Mother was not impressed. ‘It takes more than a royal presence to turn this place from pigsty to palace,’ she murmured to me as she approached the dais. She gestured to us to fall in line behind her, a train of children following her as though she were the pied piper. I had wondered whether she would ask Francis to offer her his arm but now I saw that no one was going to be invited to share this moment with her. We were all acolytes, not equals.
Mother sank into the deepest curtsey as she approached the King and we all followed suit. Francis had given his stiffest bow. I sensed that he detested being tarred with the rebels’ brush. I had never seen him look so grim. There was a moment of stillness and I saw Edward toss aside a chicken leg and wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, then he jumped down from the dais with as little formality as a boy, took my mother’s hand and raised her up.
‘Cousin Alice…’ He kissed her cheek. His smile was broad. ‘It is such a great pleasure to see you again.’
It was not the first time I had met Edward Plantagenet – we were distant cousins, after all – but it was the first time I had seen him since I was grown up enough to appreciate him as a king. He looked dishevelled and weary from the forced march north but there was about him a vivid energy that crackled like the lightning in the summer sky. He dazzled. It was hard to drag one’s gaze away.
‘Your Majesty…’ My mother kept her eyes cast down. I heard the quiver in her voice and would have sworn her hand trembled in the King’s. Glancing sideways, I caught Francis’ eyes and bit back a smile at the cynical twist to his lips. Such an accomplished act from my mother and such regal generosity from Edward. He drew her hand through his arm, patting it as she allowed herself to lean against him for support.
‘I fear the journey has overset you,’ he murmured. ‘It was thoughtless of me to ask you to come here at this time of year and in your condition. Forgive me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Have the fire made up, and food and wine brought for my cousin! I fear we are very rough here’ – he turned to her again – ‘but you light any hall with your beauty and presence, cousin. Come and sit by me.’
It was true that my mother was still a very good-looking woman and appearing as she did like a Madonna in the blue dress, she was well-nigh irresistible. We all watched as she graciously accepted a cushioned seat at Edward’s side. More torches were lit and the fire glowed; fresh food and drink was brought. She made sure that we were all shepherded close to the warmth as well: ‘My chicks,’ she referred to us sweetly to the King, and enquired after his own brood of children.
‘Lovell!’ Richard of Gloucester had ceded his place beside the King to my mother, and now came across to greet us. He smiled and nodded to me, but I could tell that he wanted to talk to Francis. It was more than a year since they had met. I could also tell that Francis was desperate for a sign of Gloucester’s forgiveness, for the recognition that this rebellion was none of his doing and anathema to him.
Gloucester was not as easy to read as his brother the King, a man – for he was a man now – who did not reveal his emotions easily. For a moment, as he looked at Francis, his gaze was unfathomable. Then he laughed and slapped Francis on the back.
‘Come and take wine with me. We need to talk.’
‘Your Grace.’ I could feel Francis’ relief. It did not surprise me when he turned away without a backward glance and the two of them walked off, talking and laughing together, whilst I was relegated to my place amongst the children.
As a result of our cousinly visit to Richmond, the King issued us with a royal pardon for our treason. Francis and I were included in it – as though we had had any say in my father’s rebellion – and though I knew it was for form’s sake in Francis’ case, I felt for him to be so tainted by association. Worse news was to follow, however. Just as we had anticipated, by the following month my uncle, Lord Warwick, had returned and forced Edward into exile. Old, mad King Henry was back on the throne. The Kingmaker had reclaimed his power.
Father also returned from exile in Scotland. He came back to a hero’s welcome. By now winter was pressing in over the fells and moors with a coating of hoarfrost on the bracken, muting the bronze and golds of autumn. It was a cold day as we lined up in the quadrangle to greet him. Our breath mingled on the air and I shivered inside my woollen cloak and slid my hand deeper into Francis’ warm grasp. I could not help but remember how different it had been when father had left, slipping away like a thief. Now he dismounted to cheers and slaps on the back; he kissed my mother heartily and then hugged Elizabeth, who squealed with pleasure. His gaze fell on me and I tried to smile and to show the same excitement as my sister but my smile felt stiff and forced. Father’s glance moved to Francis, who gave him the barest nod of acknowledgement.
‘Sir,’ he said.
The air around us seemed to chill further. I knew that Francis would never forgive father for the decision he had made to support Warwick and tar all of us with the brush of treason. More personally I knew Francis’ greatest bitterness lay in the fact that father’s betrayal had forced him to break his oath to Richard of Gloucester that he would always support the King’s cause. Even though Gloucester had proved at Richmond that he bore Francis no malice, the damage had been done.
Father registered Francis’ coldness with a raised brow. His gaze slid to our clasped hands and then he caught me up in his arms and swung me around, tugging me from Francis’ grip.
‘Are you pleased to see me, sweeting?’ He gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek, before placing me back on my feet.
‘Yes, father.’ I could sense both excitement and anger burning in him. He was not going to allow a mere boy to show him disapproval. Father slid an arm around me, drawing me away, towards the rest of the family, away from Francis, ostentatiously shutting him out. When I looked back over my shoulder, Francis had gone.
King Edward was not a man to stay long in exile. Within six months he had returned to take back his kingdom. At Barnet, in the thick mist of mid-April, both my Uncle Warwick and his brother Montagu were killed. Two weeks later Edward had defeated the Lancastrian forces again at Tewkesbury and was once more undisputed king.
Mother was in deep grief for the loss of her brothers, but I never once saw her cry. Her anger and sadness glittered behind her eyes, sharp as a whetted sword. We trod even more softly that spring. The atmosphere at Ravensworth was rancid, like a curdled pudding. Father lived in fear of the King’s retribution for his part in Warwick’s rebellion and had been working secretly to try to secure safe conduct for us all back to Scotland. One morning, I overheard the most terrible argument between my parents – raised voices in the solar as I was about to go in – and instead I skulked in the corridor outside, like a spying servant.
‘You may run away and hide if you wish!’ Mother was shouting. ‘I’d rather rot in prison than beg reluctant charity from King James of Scotland!’
She might as well have added that she was a Neville and they ran towards danger rather than away from it.
‘Your mind is addled with Neville arrogance,’ father bellowed back. ‘Stay here, then, and see what clemency the King shows you this time!’
I pressed myself back against the wall and clung there as though Ravensworth’s solidity could give me comfort. The rough stonework scored my fingers. The solar door slammed open and father strode out, swearing under his breath. He almost passed me without noticing but at the last moment he stopped. The angry light in his eyes frightened me for it looked murderous. He blinked as though for a moment he had no idea who I was. Then:
‘Anne.’ He dropped down beside me. The harshness had gone. He looked the same as he had always done, rugged, dependable, the solid core of my life.
‘Sweetheart.’ He put an arm about me and drew me close. The familiarity, warmth and reassurance enveloped me. I so wanted matters to go back to how they had been before the rebellion then; I wished it fiercely, with all my heart.
‘I am going away,’ father said. ‘It will not be for long. Yo
u will all come to join me soon.’
I clutched at his shirt. I knew what I had overheard and it was not this.
‘Will you not stay instead?’ I said. ‘Please? For me?’
He laughed. There was an edge of bitterness to it. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘I would if I could, but it is not possible. I’m sorry, Anne.’ He pressed a kiss in my hair. ‘I shall think about you every day,’ he said. He put me from him, straightening up. ‘Be good for your mother and I will see you all soon.’
They were his last words to me. His world was vast, full of heavy matters, of power and politics and action. My ten-year-old world was so small in comparison and he occupied so much of it. Perhaps he did think of me every day or perhaps he never thought of me again. I do not know. I do know that from that moment forward, I missed him dreadfully. I ran away to hide in a corner of the stables to cry. It was the only place I could find that afforded me any privacy and even then, one of the grooms appeared, whistling, and I had to run away again. Eventually I took refuge in my room, pleading a headache. By now the whole castle had heard that my father planned to leave for Scotland again, and the atmosphere was tight with tension as though there were iron bands about the walls squeezing the breath from us all. Men walked silently and breathed lightly for fear of what might happen next and I pulled the covers over my head and refused to come out.
It was late afternoon when Francis came to find me. I had taken no food which may have been the indication he needed that the situation was desperate indeed. He strode into the bedchamber and pulled the covers off me. I gave a squawk of outrage.
‘Get up,’ Francis said. He looked unusually severe. ‘This is not like you, Anne. You are made of sterner stuff than this.’
I surprised myself with a watery giggle. ‘You look so strict,’ I said. ‘What will you do if I refuse? Order me as my husband?’
For a moment Francis looked taken aback, then he laughed too. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he said.
‘I shall save you the trouble,’ I said. I slid from my bed. It had cheered me a little to see him and suddenly I wanted to be out breathing the fresh air.
‘May we go outside?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be within walls whilst everyone laments my father’s departure.’
Francis’ jaw set more squarely. I knew he wanted to criticise my father but he merely nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.
We went to the mews where the falcons were kept and he showed me the Lanner that had been a gift from the Duke of Gloucester. It was a beautiful, fierce creature with pitiless yellow eyes and slate-grey wings.
‘When you are old enough, we will get you a Merlin to fly,’ Francis said. ‘Would you like that?’
I assented but not with a great deal of enthusiasm. I felt as though all my happiness had been squashed out of me. ‘So, your friendship with Gloucester is repaired,’ I said. ‘I am glad.’
Francis’ lips twisted. ‘I doubt your father’s latest action will endear him to the King and Gloucester any more than his rebellion did,’ he said. Then: ‘I am truly sorry, Anne. I know you love him.’
‘I thought he was a great man,’ I said forlornly, ‘only now I see he is no more than a coward.’
Francis put the bird carefully back on its perch and stripped off his glove with equal deliberation before he turned back to me. ‘Come and sit here with me,’ he said, taking my hand and leading me over to the bench along the wall. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘People are imperfect,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they will not live up to the expectations we have. Sometimes they will fail us utterly.’ There was a darkness in his eyes as though he was looking back into the past and I realised he was not speaking of my father but of his own, the man who had shown his wife and children nothing but cruelty. I felt ashamed then, for my father had never physically hurt us and had only deserted us because my mother had refused to go with him. We had never had to bear the pain of his violence.
‘You will not disappoint me,’ I said, still childish in my certainty. ‘You will never fail me.’
Francis looked at me sideways. ‘You cannot know that,’ he said. There was a self-deprecating smile on his lips. ‘I am very far from perfect.’
He stood up abruptly as though he did not want to confront those imperfections. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is almost time for supper. I hear there is to be sturgeon tonight.’
‘I don’t like the bones,’ I said, and he laughed.
‘Would you rather have pottage with the babies?’ he asked, pulling me to my feet and I laughed too for he was right in that I was still very much a child, though on the cusp of changing. He held me for a moment, his gaze searching my face, and then he released me.
‘You’ll grow up soon enough,’ he said lightly, and nothing could have emphasised more the gap between us. It felt as though his four years forever gave him the advantage on me and I was running to catch him.
One day, I thought, that would all change. But for now, there was supper and if I did not care for the sturgeon then the cook would give me pigeon pie instead, because I was his favourite.
We flew the Lanner almost every day of the next two weeks, under the watchful eye of Henzey, the falconer. Henzey was rough in manner with people but gentle with the birds. The Lanner, whom Francis had named Astor, watched him with its fierce yellow eyes and recognised his authority. It returned to the lure every time. Francis, too, had a natural skill for the sport. He and the bird seemed to understand one another.
As I watched Astor climb into the fresh blue sky of spring, a tiny speck against the pale horizon, I think I sensed that this was the last of my time to spend with Francis, at least for now. With father gone there was every reason for the King to give Francis’ wardship to another noble so that he might complete his education. So, when the messenger arrived to summon Francis to court, I was not surprised and I hid my grief so well I think no one knew.
Francis came to see me before he left. He was already cloaked and booted for the journey and looked very fine. He also looked like a man – for that was what he was now – who could not wait to begin a new adventure. There was an energy and excitement that blazed from him. He could barely wait to go and I wondered whether it would always be my fate to wait behind.
‘I am to go to Ewelme,’ he told me, ‘to join the household of the Duke of Suffolk. He holds my wardship now.’
I had already heard as much, though not from Francis himself. Gossip spread as swiftly through Ravensworth as a fever did; we had all known from the moment the messenger had arrived.
‘It is a good choice for you,’ I said. ‘The Duke is a thoughtful man and a learned one.’
‘He is also brother-in-law to the King,’ Francis said.
I smiled, unsurprised that it was proximity to the centre of power that appealed to him for the opportunities that it would offer. In only a few years’ time, Francis would come of age. I knew that he burned to take possession of the estates that were his and that the more powerful allies he could gain now, the better. There would be no more association with rebel households and attainted traitors. Francis could fulfil the loyalty he had promised to Richard of Gloucester years before.
‘Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘it is Duke John’s discretion that is a good model to follow whilst you complete your studies.’
Francis’ eyes lightened with an answering smile. ‘You are so wise, Anne,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I forget quite how young you are. I will miss your good counsel.’
It was a compliment of sorts but it also reminded me that he saw me as a friend, a sister. I was still too young for him to see me as a wife. One day… I told myself again, and hoped it were true. I almost asked him not to forget me, but pride held me silent. I didn’t even ask him to write, for I knew he would not.
‘I wish you Godspeed,’ I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘Until we meet again.’
I watched him ride off, and I thought of the falcon rising higher and higher into the blue of the sky. It might c
ome back, or it might vanish for ever.
Chapter 9
Serena
Oxford, Present Day
The interview room at Thames Valley Police in St Aldates, Oxford, had no windows and was brightly lit in an artificial imitation of the sunny day outside. Despite the determined fluorescent lighting, Serena found it bare and chilling in its functionality. She took the seat that was indicated, a hard, plastic chair that looked as though it had been borrowed from a primary school classroom.
‘Thank you for coming in, Miss Warren.’ The police officer leading the investigation into Caitlin’s death, who had introduced herself as Inspector Litton, had a cool, emotionless manner and disconcertingly light blue eyes. She sat opposite Serena, behind a substantial desk. ‘We thought you would like to be apprised of the progress of the investigation into your sister’s death.’
‘Of course,’ Serena said, thinking how rare it was for any real person to use the word ‘apprise’ in conversation. ‘Thank you.’
‘Our deepest condolences,’ put in the sergeant. He was lean and lanky, with an expression like a sad spaniel, and he paced the room behind Serena. She could hear the repetition of his footsteps but could not see him; she wondered if this was designed to intimidate her, which it didn’t, though it was irritating. He had shaken her hand firmly, told her he was called Ratcliffe, and given her a disarming smile but it had done little to put Serena at ease. The place, the situation, the ghastly reality of Caitlin’s death, made her feel as though her nerves were as tensely wound as a violin string.
‘I’m afraid it’s still not possible to say at this stage how Caitlin died,’ Inspector Litton said, ‘although it seems that there may have been foul play. There was a broken bone in her neck but we’ll know more when further tests have taken place. At the moment, we’re treating the death as unexplained.’ She opened the desk drawer and took out a fat brown folder, resting her right hand on it. Serena noticed her neat manicure and the very large diamond ring on her fourth finger. She wondered if it was a relic of a broken engagement and, as an afterthought, whether Inspector Litton was right-handed in which case the ring would surely get in the way when she was writing.
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