‘Serena,’ Jack said. ‘It’s not how it seems. I’m very sorry. Look’ – he ran a hand through his hair – ‘can we go and get a coffee and talk this through? Please let me explain.’
‘No,’ Serena said. She knew she had to get away. She could feel her self-control held on the thinnest of threads, all the tension and emotion of the past few days suddenly piling in on her. She didn’t want to break down in front of Jack or Zoe, but particularly not Jack. The contrast between his calmness and the dangerous anger she felt inside was too stark and was fed by the knowledge that everyone, it seemed, knew more about Caitlin’s death and burial than her family did.
The hurt filled her chest and she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. ‘I’d rather not talk about Caitlin,’ she said. ‘Not to you. Not now, not ever. Goodbye, Jack.’
Chapter 4
Anne
Yorkshire, February 1465
My wedding took place at Middleham Castle on the Feast Day of Saint Valentine. I was five years old.
‘It could not be a more auspicious day!’ my nursemaid, Cicely, declared, as she and a number of the other women in the household prodded and pinned and sewed me into the gown that was to be my wedding dress. ‘The coming of spring – a day for love and romance! Keep still, mistress Anne, or this needle will prick you and draw blood, which will be impossible to clean off the gown.’
Cicely was only young, perhaps no more than sixteen years herself, though to me at the time that seemed ancient. She had cared for me since I had left the wet nurse and I loved her for her good nature and her kindness. Her talk of romance I ignored, for whilst the other girls whispered and giggled about men and love tokens, I had no interest in such matters. I knew that marriage for a Neville was about alliances not affection. Even so, I hoped that I would like Francis. I thought I probably would. He sounded nice.
I had been to Middleham Castle before, so my mother told me, but I had been too young to remember. Travelling now in winter – for the snow had yet to release its grip on the high fells – was an experience all in itself as the wagons and packhorses scrambled up over the moors, sliding through mud and ice, we children thrown around as much as the luggage in the carts. I longed to ride but was considered too young, though I had sat a horse from the time I was the smallest child.
‘You must travel by coach to your wedding,’ Cicely said, trying to make me feel important, but the truth was that as I bounced about in the ruts and ditches, I was of as little consequence as the rest of the baggage.
Richmond, which we reached early in the afternoon, was a busy market town with a castle that belonged to our cousin King Edward. Father wished to stop there to eat, and to water and rest the horses, but the castle was woefully in disrepair and mother turned up her nose at taking shelter there. The pale winter light was already fading and the frost was starting to set hard on the grass as she gave the order to continue on to Middleham. I heard father swear under his breath to have his wishes countermanded but he turned his horse to ride back and chivvy the wagon train to follow. People came out of the cottages and shops to watch us pass by, staring at the gaudy banners of FitzHugh and Neville, the packhorses with their stuffed saddlebags and their heaving sides, the men at arms on their powerful destriers. I clung to the sides of the wagon and stared back, drinking in the bustle of the marketplace where the scent of horse dung and sweet wines mingled with the cold air from the hills. I craned my neck, looking back as we went out through the town gate and the smoke and noise was left behind once again.
It was night by the time we arrived in Middleham. Our exhausted cavalcade dragged itself up the hill to the castle which crouched as a dark shadow against the moonless sky. Here though, unlike in Richmond, there was a brazier burning by the gate and soldiers stepping forward smartly to escort us inside. My uncle came out to meet us, which was a signal honour.
‘We had quite given you up for the night,’ he said lightly, kissing my mother on the cheek. ‘What can possibly have taken you so long?’
It was not a real question, more a barb directed at my father who flicked the dust off his sleeve and affected not to hear it. My aunt Anne, so richly garbed that she looked like a walking tapestry, then came forward to welcome us in her cool way. I was never sure whether she was unbearably proud or simply shy; despite the vividness of her gown she was like a shadow in the bright glare cast by her husband. Though the Warwick title and fortune had originally been hers, the glory and show was all his. Behind her bobbed my two cousins Isabel and Anne, both older than I and frighteningly grown up in my eyes; in the hierarchy of the Neville cousins they were so far above me that they would normally ignore me. Now, however, I was the bride and that required some small acknowledgement. They dropped polite curtseys and immediately backed away again, boredom etched on their faces. A moment later they were giggling together and turned their backs on us. My sister Elizabeth slipped her hand into mine and gave it a squeeze.
‘Prideful,’ she grumbled under her breath.
I smiled at her. We sisters all squawked and squabbled at home but we stood together against all comers, even our own family if they stepped out of line.
‘I think Anne is shy,’ I said in mitigation of my cousin.
‘What’s Isabel’s excuse?’ Elizabeth sniffed.
I wondered where Francis Lovell was. He had not come to greet me, which seemed rather discourteous when we were to marry in two days’ time, but perhaps he was still at his lessons. My uncle’s household was renowned for the education he gave his pages, everything from mathematics to music, Latin to the art of war. No doubt Francis would be fearsomely clever.
The conversation of the adults flowed around me and over my head and suddenly I felt very tired. The torchlight swam before my eyes – so many torches, illuminating every elegant and costly corner of my uncle’s domain. It felt as though we had stepped into a minstrel’s tale.
I yawned and gripped Elizabeth’s skirts to keep my balance as I swayed on my feet. My uncle noticed and broke off his conversation to sweep me up into his arms. He smelled strongly of wine and musk, very different from the comforting scent of my father.
‘The little maid is asleep on her feet,’ he said. ‘Let me show you to your chambers.’
I was so tired and hungry that all was a blur after that; being carried up a turret stair to a fine chamber warm with a fire and sweetly scented with fresh rushes; a basin of water to wash, a bowl of broth and some rye bread and cheese to blunt my hunger. I was already drowsing by the time I had finished, and then Cicely was there to put me to bed between sheets that smelled of lavender, and it seemed that although it was my wedding that we had come to Middleham to celebrate, I was the least significant person in the castle as I slid straight into sleep.
The following morning, I woke early. It was impossible to stay quietly in bed when we were in so strange and new a place; I could barely keep still let alone stay in my chamber. Cicely was sleeping in a truckle bed beside mine but she did not stir when I slipped from the room. I had made sure to climb out of the opposite side of the bed and to tiptoe away but I knew Cicely to be a heavy sleeper. She had also taken some wine the previous night. Her breath smelled of it and she was snoring, her mouth open.
I had always been a confident child – that Neville arrogance again – and though I had probably dressed myself somewhat haphazardly I had no second thoughts about setting out on my own to explore the castle. Indeed, I felt quite excited. The corridors bustled with people – servants, carrying steaming pails of water, others with fresh, sweet-scented rushes for the hall. A thin, hungry-looking clerk with a face like a hunting dog passed by deep in conversation with a self-important priest. An ample woman swept past me without a glance, a set of keys jangling at her waist. There were soldiers and huntsmen, chambermaids and scullery boys, there was the smell of cooking and the equally strong smell of animals. There was noise and colour and people who were far too busy to notice one small, quick and curious child as I climbed spiral stair
s and traversed sprawling corridors.
The castle was a warren and it was only by chance that I stumbled out of a door in the south range of buildings and found myself beside the tiltyard. I had heard that there was to be a tournament and joust to celebrate my wedding to Francis though no one had thought to ask me if that was the entertainment I preferred. They were already preparing the ground, erecting the barriers and building the pavilion for spectators. A group of tents mushroomed across the field behind the castle, accommodation for those knights and squires for whom there was no space in the castle. Grand as Middleham was, not everyone could be accommodated within its walls. The presence of the Earl had ensured that everyone who wanted advancement had flocked to the town. I wondered at their determination and ambition, to be prepared to freeze in the winter snows for a moment of my uncle’s attention.
Hardly any men were out in the yard in the half-light of a cold February dawn, however. I saw two knights practising swordplay over by the stables and a squire leading out a horse whose breath was clouding the frosty air. I almost missed the boy who was over by the archery butts releasing arrow after arrow into the target with a concentrated intensity that had something chilling about it in the cold morn.
Another boy emerged from around the side of the stables – more a young man, this, of fifteen or sixteen years. He looked vaguely familiar to me. He strode across to the butts and put a hand on the boy’s arm. I saw the tension tighten in the bow and the way the boy loosed the last arrow before lowering his arm and turning to his companion. There was a brief conversation then they walked slowly together towards the stables.
‘That is my brother Francis and Richard of Gloucester.’ A girl had appeared beside me, wrapped up tight against the cold in a gown and several shawls. Seeing her so cosily attired made me realise that my feet in particular were as blocks of ice. A few years older than I, she was tall and fair with the most expressive grey eyes I had ever seen. She watched the two boys out of sight and then turned to smile at me. ‘You are Anne FitzHugh, are you not? I am Joan Lovell. We were not introduced last night, which I think was a great oversight on Lord Warwick’s part, but I suppose he had more important matters on his mind.’
I tore my mind away from the memory of Francis Lovell sending arrow after arrow into the eye of the target which such concentrated intensity. ‘How do you do, Joan Lovell?’ I said. ‘They told me that you and Francis are twins.’
‘Yes,’ Joan said. Then: ‘I am the elder, of course.’
It explained, perhaps, her brisk air of organisation and the slightly protective way in which she spoke of her brother.
‘Francis is diligent in his practice,’ I said, ‘to be out at the butts so early on the day before his wedding.’
A faint frown wrinkled Joan’s brow. ‘Since our father died, all Francis has done is fight with sword or bow,’ she said. ‘He is angry and he takes out his feelings on the archery butts.’
This was not good to hear. ‘Why is he angry?’ I said.
Joan took my hand. ‘Why, you are so cold!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come inside; I will take you to meet my mother and sister, and we shall have some blackcurrant juice to warm us and I will tell you all about Francis.’ She drew me back through the archway and tucked my hand through her arm. ‘We are housed in the round tower,’ she said. ‘It is this way.’
I hung back, belatedly remembering that no one knew where I was. ‘I should go back,’ I said. ‘My nursemaid will be fretting over my absence.’
‘She was still asleep when I went to your chamber just now,’ Joan said, with a giggle. ‘I was looking for you to make your acquaintance,’ she added. ‘I told your mother that you would be with me, meeting your new family.’ She propelled me along the corridor, dodging the people heading in the opposite direction. ‘I am still finding my way,’ she said, chewing her lip as she checked which doorway, which staircase to take. ‘Middleham is much larger than Minster Lovell. It confuses me.’
‘It is larger than Ravensworth too,’ I said consolingly. ‘My uncle has to have a larger castle than anyone but the King.’
Joan giggled. ‘I like you, Anne FitzHugh,’ she said. ‘We shall be friends.’
‘Why is Francis angry?’ I repeated. ‘Does he not wish to marry me?’ It had not occurred to me that Francis would dispute the Earl of Warwick’s decision on our future any more than I would. He was the King’s ward; Edward had handed his knight’s training to Lord Warwick and with it his entire future. It was the order of things.
Joan stopped, pulling me into a dark corner beneath a spiral stair. It smelled queasily of a mixture of damp stone, latrines and ale. Not all corners of Middleham were as fragrant as my aunt might have wished.
‘It is not your fault, Anne,’ she said earnestly. ‘Francis hated our father. He was cruel and spiteful to us all, and we were helpless to resist him. Francis could not bear to see how he treated our mother but what could he do to protect us? And now mama is to marry again – so soon! – and Francis has been sent here and has been told he must wed you… He is acutely conscious of his powerlessness in all things and it angers him.’
I had never thought of a child’s situation in such terms before. I had accepted my marriage because it was common enough amongst the nobility to be wed at a young age, and it was precisely because I was so young that I had never questioned the way that we had no power. Children were moved like pawns on a chessboard, yet I could see that for a boy in particular, as he grew older, the lack of control over his own destiny might well be deeply frustrating. As for the thought that the late Lord Lovell might have been cruel to his family, that was also disturbing to me, with a father as indulgent and kind as mine. I felt suddenly as though I was on the edge of many dark ideas that I could not understand. I thought of the arrow thudding into the target, of the repressed fury in Francis’ frame, and I shuddered. I hated to think that I had a part, no matter how unwitting, in adding to his misery.
Joan squeezed my hand as though she understood. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It is better that you knew, for Francis will never tell you himself. He is very close with his secrets and confides in no one. And you must not fear’ – she sounded earnest again – ‘for he is the kindest of brothers and will, I am sure, be the kindest of husbands too.’
‘We shall not be living together for many years yet,’ I said, retreating in my mind to the safety of my familiar life at Ravensworth. ‘It does not matter.’
Nevertheless, I hung back a little as Joan led me up to the chambers she was sharing with her mother and her young sister Frideswide. Suddenly I was not so content for this marriage as I had thought.
It was easy, however, to distract me with pastries and warm blackcurrant juice. We sat before the fire, and Lady Lovell, who seemed a gentle and somehow faded woman, told me of Francis’ home at Minster Lovell in Oxfordshire. Frideswide, who was no more than a baby, sat on her mother’s lap and stared at me with her big grey eyes. Francis made no appearance and I wondered whether the first time I met him would be when we were standing before the altar tomorrow.
But no. I had drained my cup and was about to leave, when there was a rap at the door and a certain amount of bustle, which in my experience always heralded someone important. I wondered if my mother had come to retrieve me in person, or even if the Earl of Warwick himself had come to check on the comfort of his guests. Then the door swung inward and the room seemed to be invaded by men. They brought with them the smell of fresh air and leather, and a sort of purposeful feeling that suggested that their business was always so much more important than that of women.
Lady Lovell thrust the baby into the arms of a servant and stood up, smoothing her skirts.
‘Sir William—’ She sounded flustered. ‘You should have warned me you planned to visit—’
Joan pinched my arm. ‘It is Sir William Stanley,’ she hissed in my ear. ‘He is to marry mama.’
Stanley was not alone. Lady Lovell’s confusion only deepened when she saw that the King�
�s brother, Richard of Gloucester, was of the party and with him Francis, and any number of other young esquires from Warwick’s household. The scene in the room now reminded me of nothing so much as a fox getting in a henhouse as Lady Lovell scurried about to make her unexpected guests welcome. I was, once again, completely forgotten, at least until Richard of Gloucester pushed his way through the throng to find me.
‘Cousin Anne!’ He took my hand and kissed it formally. We were not, strictly speaking, cousins, but we were of course related, both with Neville mothers and that counted for everything.
‘My lord.’ I dropped my prettiest curtsey. I had not met Richard often but I liked him. He was not dazzling like his brother King Edward, nor arrogant without cause like his other brother George. He was quieter, more thoughtful. I remembered the way he had gone to find Francis that morning where he stood alone with his anger out in the cold of the archery butts. I was glad Richard had befriended Francis in his lonely exile here at Middleham.
‘You will be wishing to meet your future husband, cousin,’ Richard said, drawing Francis forward as though he had arranged this meeting specifically to please me. ‘What good fortune that we find you here.’
We stood looking at one another, Francis Lovell and I. I saw a thin boy with tousled fair hair that was a shade darker than Joan’s and whose face was just starting to lose the roundness of childhood. His eyes were the same grey as Joan’s too but whilst her gaze was so clear and warm, his was shadowed with something that made him look older than his years. I felt my heart contract, but not with fear, more with pity. Then, to my surprise, he smiled at me. I will never forget that smile. It banished the darkness from his eyes and lit his whole face.
The Last Daughter Page 5