Текст книги "A Dangerous Inheritance"
Автор книги: Alison Weir
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
In my lonely bed, I dream vividly of the girl in the picture, and in my dream she is beckoning me, giving me that intense, appealing look again, yet this time her face is shadowed by sadness. Even in the dream I have that sense of recognition, as if I know her from somewhere. But I can never have seen her before.
After sleeping only fitfully through the night, I am resolved. I dare not venture up there alone, but I ask Harry to accompany me to that turret room and open the chest – and he agrees. This time there will be no snatched moments, for Sanders insists on accompanying us. No doubt he told the Earl how we gave him the slip yesterday.
I approach the dark passageway with trepidation, scarcely daring to look ahead of me at the wall of the stairwell, and reminding myself that I have two strong men with me. But today there is nothing there. We mount the stairs, and then Harry and I sink to our knees by the chest, while Sanders perches on the top stair, balancing an account book on his knees, seemingly absorbed in checking his columns of figures.
Harry snatches a kiss behind his back, runs his fingers up my arm and allows them to stray for a moment to my breast, then grins mischievously at me as he unlocks the chest. The old lid creaks as he raises it, and the dry, musty smell of long-forgotten documents is released. There are piles and bundles of them to be gone through: deeds, grants, warrants, formal letters, a treatise on hunting (‘I’ll keep that,’ Harry says), a crumbling missal with faded pages, broken seals, a long scroll bearing a family tree, plans of Raglan Castle on brittle parchment, a tattered heraldic banner, a marriage contract bearing the date 1484, and a thick bundle of yellowing papers tied up with frayed satin ribbon. We spend ages sorting everything, but it soon becomes clear that the chest’s contents are very old and mostly of little interest. There is nothing recent here, nothing that could possibly concern me. Nothing for which some supernatural entity might beckon me up the stairs. I musthave imagined it.
But wait a minute!
‘Let me see that marriage contract,’ I say, and Harry passes it to me. ‘It was dated 1484?’
‘Yes, sweetheart.’
‘The same date as the portrait downstairs, the one of the girl in blue. I wonder if this is her marriage contract.’ I read the tortuous legal script. ‘“William Herbert, Earl of Huntingdon, covenants with King Richard III to take the King’s daughter, Dame Katherine Plantagenet, to wife before Michaelmas of that year.” There is more, about the marriage settlement. Harry, it must be her, the girl in the picture! That could be her marriage portrait.’
‘It’s possible, my love, but we can’t know for certain.’
‘She isrichly dressed, and that pendant must have been costly – fit for a king’s daughter. I think it’s her.’
‘Well, it may be …’
‘She was your ancestress.’
‘I don’t think so. My father is the Earl of Huntingdon’s nephew. Huntingdon left only a daughter. I’m sure my father would be delighted to tell you more of the family history if you ask him. He’s inordinately proud of it.’
We are nearly finished now. Harry is poring over the family tree, absorbed in the lineage of his ancestors, so I carefully untie the rotten ribbon and begin looking at the yellowing papers, which are all written in the same faint hand. They are very thin and very fragile, and prone to tearing along the creases.
‘Look at this!’ Harry says suddenly. He is dangling something bright and shiny, a diamond-shaped pendant on a chain. Old-fashioned as it is, it is of gold, and cunningly wrought. A great sapphire winks as he rubs the jewel on his sleeve.
‘I recognise it!’ I cry. ‘It’s the pendant the girl is wearing – the girl in the portrait. The very same.’
‘Really?’ And before I can say anything, Harry leaps up and bounds down the stairs. ‘Yes, you’re right, my sweetheart,’ he says as he returns, a little breathless. ‘It is the same pendant.’
Now that I know it was hers, I want it for my own. I cannot explain why I am drawn to the girl in the portrait, but I know I felt that sense of recognition when I saw her likeness. And she came to me in my dream, smiling sadly, pleadingly … as if she wanted something of me. Can she be haunting me? That shadow beckoning on the stairs – was it her? Might she have been guiding me to the chest, to the pendant … maybe she wants me to have it. After all, I am another young Herbert wife like her, and so she thinks it should be rightfully mine. Maybe she loved her husband as much as I love Harry …
Harry leans forward and clasps the pendant around my neck. ‘There, it suits you!’
Then suddenly, inexplicably, I am filled with a sense of despair, so powerful that I feel I might faint. I rip off the pendant, fearing it must be bewitched.
‘I cannot wear this, Harry,’ I gabble. ‘It – it would be seen as Papist idolatry, with those images. My parents would have a fit! As for Jane – she would never speak to me again. But it is lovely.’ And it is, too, lying there in my palm, as innocent-looking as anything. As soon as I took it off, the feeling of despair dissipated, and now it is hard to believe I did not imagine it.
‘I suppose my parents would disapprove of it too,’ he concurs, ‘even though it was made long ago. You may keep it all the same.’
Reluctantly, I put the pendant in my pocket. But I am deeply troubled by the effect it had on me. That beckoning hand, my strange affinity with the girl in blue, the dream, and that dreadful feeling of despair … What could they all mean? Are they somehow connected? Or am I just imagining things?
Resolutely, I turn back to the papers.
The old-fashioned script is hard to read, and although I persevere, it is not easy to decipher the words. But suddenly it becomes clear that these are no mere letters, as I read something that strikes a strange chill into me, even on this beautiful sunny morning. And now it occurs to me that I was beckoned into the tower chamber to find much more than a pendant.
Kate
13th June 1483. The Tower of London and Crosby Hall, London.
The guards at the entrance gateway to the Tower whistled appreciatively at the two girls. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening; in fact, the place was quiet. Kate approached one of the sentries.
‘My father is the Duke of Gloucester,’ she told him, as he eyed her sceptically. ‘Is he within?’
‘And my father’s the King of England!’ the man retorted.
‘Very well, I shall wait over there until the Duke comes, and then you shall believe me,’ Kate said with dignity.
‘Show him the pendant,’ Mattie whispered.
Kate drew the package from her velvet purse and unwrapped it. The large sapphire glinted in the sunlight. ‘Now do you believe me?’ she challenged.
The man was dumbfounded. ‘I crave your pardon, lady. We get all sorts of nutters here. Yes, the Duke is in council in Caesar’s Tower – the big white keep yonder. I was on duty when he arrived. He came out for an hour or so, with his henchmen – but then he returned. He didn’t look too happy.’
‘Oh, no!’ Kate said. Something was amiss, as she had feared.
‘Go on in, my lady. The public are allowed into the Tower. We’re just here to keep out troublemakers.’
The sentry waved the girls through the gateway, and they found themselves in the outer bailey, walking past the great barred water-gate where the Thames lapped at the steps. Mattie knew her way around the Tower well.
‘I’ve been here before, my lady,’ she revealed. ‘My uncle brought me to see the lions and other beasts in the menagerie; he’s one of the warders here. We’ve had supper at his house a few times.’
To their left was one of the inner towers, a tall, ancient edifice. Kate looked up at it, and glimpsed a face staring through one of the upper windows. It was the face of a young woman. The window was barred.
‘There’s someone up there,’ she said to Mattie. ‘Is she a prisoner?’
‘I can’t see anyone,’ Mattie said. Kate was puzzled. The girl was still there. But Mattie was walking on, leading her through an archway, then along a narrow passageway. In front of them was a massive gateway, next to what was obviously Caesar’s Tower, built of white stone; to the right was a high wall with buildings behind it.
‘That’s the royal palace,’ Mattie said. ‘We’re not allowed to go in there. That big gatehouse ahead – that’s the entrance, the Coldharbour Gate.’
‘The King is in there somewhere,’ Kate said. Poor boy, she thought, spending his days in regal isolation, surrounded by a court of adults, and required not only to do his lessons but also to learn about the heavy business of governing his subjects. He was expected to attend council meetings, her father had told her, but had been excused of late because he was suffering from some malady of the jaw that his physician could not alleviate.
Things would be better for him when he had his brother for company. Her father’s determination to bring the Duke of York here was a wise resolve, and showed how much he had his nephews’ welfare at heart.
Kate and Mattie emerged from the passageway on to Tower Green, a wide-open grassy space in the Tower’s inner bailey. Great towers and wall walks surrounded it, and leafy trees shaded the enclosure. Mattie pointed out the Lieutenant’s Lodging, a fine house on the left, and the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula ahead, where the Tower garrison worshipped. Beyond that was a broad arena where, Kate learned, tournaments were sometimes held.
There were few people about. Some men-at-arms were sitting dicing on a bench. A couple of their fellows stood guard nearby at the Coldharbour Gate. On Tower Green, in front of the chapel, some workmen were sawing wood. There was no one else in sight, although Kate could hear horses neighing and snorting nearby.
Then suddenly there were shouts from the other side of the Coldharbour Gate.
‘Make way for my Lord Hastings!’
The sentries looked at each other, shrugged, and opened the gate. Immediately, a small band of angry men burst through it. One, an official in a black gown with a rod of office, was dragging a well-dressed nobleman who was putting up some spirited resistance, although his face was twisted in what looked like terror. Behind followed a furious priest.
‘In the name of God, stop!’ he was bellowing. ‘This is outrageous! You have allowed this poor wretch no time for any long confession or any space for remembering his sins.’
‘Spare me! Oh my God, spare me!’ the nobleman was pleading.
Kate did not wait to hear more. She grabbed Mattie by the hand and ran back to the passage, where they could hide behind the wall. She prayed no one had noticed them.
They stood there for a moment, looking at each other helplessly.
‘What’s happening?’ Mattie cried. ‘What are they going to do to that poor man?’
‘Shhhh! I don’t know,’ Kate whispered. ‘I wonder which one is Lord Hastings. Surely he will not allow anything bad to happen.’
‘Where have you been all these years?’ Mattie hissed. ‘That poor nobleman isLord Hastings!’
‘Oh, sweet Holy Mother,’ Kate breathed. ‘I think they are going to kill him. Oh, what can we do?’
Gathering every ounce of her courage, she peered around the wall. The men were now on Tower Green, in front of the chapel. They had set up a stock of wood from the astonished workmen’s pile, and were forcing Lord Hastings to his knees in front of it. He was praying aloud, and although she could not hear what he was saying, she could detect the desperation in his voice. His tormentors were arguing, and a man-at-arms was waving his hands and protesting angrily about something. Then another was summoned, one of the soldiers from the bench. A man in a rich gown turned and she suddenly recognised the Duke of Buckingham, who seemed to be in charge; he barked an order and the second man-at-arms drew his sword. At this, Hastings’ prayers grew frantic. The furious priest was on his knees beside him.
Kate drew back behind the shelter of the wall, shuddering. It was horrifyingly clear what was to happen next, and she shrank from witnessing it. Behind her, Mattie was sobbing silently, hugging herself in distress, and she put her arms around her, as much to comfort herself as Mattie, wondering how people could treat an execution as a public spectacle, a holiday even, as it seemed they did in this alien city – and no doubt elsewhere.
There was a sickening thud, then a short silence, broken by Buckingham’s hoarse shout: ‘Behold the head of a traitor!’ This was greeted by desultory cheers, and sounds that the gathering was breaking up.
‘They might come this way and see us!’ Mattie whispered, quivering. Kate feared she might be right, and guessed that those wicked men would not have wanted witnesses to their dreadful deed. There had been something furtive and underhand about it. What had the priest said? That poor Lord Hastings had been allowed no time to make a proper confession. The cleric had been indignant, and rightly so.
But how had this happened – and why? These questions struck her as she grabbed Mattie’s hand and hurried back with her through the winding passage. There was no one about but the sentries on the gate. The two girls fled past them, ignoring their cheery farewells.
‘Don’t bother to say goodbye!’ one sentry called after them.
Why?Kate kept asking herself as she half ran through the streets of London, and then again as she hastened up the stone stairs to the door of Crosby Hall, where she dismissed Mattie and went alone to her chamber. Why?It was a question she could not, would not, pose to her faithful maid, because it concerned her father.
No one else had such compelling cause to wish Hastings dead. Hastings had disloyally suspected her father of scheming to seize the throne from the lawful King. He had treacherously plotted against Gloucester, even allying with his enemies the Wydevilles. Her father believed they had been compassing his death. And he had gone this day to that council meeting at the Tower.
She sat down in the window embrasure. The stones behind her back were painted with bright trefoils and borders, and the glass panes between the mullions were stained in jewel colours, blue, yellow, red … rich red, the colour of blood. She could not help thinking of Lord Hastings kneeling in terror on Tower Green, and of what she had shrunk from seeing. There would have been blood … rivers of it.
She was twisting her russet curls tightly around her finger, unaware that she was doing it. She was imagining her father – her beloved, kindly father – sending Lord Hastings to his death. For who else could have done it? Her father was the Lord Protector; it would not have happened without his sanction or order. And the Duke of Buckingham, who had been in charge of the beheading, was his staunchest ally.
It was all beyond her comprehension and her competence. She could not deal with it herself. She hoped that all would become clear when the Duke returned home.
*
There was shouting outside in the street. Agitated male voices were crying, ‘Treason! Treason!’
‘Oh, dear Holy Mother!’ Kate whispered, as it dawned on her suddenly why Hastings might have been executed. ‘No! Not my father!’
She flew out of her chamber, and in the great hall collided with the Duchess Anne, pale and flustered, making her way to the outside stairs. Kate’s frightened eyes met hers – but, of course, the Duchess knew nothing of the fate of Hastings, or the terrible possibility that the Duke had been assassinated, so her concern was nowhere near as acute as her stepdaughter’s. They hastened, with John of Gloucester and members of their household following, down the stairs to the courtyard and out into Bishopsgate, where they saw an angry, heaving mob of retainers sporting the Duke’s white boar badge fighting their way through the crowd. Others were taking up the cry of ‘Treason!’, some were reaching for daggers and swords, and there was an air of panic throughout.
The Duchess Anne was a gentle soul, but fear made her bold. Without hesitation, she headed into the throng and grabbed the arm of one of the liveried retainers.
‘A word, please!’ she cried in his ear. He was about to race on, but realised that it was his liege lord’s wife who had accosted him, and paused, with obvious reluctance.
‘What is the meaning of this? Why are you shouting “Treason”?’ Anne demanded. She spoke with an authority worthy of the Kingmaker’s daughter, and people stopped to heed her. Her father had been popular with the Londoners in his day, and they were ready to listen to his daughter.
The retainer, realising that many expectant faces were turned in his direction, and that a hush was descending, cleared his throat.
‘My lady, good citizens, you should know that an ambush had been prepared for my Lord Protector when he went to the Tower today. His enemies, led by Lord Hastings, had plotted his destruction.’ Kate went cold at that; bracing herself to hear the worst, she saw Anne blanch and sway a little, but she also heard a swell of angry murmurs in the crowd, and voices raised in denial. The Duke’s man ignored it. ‘The traitor Hastings,’ he shouted above the increasing roar of protest, ‘had plotted with several lords of the Council, and with the Queen and Mistress Shore, against the Lord Protector’s lawful authority – and his very life!’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘But mercifully his Grace discovered this treason in time, and knew that his adversaries had hidden their arms in the council chamber, ready to attack him. Thus forewarned, he summoned his guards, and Hastings and the rest were taken, resisting violently. Hastings has now suffered the full penalty that the law demands, and my lord Duke, God be thanked, is preserved from the malice of his enemies.’
Anne looked shocked, and the mood of the mob turned angry. Some were weeping openly for Hastings, and crying out against his death. Behind Kate, a man remarked to his neighbour that Hastings had been the only hope of King Edward’s children, while another growled, ‘Well, if anyone wants proof that Gloucester has his sights on the throne, this is it.’ Kate glared at him.
Mattie was at her elbow. ‘The people loved Lord Hastings,’ she explained. ‘It is hard for them to believe him guilty of such wickedness.’
Kate rounded on her. ‘You think my father is making it up?’ she challenged. ‘He was in danger of his life!’
‘Oh no, my lady, a thousand apologies! I meant nothing like that. I was merely trying to explain why the citizens are so perplexed. I am sure the Duke would not have condemned him without proof of his treason.’
‘Of course he would not,’ Kate snapped, edging her way towards the Duchess, who was making her way back into Crosby Place. They left behind them a restive crowd, and they had not been indoors long when they heard more shouts. It was the Duke returning home, and plainly his reception was hostile.
Anne and Kate stood at the top of the stairs with the chamberlain to welcome him, and watched his slight figure dismount from his horse and ascend the stairs. He looked energised, triumphant almost – and better than he had for a long while.
‘My lord.’ Anne sank into a curtsey, as Kate dipped behind her. The Duke raised them both and kissed them. ‘Come, we shall dine!’ he said. ‘We have much to celebrate. God be praised, the traitors are routed.’
‘So we have heard, my lord,’ Anne said, her voice a touch strained. ‘There have been crowds in the street here, bruiting it about. I mislike their mood.’
‘They have been fed persuasive lies,’ the Duke said, leading his womenfolk into the hall. He called for wine and the best feast that could be mustered, and within minutes they were seated at the high table on the dais, drinking a fervent toast to his deliverance from his enemies. Kate could not believe that her father was here in their midst, alive and well, when only an hour before she had feared him dead. Involuntarily, she plucked the velvet of his sleeve, just to make sure he was real. He smiled at her.
‘Truly, Kate, we have much for which to thank God,’ he said.
He was expansive about the events that had taken place that morning in the Tower. ‘I asked the traitor Hastings what men deserved for plotting the destruction of one who is so near to the King in blood, and the Protector of his royal person and realm. And he said – he actually said – that if they had done thus heinously, they were worthy of heinous punishment. If? I asked him. Do not serve me with ifs! I told him they had done it, and that I would make good upon his body.’
John was agog. The Duchess sat still and remote, her face inscrutable.
‘It was then that I accused him of plotting with the other traitors on the Council against my office and my life,’ the Duke continued. ‘And I told them I knew they were in league with the Queen and that strumpet Mistress Shore. The traitors did not deny it! I challenged them, saying they had laid an ambush for me, and then Buckingham brought the guards. As you have heard, the culprits were apprehended and taken into custody in the Tower. To them, I mean to be merciful. But Hastings was the architect of this treason. Him I could not spare. He had to be made an example to others.’ His thin lips were set; the prominent jaw jutted defiantly.
There was a brief silence.
‘What of the Queen and Mistress Shore?’ Anne asked.
‘The Queen remains in sanctuary; we know now why she will not come out. I will deal with Mistress Shore presently.’
An usher entered the hall and announced the arrival of the Lord Mayor.
‘Good,’ said Gloucester. ‘I summoned him here with all haste.’
Perspiring in his furred red robes and chain of office, the Mayor swept into the hall, bowing several times at the august company.
The Duke rose and extended his hand across the table to be kissed.
‘Madam,’ he addressed his wife, ‘may I present Sir Edmund Shaa. Sir Edmund, the Lady Anne, my Duchess. And my children, the Lord John of Gloucester and the Lady Katherine Plantagenet.’
The Lord Mayor bowed gallantly.
‘A plate for my Lord Mayor!’ the Duke called, inviting his guest to the board. Much honoured, Sir Edmund bustled into the proffered seat.
‘You will have heard how the traitor Hastings had planned to murder myself and my lord of Buckingham at this morning’s council meeting,’ the Duke said, ‘and that I acted just in time to save our lives. After we have dined, my Lord Mayor, I want you to ride through the City, if you will, telling the people of this foul plot against me.’ And he recounted again the grim events of the day, with Sir Edmund munching away and frowning ever more concernedly as the tale unfolded. Gladly he went on his way after dinner, to acquaint the citizens with the truth of the matter. And to back him up, the Duke sent his own herald to calm the mood of the populace by proclaiming Hastings’ execution, reading out a long account of his treason, and bidding the people be assured.
That evening, Kate noticed that Anne was quiet during the private supper they shared with the Duke in the great chamber. And he noted it too.
‘This day has been a great strain on you,’ he said to his wife, covering her hand with his. ‘No matter; the immediate danger has been averted.’
Anne looked up at him. Her expression was sombre, questioning.
‘Three things puzzle me, my lord, and I pray you to put my mind at rest, for it will not be stilled,’ she said, swallowing.
The Duke frowned. ‘What troubles you, Anne?’
The Duchess laid down her fork. She had barely touched her food.
‘You have not said how you learned of Hastings’ treason,’ she began.
‘I have my spies,’ he stated. ‘I have been aware for some time that he was working against me. Evidence was brought to me – evidence I could not ignore.’ His tone was defensive; Kate could see he did not like being called to account by his wife for his actions. And she did not blame him. Anne had been cool towards him all day. The relief she had obviously felt to begin with at his lucky escape had not been much in evidence later on. It was as if she was angry with him. Kate could not understand it.
The Duchess spoke again, as if with an effort. ‘You accused Hastings of treason. But against whom?’
‘You have been paying too much heed to my mother.’ Richard was clearly upset. ‘I am the Lord Protector, Anne. I am appointed to rule during my nephew’s minority, by the Council and by the will of my late brother. Any crime against me is a crime against the King and all the realm – and that is treason.’
‘Then my lady your mother had it wrong when she said that the law of treason does not extend to the Lord Protector?’
‘Yes!’ Richard was really riled now; his face wore a belligerent, injured look. ‘What is this, Anne? An interrogation? Who has committed a crime? Not I. It was my life that was in danger. I do not deserve this. Ask yourself what would have happened to the kingdom if those traitors had succeeded. It would have descended into faction fighting and civil war, as it did when my father justly contested the crown all those years ago. I am the only man who can hold it together and contain the troublemakers. Are you satisfied now?’
Anne nodded uncertainly. ‘I have only one more question,’ she persisted. ‘When I was out in the street today, I heard people saying that Hastings was executed suddenly, without judgement. One man told me he was put to death within minutes of his arrest. My lord, forgive my ignorance, but I thought that even the poorest subject of the King was entitled to justice and a fair trial?’
Kate shrank from her father’s expression. It was thunderous.
‘Yes, Madam, you are ignorant,’ he said scathingly. ‘Poor men are put on trial. Great lords can be tried by their peers or attainted by Parliament. And Acts of Attainder can be passed retrospectively. It seems to me, my lady, that you think me the villain of this piece, not Hastings. You seem to be insinuating that I executed a man without trial, on unsound grounds, and with no good evidence. Well,’ he concluded, rising to his feet, ‘I am touched by your faith in me. I know not what I have done to deserve this. It is bad enough to be deserted by a man I thought my friend – but to be thought ill of by my wife, who should be supporting me, is intolerable!’
He stalked from the table towards the stairs.
Anne fell to her knees. ‘My lord, forgive me! I beg your pardon. The news of the execution was shocking. I did not fully understand the circumstances.’ She was pleading with him. He looked at her impassively.
‘I wish you both good night,’ he said, and was gone.
Kate could not sleep. She lay fidgeting, her mind in turmoil, remembering that stark tableau on Tower Green. And when she did finally drift off, her dreams were of a soldier with a drawn sword, the final terror of a dying man, and dark blood soaking into the grass.
Katherine
July 1553. Baynard’s Castle, London, and Syon House, Middlesex.
It has been unbearably hot and thundery. Two nights ago there was a terrible storm, with raging thunder and hailstones red as clotted blood raining down. Harry and I, like most of the household, were unable to sleep, and as we moved from window to window, watching the tempest, we could hear our fearful servants warning that it was an omen.
The air has been thick with rumours. It’s even being bruited on the streets – and indeed, in the nether regions of Baynard’s Castle – that the King is dying, or even dead. It’s true, he has hardly been seen in public for weeks, but my father-in-law Pembroke was sanguine when Harry asked outright if his Majesty was ill.
‘No, he is recovering,’ he said. ‘He is able to walk in his galleries and gardens at Greenwich.’
But that’s not what Annie our cook says. I’m fond of Annie. I am often in the kitchens and larders with my lady, learning how to govern this household that will one day be mine, and Annie enjoys a familiarity and freedom of speech with the Earl and Countess that comes from long years of service and skill at her craft. She’s a dumpy, homely soul with a short temper and a sharp tongue, but beneath it all, she has a warm and true heart.
Not long after my exchange with the Earl, Annie went to visit her ageing mother in Deptford one Sunday, but got caught up in a crowd of Londoners converging on Greenwich Palace, whither – concerned by the prayers for the King’s recovery posted on church doors that morning – they had made their way, bent on demanding to see him.
‘Well, this gentleman came out and spoke to us,’ Annie recounts, surveying with evident satisfaction her avid circle of listeners in the great kitchen. I’d come to find something sweet to eat, and she had given me a piece of marchpane and bidden me stay to hear her tale. ‘He said we was to go home, because the air was too chill for his Grace to come out and greet us. But we stood our ground, and some folks spoke up and said we weren’t leaving until we had seen him. He went away, saying he’d see what he could do, and we waited and waited, and then suddenly the King appeared at a window above us.’
She pauses for effect. Her audience is riveted, and she is savouring keeping them in suspense. Such dramas do not often enliven the daily lives of servants.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I was that shocked. We all were. I mean, he was so thin and wasted. He had two attendants with him. I swear they were holding him up. You should have seen the change that come over that crowd. When the King waved and bowed to us, there were a few cheers, but you could tell most people was thinking the same thing. And when he’d gone, men were saying he was doomed. Well, you could see it, plain as day. Poor little King.’ She dabs her eyes with her apron.
I hasten away to tell Harry.
‘I thought there was something badly amiss,’ he says, taking my hand as we stroll in the brilliantly blooming gardens with Sanders keeping a respectful distance. ‘His Majesty has not set foot outside his palace for ages.’
‘But he is so young – not much older than I am,’ I comment sadly.
‘Death strikes young and old alike,’ Harry observes. ‘We should live our lives to the full, and dread God. Heavens, I am beginning to sound like my parents!’ But his smile touches his lips only. ‘What worries me is what will happen when the King dies,’ he says, lowering his voice – there are gardeners scything grass nearby. ‘The next in line for the throne is the Lady Mary. She is a staunch Papist.’
