A Dangerous Inheritance Read Online Free PDF Page B

here—their pockets no doubt lined with bribes—the city fathers had been persuaded to press Richard to accept what they were so humbly offering.
    There is someone in the gallery looking down on us: a man in dark clothing, I think, although he is in shadow. It’s a servant, no doubt, standing still and silent, awaiting his master’s pleasure or—more likely—sneaking a peek at me, his future mistress. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, although the earl, the countess, and Harry ignore him. My mother would have reprimanded him for staring at us so insolently,and told him to lower his eyes when his betters passed. But maybe not all masters and mistresses are as particular as my mother.
    Tonight, there is little time to stand and admire this magnificent hall where history was made. It grows late, and Pembroke is leading us onward, as his servants pull open the great double doors and light us through. We enter an antechamber; beyond, he tells me, are the private apartments of the family. There too, of course, will be the bedchamber we are to share, my young lord and I.
    “I have something of import to say to you, my children,” the earl says, turning to face us and regarding us intently. “Now heed me well …”
KATE
    April–June, 1483. Middleham Castle, Yorkshire;
    the City of London; Crosby Hall, London
    Katherine Plantagenet—known to all as Kate—looked up in surprise as a mud-spattered courier, smelling of horse sweat, ran into the great hall at Middleham, threw himself onto his knees, and presented her father the duke with a letter. It bore the seal of Lord Hastings, whom she knew was a trusted friend of her uncle, King Edward. Kate and her father were seated at the table, where they had been enjoying a game of chess. Her half brother, Edward of Middleham, was kneeling by the hearth, playing with his model soldiers, watched by her stepmother, the duchess, who was born Lady Anne Neville, daughter of the Earl of Warwick, the famous “Kingmaker” who had turned traitor to King Edward and perished on Barnet field. Kate’s brother John was out in the bailey, practicing swordplay with one of the sergeants. It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon, a rare opportunity for the Duke of Gloucester to spend time with his family, away from public affairs.
    Kate watched as her father took the letter and broke the seal. She saw his expression change as he read it, saw him lay it down and close his eyes as if he were in unbearable pain.
    “My lord?” The duchess half rose to her feet, her voice sharp.
    Richard of Gloucester turned to her, his face bleak and ravaged. “My brother the King is dead,” he rasped, almost choking with emotion.
    “Dead? Oh sweet Mary! No, he cannot be. He is but forty-one and in good health.” Anne was utterly shocked, and Kate could feel tears welling in her own eyes. She had met her uncle only twice, for he ruled England from Westminster or Windsor, but she had been impressed and charmed by the big, genial, pleasure-loving monarch who had kissed her most fondly on greeting, brought her thoughtful gifts—a wooden doll attired in cloth of gold, a ruby pendant, and even a dear little puppy—and taken time out from his important conferences with her father to talk to her and tell her jokes; and at dinner he had even passed her the choicest sweetmeats from his own dishes. He had little girls of his own, he’d told her: Elizabeth, Cecily, Anne, Katherine, and Bridget—lovely girls, the lot of them, and Elizabeth, the oldest and the most beautiful, was going to be Queen of France one day: it was all arranged. He’d spoken too of his pride in his sons, Edward, Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne, who was residing at Ludlow Castle on the border of his principality, being tutored in the art of ruling kingdoms; and Richard, Duke of York, a merry scamp if ever there was one, another like his father, if the King wasn’t mistaken. Kate had quickly warmed to her uncle, and often regretted that she