Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
‘I was a plain girl, and no one offered for me anyway, so it was decided that I should enter the Minoresses’ convent at Aldgate. I was eighteen, and unhappy at the prospect, but in time I finally settled to the life, although that of a Poor Clare nun was no easy one. At the time of my profession, Alice FitzLewes was abbess; she died in 1524, when the community elected Dame Dorothy Cumberford. She ruled for five years until her death, and then I, by the grace of God, was chosen to be her successor. I was not quite thirty, and young for such a high office, but I had a good head for business, which is always a useful asset in a religious. I remained abbess until the friary was dissolved in 1539, and since then I have been living nearby in Hart Street. I do not go to the Minories now just to see the tombs. I like to maintain my links with the convent where I spent so many years, and the church where so many of my sisters lie buried. It is a miracle that it has escaped destruction. So many religious houses have gone.’
She smiles wanly at us, and for the first time I see a sweetness in that sad, narrow face.
‘I’m sorry, I am apt to wander in my mind,’ she says, ‘and I am not used to company. The tombs. Yes. It is of Abbess Dorothy Cumberford that I must speak. She had been here for many years before she was elected abbess; she was chosen for her age and holiness. She was an angel – and an inveterate gossip, like many nuns. But the tale she told me was no common gossip. Indeed, it was highly sensitive information, and she only imparted it when she knew she was dying – of a canker, bravely borne without complaint, I might add. She wanted to pass on the secrets of our house to someone she could trust. And so she confided them to me, as she had guessed I would be her successor; indeed, she had expressed her wishes in that behalf to the sisters.
‘When Abbess Dorothy was a young nun, there were several ladies of noble or gentle birth living in the great house in the friary close. That was nothing unusual, because in those days widows and spinsters often retired from the world to live in convents as paying guests. But some of these particular ladies had good reason to want to hide from the world, for they knew more than was good for them about what had happened to those hapless Princes. I think you know who they were.’ Again, that sweet smile crosses her face.
‘Chief among them was Elizabeth, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Her daughter, Anne Mowbray, was married to Richard, Duke of York, the younger of the Princes, when they were just children, but died at the age of nine. She is buried in the quire next to her mother; she’d been laid first in St Erasmus’s Chapel in Westminster Abbey, but when King Henry VII pulled that down to build a tomb house for himself, her coffin was brought to the Minories and reburied. It was the Duchess her mother who erected that monument to her beloved child.
‘Naturally, the Duchess had retained an affection for the little Prince who had been her son-in-law; she’d been dismayed when his brother was deposed by the usurper, Richard of Gloucester, and horrified when later she heard dreadful rumours about the Princes being murdered; and, having good connections, she made it her business to find out the truth about their fate.’
‘Did she ever discover what happened to them?’ I wonder.
‘She did, in the end,’ Elizabeth Savage reveals. ‘She heard Sir James Tyrell’s name bruited about as the Princes’ murderer, and made so bold as to question him about what people were saying, but he would not talk to her.’ Just as he had refused to talk to Katherine Plantagenet. ‘Then his sister Mary came to her. Sir James had told her of the Duchess “accosting” him, as he put it, but Mary had her own suspicions, and she unburdened herself to the Duchess. She thought her brother had been involved in some way, and that he had protested his innocence a little too vehemently.
‘Around that time the Duchess and Mary Tyrell got to know Elizabeth Brackenbury, the daughter of Sir Robert, the Constable of the Tower. She too was troubled, and eventually disclosed that her father was stricken in his conscience because he had been obliged to hand over the keys of the Tower to Sir James Tyrell for one night – and when he’d returned the next day, the Princes were gone, vanished into thin air, and Sir James and all his retainers with them. Mistress Brackenbury said her father had feared the worst, because earlier on King Richard had sent a letter in which he effectively commanded the Constable to do away with those poor Princes. Brackenbury refused to obey, saying he would not do it even if he should be put to death for it. How King Richard reacted he never found out, but the next thing he knew was that Tyrell turned up with two ruffians, demanding the keys in the King’s name.’
‘This is very like what Sir Thomas More wrote,’ I say, getting up and pouring some wine from a flagon that Sir Edward had thoughtfully placed ready on the table. I hand a cup to our guest.
‘Thank you,’ she says humbly. ‘You are very kind, my lady. Yes, it is much as More wrote – although he didn’t reveal it all – and soon you will know why. Now Elizabeth Brackenbury was very worried about her father. She told the Duchess and Mary Tyrell how the King had rewarded him for his co-operation and his silence with grants, estates and lucrative offices, but she said he regarded them as blood money and was uneasy about accepting them. He had been loyal to Richard up to the time he ordered him to slay the Princes; now he was afraid of him, for Brackenbury knew too much, and Richard had proved just how ruthless he could be. So after that time, Elizabeth said, Brackenbury took care never to put a foot wrong. He obeyed the summons to fight for Richard at Bosworth, and was killed in the battle.’
‘Did Brackenbury ever uncover any proof that Tyrell did murder the Princes?’ Sir Edward asks.
‘No. All trace of the boys had gone. Even their clothes had been removed.’ Elizabeth Savage shakes her head sadly and sips her wine. ‘After Henry Tudor became king, the Duchess decided to retire to the Minoresses’ convent as a boarder, and she invited Elizabeth Brackenbury and Mary Tyrell to join her.’
‘Why did she decide to go to the Minories?’ I ask.
‘Her kinswoman, Lady Talbot, was already living there, and there was space in the big house to accommodate several ladies quite comfortably. In due course, the other two ladies joined her, and with them came Mary Tyrell’s aunt, Anne Montgomery. Her husband had supported the usurper Richard, but she now wished to dissociate herself from that allegiance, and reckoned that retiring to the Minories was the safest way.
‘Sir James Tyrell, as you probably know, had long been trusted by Richard, and he apparently would have done anything to gain preferment. It was he who had brought Richard’s mother-in-law to him, so that he could lock her up and gain control of her lands. It was to Tyrell’s charge that Richard committed the men arrested with Lord Hastings – you know about Hastings’ fate, I presume?’
We nod.
‘Tyrell was one of those who guarded his sovereign day and night, sleeping on a pallet outside his bedchamber. Richard trusted him, but he was a villain. Even his sister and his aunt feared him.’
Yes, I know he was a villain. Look how he had treated poor Mattie, and how disrespectful he was to her mistress.
‘Tyrell had long hoped for great rewards for his devoted service, but others stood in his way. By the time Richard asked Tyrell to go to the Tower, he was so desperate for advancement he would have agreed to anything. The rest you have read in Sir Thomas More’s account. It is fact, not propaganda, as you have surely guessed.’
‘So Richard did have the Princes murdered?’ I ask. ‘How do you know that for certain?’
‘I will tell you; just bear with me,’ Mistress Savage reproves gently. ‘After he had carried out the murders, Tyrell was rewarded with sufficient grants and offices to ensure that he could attain the high status that he had long sought at court. In fact, he became a wealthy man, richer than many barons. He was Master of the Horse, Chamberlain of the Exchequer and Captain of Guisnes Castle near Calais, where he took up residence. He would write from there occasionally to his sister, bragging about the honours that had been bestowed on him; but she was more concerned with how they had been won, and showed herself cool towards him.
‘After Bosworth, Tyrell came over from Calais and offered Henry VII his allegiance. The King confirmed him in his post, and he went back to Guisnes Castle, where he stayed for sixteen years. But then he made the foolish mistake of helping Edmund and Richard de la Pole, Richard III’s nephews, who were plotting to overthrow King Henry, and that’s how he ended up in the Tower.’ She sighs.
‘Mary did her best for her brother. Out of her small income, she paid for him to have better food and a cleaner cell, and even bribed his guards to let her visit him twice. She found him a broken and defeated man. He had been warned there was a strong case against him, and that he could not look for mercy. He had been questioned about the murder of the Princes, along with John Dighton, who had helped to suffocate them. He told Mary they had both confessed to that abominable crime, and confided to her the details of what had actually happened. She had no doubt that he was speaking the truth: he was a dying man, he told her, and wished to unburden his conscience before he faced God’s judgement. And indeed, he was soon afterwards condemned for a traitor, and died on the block.’
Mistress Savage pauses for another sip of wine. I notice how abstemiously she drinks: another discipline learned in the religious life, no doubt. I wonder fleetingly if she regrets the passing of those days, or harbours resentment at being turned out of her convent, yet I am much more preoccupied at this moment with the murder of the Princes. It was as I had greatly feared: they were done to death on Richard’s orders. And when I think about it, I realise that he had really had no choice but to eliminate them. Alive, they would have been a constant threat to his crown, because clearly many did not believe the precontract tale. Yet the irony was that, dead, they were even more dangerous, for rumours of their murder effectively cost Richard his throne.
‘Our quest is over,’ Sir Edward says sadly. ‘I had hoped it would have a different ending.’
‘There is one more question I must ask,’ I say. ‘How did Sir Thomas More know all this? Did he ever meet Mary Tyrell?’
‘Yes, my lady, although I do not know if he spoke with her about this matter, and she was dead by the time he came to write his book. But there was another lady living in the house in the close; her name was Joyce Lee, and he was a friend of her family. They were grocers, I think. Joyce later became a member of our Order; I remember hearing that she wore a hair shirt beneath her nun’s habit. More sometimes visited her when he was a young lawyer living at Bucklersbury in London, and it was she who told him the story of the Princes. She was close friends with the other ladies, and they had confided it to her. At Joyce’s behest, More undertook never to publish his account. I don’t believe he ever finished it. Alas, who could have foretold then that he would become a world-famous scholar and statesman, or that he would end on the block? After that, others got their hands on his work, and now it is in print, and all the world can read it. At least he has not named Joyce Lee as his source. She would have been grateful for that.’
Mistress Savage stands up, her tale finished. ‘I must go now,’ she says. ‘My dog will be hungry. He’s my companion, Old Rex, all I have in the world.’ She smiles uncertainly.
‘I thank you for coming here today,’ I say. ‘We are very grateful for your help in solving this great mystery. You know you can rely on our discretion. We will not say a word about this to anyone.’
‘We shall have to think of another mystery to solve, now that we know the truth about this one,’ Sir Edward jests.
‘You won’t forget your promise, Sir?’ the former Abbess asks. ‘I’ve spent my life keeping silent and I don’t want this getting out. These are matters that bear some weight even today.’
‘No, I will not forget,’ the Lieutenant assures her. ‘Yet I do not think there would be anything to fear.’ Indeed, there would not. For what Elizabeth Savage has just confided can only serve to confirm the Tudors’ title to the throne.
‘Then farewell,’ she says, and makes to follow Sir Edward out.
‘One thing, mistress!’ I cry. ‘Do you know where the Princes were buried?’
There is no hesitation. ‘Meetly deep, under a stairfoot in the Tower, beneath a heap of stones,’ she says. ‘That’s what Abbess Dorothy always said.’
My eyes meet Sir Edward’s. He shrugs. We both know it is unlikely that that hidden grave will ever be uncovered.
Lying in my bed later, I am conscious of a different atmosphere. It has nothing to do with my anxiety over my condition or what might happen to me if the Queen finds out I am with child. Nor is it connected in any way with Ned. It is something in the very air of the Tower, a strange peacefulness out of keeping with this grim fortress. Somewhere near here, I know for a certainty now, lie the bones of those two Princes of York, cruelly done to death simply because they were of royal blood. Somehow I know I will hear their cries for help no longer. I have found out the truth about their end. They will trouble me no more. Against all my Protestant instincts, I say a prayer for the repose of their souls, as I was taught in the years when I was a Catholic. For that was the faith in which they lived and died.
When I fall asleep, gently, effortlessly, I find myself dreaming again of the girl in blue; she was Katherine Plantagenet, I cannot doubt it, and this time, she is not reaching out to me. She is pensive and sad, but she is free of her torment, and at peace. The truth, however painful it might be, is infinitely better than the cruel anguish of uncertainty. I do not think I will dream of her again.
When I get up in the morning, I open my silver casket, take out her pendant and put it round my neck, wondering if I will again experience those awful feelings of despair that almost made me faint when I first tried it on. But there is nothing – not even the faintest echo of those terrible sensations. I did not think there would be now. And I will wear the pendant in the future, old-fashioned as it is, in memory of that brave dark lady in blue.
For now, I lay it back in the casket with my other jewels. As I am replacing Katherine’s papers, I notice again the date: 1487. That still puzzles me. What happened in 1487?
Kate
June 1487. Raglan Castle.
Lincoln had landed in the north-west, in Cumbria, with his mysterious protégé, a great army at their back! The news, brought by fast messenger, stirred William to vigorous activity, checking gates, posterns, locks, bolts, defences, weapons and stores, as if he were preparing for a siege. Every day he rode out, arraying men against the invasion, and when he returned he drilled them in the courtyards at Raglan, then sent them to join the royal forces at Kenilworth Castle, where the Tudor had set up his headquarters.
The women of the castle were not idle either. The Dowager Countess took command of the kitchens, requisitioning all the bread her servants could bake for the fighting men, then swooped down on the dairy, appropriating cheeses, and the brewhouse, where she demanded that great barrels be filled with ale. Kate, nearing her time, and Elizabeth helped, tearing up strips of material for bandages and winding them into neat rolls for the soldiers to take with them, and mixing salves for wounds in the still room.
Kate’s heart had leapt when she’d heard that John had invaded. Every day, she kept thinking of him advancing further south, marching to meet the Tudor’s forces. She could not bear to think she was aiding his enemies. What if he really did have with him York, the rightful King? Even if he did not, he himself, come to that, had a better claim than the Tudor. He had the right of this, so God grant him the victory! It was her constant prayer.
William was too preoccupied with his defensive measures to concern himself with a wife in the last stages of pregnancy. That was women’s business, and the women would look after her. He ordered Kate to rest, left her to her own devices, and busied himself with arming all the able-bodied men in his household.
‘Guy is being sent with the rest to join the King,’ Mattie told Kate one morning, as she was brushing her mistress’s hair. She looked worried, and Kate’s heart went out to her.
‘It is always the unfortunate lot of women to wait at home while men go to war,’ she said. ‘We must pray daily for his safety.’
‘He will need it, my lady,’ Mattie muttered, lowering her voice and glancing nervously at the door. ‘He is going to join my lord of Lincoln.’
Kate gaped, and the child leapt beneath her heart. ‘Oh, Mattie!’
‘Yes, he plans to ride some way with the others, then break away in the darkness when they camp overnight.’
‘It is a dangerous thing to do,’ Kate warned. ‘He could be hanged if he is caught. Please urge him to think seriously before he goes so far.’
‘I have,’ Mattie assured her, wringing her hands. ‘I’ve been on at him for days, but he is adamant. The true line must be restored, he says, and the Tudor sent packing. He says he’s not the only one that thinks that way, and he’s right, for I hear there are others flocking to the Earl’s banner. But my lady, I do fear for him!’
There were tears in Kate’s eyes as she reflected on the staunch hearts of these true friends.
‘I wonder, my lady,’ Mattie said, dabbing her eyes too, ‘if you would like Guy to carry a letter to my lord of Lincoln.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Kate cried. ‘Yes! I should like that very much. I will write a letter now, and you may take it to Guy with more hearty thanks from me.’
‘That I will, my lady. And I’d be grateful for your prayers for his safety.’
‘I will pray for us all, and especially for Guy – and for John. Let us hope that God defends the right,’ Kate said fervently.
To my right well beloved John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Kate wrote as a preamble, thinking it looked rather stiff and formal, yet not knowing how else to begin; but then the words poured out of her.
It is long since I saw you, my own fair knight, and I recommend myself to you in my most faithful wise, and pray you to let me know of your welfare, which I pray God daily to increase. And if it shall please you to hear of me, I can never be in full good health of body nor of heart till I hear from you. I am with child and near my time, or I would have made haste to come to you myself. But in my absence, this good groom of mine has consented to bring this my letter.
I send you my prayers and good wishes for your great enterprise, and look soon to have joyful news of you. May God send the victory to the righteous. I will pray for that to the utmost of my power.
My lord, I did mean to ask you that last time, before I was cruelly prevented: were the sons of King Edward with you at Sheriff Hutton? I am in good hope that they were taken from the Tower and sent there in the wake of the conspiracies. I ask you this that I might know the truth about my father, King Richard. You know it would be the greatest comfort to me in this world to know that he did not put them to death. I have wondered too if the young gentleman you have with you is not what he says but some other of even greater importance. No doubt we shall all know the truth soon, God willing.
No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping. And I beseech you that this letter be not seen by any earthly creature save only yourself. And now farewell, mine own fair lord, and God give you good rest, and a great victory over our enemies.
Written at Raglan on St Barnabas Day in the afternoon.
Your own Katherine Plantagenet.
When ye have read this, I pray you burn it or keep it secret to yourself, as my faithful trust is in you.
At dawn the next day, Kate stood by the mounting block holding the empty stirrup cup, watching William lead his company of soldiers out of the courtyard. Guy was with them, the letter in his bosom. When they had all gone from sight, she knew a moment of panic, for if it were to be intercepted by the King’s men, this would undoubtedly be seen as treasonous; but it was too late to recall it. Yet when she envisaged John reading it, and its contents giving heart to him before he faced his enemies in battle, and the reply he might send when the world had righted itself, she knew for a certainty that she would not recall it even if she had the chance.
Interlude
October 1562. Hampton Court Palace.
‘The Queen is dying,’ Robert Dudley groans, his head in his hands. ‘There is no hope.’
The other councillors in the antechamber exchange glances. This display of grief is as much for Dudley himself as for Elizabeth, they convey, as once she is gone, goodbye, Lord Robert – and good riddance!
However, their minds are preoccupied with more weighty matters. They are all too conscious of the threat of civil war, should the Queen succumb to the smallpox without naming her heir.
‘We must pray that her Majesty recovers,’ Cecil says firmly. ‘And that we be not divided on the issue of her successor.’
‘My vote is for Lord Huntingdon,’ declares Pembroke, who has not forgiven Katherine’s treatment of his son.
‘His claim is weak.’ Mr Secretary dismisses it with a wave of his hand.
‘Then we are left with the Lady Katherine Grey,’ Winchester declares. Several voices, including those of the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Arundel, are heard saying aye. Pembroke snorts in derision.
‘But she has been disgraced and discredited,’ Sussex reminds them. ‘She is hardly fit to succeed.’
‘She is a Protestant, and it’s possible her marriage waslawful,’ Cecil opines. ‘But even if that could be proved, which of us would want Lord Hertford as king?’
There is a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
‘It would be Philip of Spain all over again.’
‘The Seymours have always been too puffed up for their own good.’
‘But,’ says Cecil, ‘public opinion speaks in Lady Katherine’s favour. There are many, I would remind you, who regard her marriage as valid, and think that she and Lord Hertford should be allowed to live as man and wife. They are popular with the people, and seen as sharply handled.’
‘What is your view, Lord Robert?’ Winchester asks. ‘Lady Katherine is your sister-in-law.’
‘Was,’ Dudley says quickly. ‘I say we ask the Queen to release Lady Lennox from the Tower. Or choose Huntingdon. God’s blood, if her Majesty had an heir of her own body, we would not be in this pickle!’
‘By you, my lord, you mean?’ Norfolk smirks.
‘Yes, if you will!’ Dudley flares. ‘Or by anybody, come to that. But as she hasn’t, we have to make a decision.’
Arguments erupt. There are more calls for Katherine to succeed, while a few voices speak up for Mary, Queen of Scots. Cecil puts his hands over his ears then holds up a warning finger.
‘My lords, the Queen lies ill within! Have some respect. Now, a show of hands, by your leave. Who is for Lady Katherine?’
A majority respond. Cecil frowns. And at that moment, the German doctor attending the Queen emerges from her chamber.
‘My lords! Come at once. She is better, praise Gott!’
Kate
June 1487. Raglan Castle.
The news was good. There had been a great Yorkist victory at Bramham Moor, led by Lord Clifford, one of John’s commanders. Then they heard that Lincoln, at the head of an army eight thousand strong, was advancing relentlessly: he was at York, at Sherwood Forest, at Nottingham. In the privacy of her chamber, Kate and Mattie rejoiced, but their fears would not be stilled, because it took days for news to get through to Raglan; who knew what had been happening in the meantime?
They had heard nothing from Guy, but then they had not expected to. He could not write. Kate prayed he had got through safely to the Yorkist army.
The King, it was reported, was marching towards Newark in Lincolnshire. The household at Raglan held its collective breath, as did the whole realm, because the inevitable confrontation, which might come any day now, would determine decisively which royal House would rule England. Sweating and ungainly with her precious burden in the heat of the summer, Kate prayed as she had never prayed before, for John’s safety, and Guy’s, and for a Yorkist victory. She wondered if John’s wife, the Countess Margaret, was praying as fervently, wherever she was.
She prayed for William too, but only because it was her duty.
The news, when it came, was shocking. There had been a great, hard-fought battle at Stoke, a few miles south-west of Newark. The Tudor had finally vanquished his enemies. Four thousand, including the Earl of Lincoln, lay slain in the field.
How she kept her composure when William, returning triumphant, announced these tidings to his assembled household in the castle courtyard, she did not know. But she was not the descendant of a long line of great kings for nothing. Save for turning pale, which was not remarkable, given her condition, she gave nothing away; she even managed a cheer with the rest when her husband spoke of the Tudor’s victory over the ‘perfidious dark Earl’ – as William sneeringly called John. It was all over now, the long struggle between Lancaster and York; there was no one left to fight for the defeated dynasty.
Kate thought she too would die when she heard John was dead. It was unbelievable, incomprehensible, that her dear love was no more. Slain, dead in the field … that glorious young knight, in the flower of his youth and manhood, and just twenty-five years old. Never again would he hold her, kiss her, whisper love poems to her, or loveher … She could not bear to hear that he had been buried in no sacred place, but where he fell, with a willow stave driven through his heart.
She took to her chamber, knowing her time was near. If she died in childbirth, she would be content. She did not want to live in a world without John.
But the world, in the person of Henry Tudor, was not done with her yet.
Mattie was distraught with anxiety for Guy, who had not returned. Knowing of the great slaughter at Stoke, she was near crazed in case he had been killed, and desperate to know how she could find out. There would be many with menfolk missing, praying they had got away. But, short of travelling across the breadth of the kingdom to Lincolnshire, there was nothing she could do.
A week after the battle, two of the King’s officers in their green and white livery presented themselves at the gatehouse at Raglan and demanded entry. Mattie espied them from a window, clattering into the courtyard, and saw William invite them into the great hall and shout for wine as he disappeared through the door. She thought little of their coming at the time, and went to sit with Kate, whose spirits were so low, and who lay on her bed listlessly, fully dressed, the great mound of her belly taut almost at term, and her long dark locks spread out around her haunted white face. Mattie feared for her: the child was draining her strength, and she seemed to have lost the will to live – and who could blame her? But if she did not rally, she might not have the strength she needed to face childbirth. And so Mattie, suppressing her own fears for Guy, was doing her very best to cheer Kate, talking to her about the coming child, preparing strengthening food and warming drinks for her, and putting fresh flowers daily into the little pewter vase on the window ledge.
She was sitting by the bed, showing Kate the new-fashioned gable hood she was making for her, when the door was suddenly flung open and William stood there, his face thunderous.
‘What have you done?’ he yelled at Kate. ‘What the hell do you think you have done?’ Kate looked at him bewildered for a second, then awareness dawned, and she stared at him in horror, knowing that the forces of hell were about to be unleashed. Mattie started to shake.
‘May we come in?’ said a brisk voice, and William, red with fury, stood aside to allow the King’s officers to enter.
‘Are you the Lady Katherine, Countess of Huntingdon?’ one of them, a young, dark-haired fellow, asked Kate.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a hoarse voice.
‘Did you write this?’ He handed her a crumpled, blood-spotted piece of paper. Her face blenched as she gazed upon it. It was the letter she had written to John. She could not touch it: it was his life-blood that had been spilt on the paper. Had he been carrying it in his bosom when he was killed?
She raised herself up on one elbow and faced her accusers calmly. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘What did you think you were doing?’ William roared. ‘I swear to you, Sirs, I had no knowledge of this.’
‘The King is aware of that, my lord,’ the second officer assured him. ‘It is clear from the letter. But, Madam,’ he said, turning to Kate, ‘his Grace is mindful that you offered your support to the traitor Lincoln. That is treason. Do you admit that that was your intent?’
‘Yes, I admit it,’ Kate said. ‘I was glad to do it.’ She did not care what they did to her now. The only truth in her life was her love for John, and she was not going to deny it. The memory of it was all she had left.
‘Then, Madam, the case is very serious for you. My orders are to arrest you and convey you to Kenilworth Castle, where the King is, for questioning, but I see you are great with child. In the circumstances, you must remain here as a prisoner until you are delivered. You may have your maid to attend you. My lord, will you ensure, on pain of the King’s displeasure, that your wife is kept close in her chamber and that no one else is allowed access to her?’
‘By God I will!’ shouted William. ‘You have played me false, you strumpet, you traitress! It beggars belief what you have done.’
