, as well as with my eyes.
He writes of his fears that I will be constrained to forget him. Oh, no, no, my sweet lord, I breathe – that could never happen. I ask in reply:
Do you think I could ever forget all that is past between us? No, surely I cannot, but bear in memory far more than you think. And I have good cause to do so, when I call to mind what a husband I have in you, and my hard fate to have missed the having of so good a one.
Our brief idyll has ended, but soon I am dismayed to discover that there will be consequences. For I am with child again, and once more in terror lest I be found out. Some may think me a fool, but I had been so overjoyed to be reunited with my love that I let caution and reason fly into the wind.
When first I suspect my condition, I confide my fears to Ned, and he writes back, expressing defiant joy at the news. This will be the true proof of our marriage, he asserts.
I confess my state to my women – Mrs Ellen, who deals with my linen, has already guessed – and then to Sir Edward. The poor man is utterly horrified.
‘Great God in Heaven, we are all undone!’ he declares, wringing his hands. ‘When this gets out, it will most grievously offend the Queen’s Majesty, and with even more cause this time.’
‘I fear we will be punished heavily for it,’ I say, trembling and nauseous.
‘Aye, and myself too.’ I hang my head. This is not a fit reward for his kindness. Then an idea comes to me – an idea that might just work!
‘Sir Edward, could this pregnancy not be kept a secret? Only my women and my husband know. I am straitly confined here, allowed to see no one, and once the babe is born, it can be sent out to nurse privily, and no one the wiser.’
The Lieutenant thinks about this, scratching his head in distress. ‘It is the only safe solution,’ he agrees, his ruddy cheeks pale. But we both know we are running a terrible risk.
After supper, Sir Edward appears again, ushering in an elderly lady wearing a plain grey woollen townswoman’s gown with a white linen coif. Elizabeth Savage at last! Her face is pale and thin, the eyes light blue, the lips drawn down by fine lines; and her hands are clasped tightly before her.
She curtseys to me. She knows who I am. Her face is impassive, her eyes downcast, unreadable. It is easy to see that she was once a nun.
I take the chair by the fireside, and invite her to be seated.
‘Mistress Savage, the Lady Katherine is also interested in the tombs, so I thought we could discuss them together,’ the Lieutenant explains.
Elizabeth Savage nods, but says nothing. Maybe she was taught in her convent only to speak when necessary.
‘My father once owned the Minories,’ I explain, ‘and I stayed there often when I was younger. There are some great ladies buried in the church. I remember seeing their tombs as a child, but cannot recall all their names.’
A shadow crosses Mistress Savage’s already wary face. She knows something, I think.
‘They are particularly interesting monuments,’ Sir Edward puts in. ‘Yet it is not just the tombs we wish to know about, but the women who were buried in them. We know you visit these tombs often. We wondered if you had any knowledge of those ladies.’
‘I know nothing, Sir,’ the woman says, too quickly. I notice that her accent is refined, indicating gentle birth. She looks like a cornered deer.
‘Please, Mistress,’ I intervene. ‘This matter may concern a great wrong that was done many years ago to two kinsmen of mine. You will have heard of the Princes in the Tower …’
Mistress Savage sucks in her breath. Her involuntary response gives her away, and she knows it. ‘What is this about?’ she asks. ‘Why are you asking me about that?’
‘You know something about the matter, don’t you?’ the Lieutenant says gently. ‘We had a suspicion you might.’ It is easy to see that he is experienced in the business of questioning people. ‘Come, there is nothing to fear, I assure you. This is no official inquiry. I, and my lady here, merely have an interest in finding out the truth. We have been investigating the matter privily for some time now. The fate of the Princes is a mystery that has long intrigued us both.’ He leans forward. ‘You were the last abbess of the Minories. You visit those tombs often. I wonder why. I also believe that if anyone can tell us if there is a connection between them and the fate of the Princes, it is you.’
‘I know nothing,’ says Elizabeth Savage, flushing.
‘Is that so?’ Sir Edward asks. ‘Then why are you on the defensive? Why did you look so discomfited just now when the Princes were mentioned? Madam, I know you can help us. And we would respect your confidence.’
‘We read Sir Thomas More’s history,’ I add, ‘and I made the connection between the names Tyrell and Brackenbury and the tombs in the church. I recalled seeing the same names there when I was a child, and it seemed more than coincidental that they appeared in More’s account.’
‘It is, my lady!’ Elizabeth Savage blurts out. ‘But what I know I have kept to myself for many years now. It does a body no good to get tangled up in the affairs of the great. I reckon I managed pretty well when King Henry closed down the Minories, making sure the sisters left without any fuss and the surrender went smoothly. I got my pension, and since then I’ve kept quiet. If I were to tell you the secrets I have harboured all these years, I would need your absolute assurance that they would go no further than this room.’
‘I give you that assurance,’ I promise her.
‘You have my word on that too,’ Sir Edward declares. ‘We have no cause to discuss this with anyone else.’
Elizabeth Savage seems still to be struggling with herself, but then her resolve stiffens. ‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I will tell you what I know – and what no one else but me knows, the others having long since gone to their rest.’ And she tells us her extraordinary story.
‘I was born at the turn of the century; my father was a courtier – we were gentry from Worcestershire. My cousin Nan served Queen Anne Boleyn, and later became Lady Berkeley. My father was a younger son with no inheritance to look forward to, and his minor court office paid little, so there was only a small dowry for me.
