At the end of the passage, the lieutenant beckoned for me to follow him through an archway and down another, even longer passage. As I passed one door, I heard a man’s sob, low and broken.
It was that pitiful sound that robbed me of courage. My head swam, and I reached out to the wall to steady myself.
“Mistress Stafford?” called out the lieutenant, at the end of the passage, his hard young face empty of sympathy.
Bess squeezed my elbow. I thought about my uncle, the Duke of Buckingham. He’d impressed all with the dignity shown when imprisoned here, in the Tower. I forced myself to walk the rest of the way.
This cell was smaller and dimmer than my former quarters: rectangular, with a pointed-arched recess at the end, two narrow windows carved in the stone. A bare fireplace along one wall, a bed against the other. My nose and eyes burned from a strong smell. It was lye, used within the hour to scrub the floor and walls—they gleamed with damp patches.
“I will bring you dinner,” Bess murmured and left.
I peered out the window. My view was of a raised outer walkway along the top of the castle wall, an allure running between this tower structure and another. Beyond it, the massive stone wall, William the Conqueror’s wall, blocked out all. I could see nothing of the green.
“I have a request,” I said to the lieutenant, who stood near the door, impatient.
“Yes?”
“May I have papers and pen, to inform my family and the prioress of my order that I am confined here?”
“Sir William Kingston was clear that you should have no means of correspondence. He will see that all are informed.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said, my voice breaking. “May I not have books? I thought that prisoners were allowed books.”
The lieutenant hesitated.
“The writing of Thomas Aquinas?” I said quickly, before he made up his mind to deny me. “How could there be harm in that?”
“I can make no promises,” he said. “I will pass the request to Sir William.” And he left.
Moments later, Bess reappeared with a tray of food: bread and a large chunk of cheese.
That is when the singing came. It was faint but lovely: many voices, at least a hundred, raised in common song.
“Bess, is that a Te Deum?” I asked, wonderingly.
“Yes,” she said. “It is the court. The king ordered the Te Deum sung. That is where Lady Kingston and Sir William have gone. All those who serve the king were summoned to Saint Paul’s.”
“Why?”
She looked at me for a moment. “It is Queen Jane,” Bess said. “The child has quickened in her womb, and all must celebrate. The king is certain that this time he will have his son and heir. This wife will succeed . . .” her voice trailed off.
Where the others had failed. That was what I thought, what anyone would think. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, discarded after she could bear only a daughter. His second, the witch Boleyn, put to death when she could do no better.
Aloud, I said cautiously, “A prince would be a source of great joy for our kingdom.”
Bess nodded, but her eyes stayed troubled. Her shoulders sagged. That nervous, gossipy spirit of this morning had vanished. “Were you punished for allowing me to look out the window?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Lady Kingston cared only about the royal summons to Saint Paul’s. She was afraid Sir William would be held back here too late and they would miss it.”
“Then why are you so troubled?”
She shook her head. “I cannot tell you.”
“Please, Bess.”
She peered over her shoulder at the door, and then sidled close to me, to speak into my ear. “I heard what Sir William said to my mistress before they left for Saint Paul’s. The Duke of Norfolk told him that to catch you and your father in treason would be of great value to the king. That in so doing all the Staffords might finally be crushed and the crown made safer from challenge. If they could succeed in breaking you . . .” Bess fell silent.
“Go on.”
“Then there would be reward in it for the duke and for Sir William. The king would be grateful and be bound to give them lands.”
The voices of the court trilled higher on the final chorus of the Te Deum, the Latin words that give humblest thanks to God. The music slowly died away.
“Thank you, Bess,” I whispered. “I will say nothing. Please take