The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  I was too late. Clustered by the gate were the grooms and servants who had been left behind. I saw my mother too, her red hair loose and blowing like a flag in the breeze, her dignity gathered about her as befitted the lady of Ravensworth. The steward, Grimshaw, and the captain of the guard were both paying stiff attendance to her. They knew who ruled here. And away over the hills to the west I saw a line of horsemen flying the FitzHugh standard, bright azure blue and gold, as sunlit and hopeful as the early morning sky. I blinked away tears of frustration and disappointment. My father had left without saying goodbye to me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  It was Francis who had come upon me. I did not want him to see me crying.

  ‘He left without saying goodbye,’ I said foolishly, scrubbing the tears away. ‘How could he?’

  To me it was the most heinous crime for I worshipped my father and thought that his love for me was identical to mine for him. I could not comprehend that I might get lost within the vastness of his other concerns. It was a shock.

  Francis sighed. ‘He will be back.’

  I turned on him fiercely. ‘How do you know? He is in rebellion against the King. He might die.’

  Francis looked at me properly then. The gangly youth I had first met five years before was starting to fill out his frame and look like a man. It occurred to me that had he been a year or so older, father would most certainly have taken him with him as one of his esquires. His grey gaze was clear, and, I thought, kind in the face of my hopeless attempts to hide my grief. He put a hand on my arm and drew me gently away from the curious gaze of the servants and men at arms.

  ‘Here…’ There was a corner of the courtyard where the early sun cut through the battlements and warmed the stone. He took off his cloak and made a cushion for me to sit. They were closing the gates now, and I shivered. For all the physical reassurance provided by the wall and towers of Ravensworth, I did not feel safe. The lynchpin of my security was gone.

  ‘You knew about the rebellion.’ Francis settled beside me. He had the hard cobbles to sit upon but showed no discomfort. ‘I did not realise you were aware of it.’

  I cast him a look of contempt, made unkind by my misery. ‘I am not a child,’ I said, although manifestly I was. ‘I know that my kinsman Warwick has fled abroad and thrown in his lot with the old King Henry and his faction, and that there is to be a great uprising here at home to persuade the King Edward to renounce his evil Woodville counsellors and restore the Earl to favour.’

  ‘And that is what will almost certainly happen,’ Francis said. ‘The last part, at least. No blood will be shed. It is all a game – Lord Warwick will be restored to power and your father will come home.’

  ‘Just because that is what happened last time does not mean it will happen again,’ I argued. ‘If it is a game, it is one of the most dangerous kind. Surely the King must chafe against these constant challenges to his authority? I know that I would were I him. Even the ties of respect and family loyalty will break one day.’

  Francis looked at me now as though I had surprised him. Perhaps he thought I was too young to have such opinions or too female to express them. If that were the case, I thought, he had learned little in his year with us at Ravensworth. My mother had opinions, ideas and plans. Her daughters followed her example.

  ‘What?’ I said tartly. ‘Did you think I have no mind to think on such matters?’

  Francis laughed. ‘I think you are as clever as the rest of the Nevilles,’ he said, ‘and may very well grow to be equally as dangerous. You have a better grasp of such matters than commanders five times your age.’ He tilted his head to one side and looked at me, really looked at me as a person now, not a child. ‘How old are you, Anne?’ He asked. ‘Ten? Eleven?’

  As he was my husband, he should have known the answer to that but I let it pass.

  ‘I am almost eleven,’ I said, ‘and I know things because I watch and listen. I think on things. It is not a pastime reserved for men.’

  ‘It’s uncommon,’ Francis said. Then, with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, ‘In anyone, man or woman. We would all be spared a great deal if men thought first and acted second.’

  ‘Or if they aired their grievances openly without threat or blame,’ I said.

  ‘Now you ask too much,’ Francis said wryly. He half-turned towards me and settled his shoulders more comfortably against the stone of the wall. ‘You are right, of course,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later the King will tire of Lord Warwick’s power games and then…’ He left the sentence unfinished but I understood what he meant. Sooner or later Edward would strike back with violence, not diplomacy. Let this not be that time, I prayed fiercely. Let father return home safe.

  ‘You must know Lord Warwick well,’ I said. ‘You were his ward. Do you like him?’

  Francis was silent for so long that I wondered whether he had not heard my question or more likely, chosen not to answer it. Eventually, though, he stirred and glanced sideways at me.

  ‘Your uncle is not a man you like or dislike,’ he said. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. ‘You have seen him,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean. He is either loved or hated, there is nothing in between. He dazzles people; his men adore him, as do the common folk hereabouts. That is why he can always command their loyalty. Gloucester says—’ He stopped abruptly, cutting off whatever he had been about to share. I watched him curiously. I knew that Francis had formed a close friendship with Richard of Gloucester, the King’s brother, when they had both been in Warwick’s household, forged from the same kind of loyalty and respect that had once bound the King and the Earl of Warwick.

  ‘The Duke of Gloucester says…’ I prompted and waited.

  ‘Gloucester says that the King will never be able to rule as he wishes whilst any baron has such power as Warwick,’ Francis said. ‘He says Edward must act now to finish this once and for all because Warwick made Edward and will never accept any loss of power except at the point of a sword.’

  I looked down and swallowed hard. Francis covered my clenched hands with one of his. ‘That does not mean that harm will come to your father,’ he said.

  I knew he was trying to be kind and this time I accepted his comfort.

  ‘I fear for him,’ I said. ‘How could I not? And why…’ I swallowed the tears again. ‘Why would he rebel simply because the Earl of Warwick commands it? I thought we, his family, were more important to him than all else.’

  I pressed my back against the sun-warmed stone of the tower and closed my eyes, tilting my face up to the breeze. It carried the scent of heather from the moors. It would have been quite lovely had we not been locked inside the castle, like rats in a trap, and had I not wanted to cry for what I saw as my father’s betrayal.

  ‘When you belong to a great family such as the Nevilles,’ Francis said, ‘matters of loyalty and statecraft are forever in the balance.’ He shifted a little closer to me. ‘It will define your life, Anne,’ he said, ‘as it has done your mother’s. She is a Neville first and your father’s wife second. Her loyalty is to her brother ahead of the King. As for your father, he knows his place is to support her and her kin before all else.’

  Father put that loyalty ahead of his own children, I thought. He put Lord Warwick before his allegiance to the King. To me that felt wrong and I knew that the sting of it would stay with me for ever. In that moment I swore that if there were a child needing my protection, their needs would be more powerful than any other force in the world.

  ‘The way that men’s allegiances shift and bend confuses me,’ I admitted. ‘It is a great thing to be loyal to one cause, I believe, but what if it is the wrong one?’

  ‘In the end,’ Francis said, ‘you answer to your own conscience – and to God alone.’ His tone lightened. ‘Your father and I,’ he said, ‘are in very similar situations, both of us are mere barons married into a powerful dynasty.’

  Despite my unhappiness I gave a splutter of laught
er. ‘You will be a rich man one day, Francis Lovell! You will be loaded with titles when you come fully into your inheritance. You are no mere baron.’

  Francis did not join me in my laughter. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I wish I were.’

  It was the first time I had seen the matter from his perspective. In my mother’s family it was a given that ambition, money and status were to be celebrated. They were the glittering prizes. They were the reason my uncle would never relinquish his power by choice. Francis, though, had never been asked what he wanted. From the earliest age he had been manipulated, married off to me to bring more wealth and influence into the Neville family and tie another man to our dynasty’s cause. I could scarcely be surprised that Francis, more man than boy now, might chafe against his position and consider where his loyalty should lie.

  ‘What would you have done?’ I asked, on impulse. ‘If you were older – old enough to fight – would you be riding out now with my father? Would you support his cause?’

  He did not hesitate. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I would not.’

  I was shocked. He had been Warwick’s ward, then come to live amongst my family here at Ravensworth. Surely his first loyalty must be to us?

  ‘I gave my oath to serve Gloucester years ago,’ Francis said, with the ghost of a smile, seeing my disapproval plain on my face. ‘When I was the same age that you are now, Anne. I will never break that allegiance, just as Gloucester will never break his to the King.’

  ‘George of Clarence has betrayed his brother the King,’ I said. ‘Why would Gloucester not do the same?’

  ‘Because not all men can be bought,’ Francis said, a little grimly. He stood up and extended a hand to help me rise. ‘Come, let’s take some breakfast. Everything always seems better after food.’

  I accepted his hand and scrambled up, reaching for his cloak and dusting the dirt and moss from it before I passed it back to him. He tucked my hand through the crook of his elbow and it felt good to let it rest there, a small flicker of warmth to ward off the hurt of my father’s actions.

  The bustle of the great hall, the familiarity and smell of hot food also went some way to ease my unhappiness. Mother presided from the top of the table, and though there were fewer people and conversation was muted and heavy, the air of purposeful activity was very much as usual. We took our cue from her, calm and dignified in the face of all danger and uncertainty. She acted as though it was nothing that her husband and her brother were in open revolt against the King and so, under her firm hand, the tension eased a little.

  Some five days later, I was with mother when a messenger burst through the castle gates, bespattered with mud and smelling high of horses and sweat. I had been learning how to preserve dried apples in honey, and my fingers were still sticky with it when we heard the commotion of galloping hooves and men shouting. My mother looked up, sharp as a hunting dog scenting danger, and swept me out of the stillroom and into the courtyard, where Grimshaw came panting up to us:

  ‘News from London, madam. The King’s army marches on the North against your husband.’

  To me, London was as remote as Calais or Scotland. I had travelled little beyond Yorkshire but I knew of course that all great matters emanated from London. I looked up at my mother’s face and in that first second, before the words sank in and I felt the familiar clutch of fear for my father, I saw her expression. There was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. She looked pleased.

  A moment later, I wondered if I had been mistaken. ‘That is ill news indeed,’ she said, raising her voice a little so that everyone in the yard could hear her. ‘Send word to warn Lord FitzHugh at once. See that the messenger is fed and watered and then send him in to speak with me privately.’

  She walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the courtyard wondering whether I should follow in her wake. Already word was rippling outward, spreading though the corridors and chambers, men and women coming running to hear what news the messenger had brought. I traipsed slowly through the crowd, unnoticed, still puzzling over what I had witnessed.

  The King was marching against my father’s army and my mother had appeared glad. Then a second later she had declared it ill news. Had I misread her expression? Had I misunderstood? I could not make sense of it.

  I watched as the FitzHugh messenger came out to take word to my father. He was in so great a hurry that he was still pulling on his jerkin as he leaped into the saddle, his horse’s hooves striking sparks from the cobbles in its eagerness to be away. The excitement in the yard swelled and rolled like the waves of the sea, dying away as the man rode off hell for leather. Grimshaw ordered everyone back to work sharply; people melted away.

  I let myself out of the postern gate and walked slowly down towards the river. It was quiet here but for the calling of the waterfowl. The sun rippled over the surface in dazzling bars of light. I washed my sticky hands and dried them on the skirts of my gown, then walked slowly back, head bent, towards the postern. I did not see the men until I had almost run straight into them – the master of the stables, the captain of the guard, and a groom, who was not in FitzHugh livery, leading another horse that was a great deal less showy than the first had been. Both man and horse were so plain in fact, that they would disappear against the dun of the hillside.

  I think I startled them. I heard the stablemaster swear and he shot out a hand to catch my arm but then the captain stopped him.

  ‘It is FitzHugh’s daughter,’ he said. ‘She’ll not betray his cause.’

  The stablemaster released me and gave me an enormous wink. ‘Nothing to see here, little maid,’ he said, and the esquire swung himself up onto the horse and rode away softly, keeping in the shadows of the overhanging willows, tracing the course of the river until he was out of sight, heading east, towards the coast.

  The men wandered back to the stables as though I had been dismissed, forgotten, my silence assured, and I was left to walk back alone. I plucked the dry grasses from beside the path, shredding them through my fingers as I walked, thinking on all that I had seen. One messenger had left with a full fanfare, another in secrecy. What did it mean?

  As I stepped back inside the yard via the postern gate, Francis fell into step beside me.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘There has been a messenger from London—’

  ‘I know,’ I said briefly. I stood on tiptoe and put my lips to his ear. ‘I need to speak to you,’ I whispered. ‘In secret.’

  His brows went up in surprise at my tone but he nodded. ‘All right.’ He took my hand. ‘Your mother summons us all to the great hall. She is to address the whole household. After that we may talk.’

  This was very serious, I knew. A summons to all the occupants of the castle only happened in times of war or grave danger. I could feel my nerves tighten as I contemplated what my mother might say. The King’s army was marching from London, that much I knew. What might that mean for us here at Ravensworth? The nobility of England had been fighting since I was born but now that battle had come directly to my door and I was afraid.

  Joan and Frideswide came running to join us and we all piled into the hall. My mother stood on the dais looking every inch a Neville as she dominated the room. She held up a hand to quell the babble and command silence.

  ‘I have news of my husband and your lord,’ she said. ‘His men hold Carlisle fast against the Earl of Northumberland’s force.’ There were a few ragged cheers at that, which she allowed with a smile before continuing: ‘We have word today, though, that King Edward’s army is marching north and has almost reached Doncaster. The situation is grave. We do not know whether he intends to join forces with Northumberland, or come here to Ravensworth. We must be prepared for a siege.’

  The mood changed in an instant, a low muttering running through the room. I felt Francis stiffen beside me and tugged on his arm. ‘What does this mean?’ I whispered. ‘Does the King plan to take Ravensworth in revenge, whilst father is absent?’

  Francis s
hook his head. His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘The King does not make war on women and children. Like as not he will cross over to the west and come up upon Carlisle to engage your father’s troops.’

  I shuddered. ‘Then there will be a battle?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Francis said, and he was frowning.

  I felt sick. Either way, the threat was real now. I loved my father and knew he was a good soldier. He might be holding Carlisle against the Earl of Northumberland, but the King was a different matter. Edward was a talismanic leader. Surely, he would not lose.

  The hall was growing noisier, voices rising as men discussed the news. Mother let it run for a moment and then asserted her authority effortlessly, raising her voice again above the confusion.

  ‘I have sent a messenger to warn Lord FitzHugh,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, we must prepare ourselves. You know what to do. Send word to the villages to be ready to bring everyone within the castle walls. Fetch fresh supplies. Grimshaw will direct you. Go with God and with my gratitude.’

  They were cheering her again and she looked like a heroine, tall and proud, her eyes burning with the cause, with love and loyalty. Grimshaw bustled forward with a huge ledger and a self-important air. I took advantage of the surge forward to tug on Francis’ arm and inclined my head towards the door.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He followed me out into the corridor and I grabbed his hand, pulling him along until we came to a small chamber off the tower stair. I ducked inside and closed the door. It was cold and bare in there but at least we were alone. Privacy was almost unknown at Ravensworth.

  Francis was looking amused. ‘What is this all about, Anne?’