A Dangerous Inheritance by Alison Weir Page B

is in their grasp. He would find a way, make no mistake about it! Force her into a nunnery probably, or shut her up, like he did her mother.”
    “What did you say?” Thomasine nearly squealed.
    “The old Countess of Warwick. My aunt said he seized all her lands and lured her out of sanctuary at Beaulieu. Then he had her brought here, and locked her up in a tower. He had Parliament pass an Act declaring her legally dead, so that he could keep her lands.”
    Kate was outraged. How dare they speak of her father so! She reared up in her bed and took pleasure in seeing their faces aghast in the candlelight.
    “If I reported you, you could be whipped for what you have just said, or worse!” she warned, her voice icy. “The duke my father loves his wife. I should know, and I will hear no more! And my grandmother is not locked up: she wanders in her mind, and is cared for by a servant,
and
she goes out sometimes. So get your facts right before you spread evil gossip! Now can we get some sleep?” And with these words, she turned over and presented her back to them.
    Yes, her father loved his wife. Of course he did. She had been wrong to doubt it. And all this talk of dispensations was nonsense, for the duchess had borne him an heir, and even if she hadn’t, it would surely never have occurred to him to put her away.
    But how could she really know the truth of it? Kate wondered. No one could be privy to all the secrets between husband and wife. And she was no longer as naïve as she had once been. She knew that her father had not always been faithful: John was the living proof. And she remembered that there had been some dark mystery, and muttered innuendos, about Isabel Burgh, who had lodged in the household for two years as Edward’s wet nurse and now lived over Knaresborough way. Was Isabel John’s mother? She had never believed it. Isabel had been as correct in her conduct as any servant could be, and Kate had never once seen her lift her eyes to the duke or show any interest in him. And she was not the kind of woman one could imagine inspiring lust: in fact, as Kate recalled, she was rather plain.
    But she’d heard that Isabel Burgh had a sister, Alice, who had once worked as a chamberer to the Duchess Anne until, suddenly, she left. Later, she had been appointed wet nurse to the son of the Duchess of Clarence. Over the years, Kate had become aware that voices became even more hushed and secretive whenever Alice Burgh’s name wasmentioned; there had been gossip—quickly but belatedly silenced when Kate appeared—about the duke awarding the woman a pension, and she had deduced that Alice Burgh left her employment some months before John was born. Could it be that Alice was his mother? That would explain many things.
    If so, she reasoned, John must have been the result of a passing fancy on her father’s part. Had it been more, matters between the duke and duchess would hardly have mended to the point where they could appear so contented together. And Kate had seen her father grip Anne’s hand and look at her with dark passion in his eyes as she stood at his stirrup in the courtyard at Middleham and bade him farewell.
    No, there was nothing wrong with their marriage, and the duke’s brief fall from grace had meant little. He was a sinner, like everyone else, and no one had the right to throw stones. His lapse made no difference to Kate’s feelings for him. He was her father, and she could not have loved and revered him more.
    As for her grandmother, that sad, feebleminded figure who lived in the southeast tower and rarely ventured out of it, the duke had given her a refuge. She could not manage her estates, he had explained, so it was better that he had charge of them. And it was clear that he had provided well for the old countess, for she was housed in good comfort, and provided with a servant and an allowance for her small pleasures, and sometimes Kate and the boys would visit her. But they never stayed long