Anyway, I like my maze: it protects me from the importunate pleadings of my brood of children, legion of relatives and all the other hangers-on. Oh, yes, there's another reason – during my days at the court of Europe I became the sworn enemy of certain secret societies. I may have grown old but I still guard against the soft footfall of the assassin so I feel safe in my maze. No one can get near me and no one can eavesdrop. And if the weather changes and I cannot smell the perfume of the roses or listen to the liquid song of the thrush, I shelter in my secret chamber. After all, my memoirs are meant for posterity, not for the listening ear of some secret spy.
But don't worry, I'll confess all to you. I am going to give you your fill of Murder, but I must get it right. Go back down the years to tell my tale. Trust me, I really will try to tell the truth…
Chapter 1
I was born, so I tell my family – the offspring of my five wives – at a time of terror when the great Sweating Sickness swept into London, moving from the hovels of Southwark to the glories of Westminster Hall. All were culled: the great and the good, the noble and the bad, the high and the low. That was in the summer of 1502 when the Great Killer's father, Henry VII, reigned: lean-faced, pinch-mouthed Henry Tudor, the victor of Bosworth, had seven years left to live. I could tell you a few stories about him – oh, yes. He killed Richard the Usurper at Bosworth and had his torn, hacked body thrown into a horse trough at Leicester before marching on to London and marrying the Usurper's niece, Elizabeth of York. I once asked the present Queen, God bless her duckies, who killed the princes in the Tower? Was it their uncle, the Usurper Richard, or her grandfather Henry Tudor when he found them alive in the Tower? She shook her head and raised one bony finger to her lips.