The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘They wanted her to steal for them,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘The manor held a treasure of great worth,’ she said. ‘No one had seen it in generations, for it was locked away in a golden and jewelled box and men were forbidden to touch it for fear of releasing its power. It was said to be a relic of some sort and had been beloved of the ancient druids and revered by the great King Alfred himself. It held the key to knowledge and learning but it also held a darker power from a time before Christianity. It was also known to be closely guarded. Only someone who held the trust of the lord and access to the muniments room would have the chance to take it.’

  I shuddered at the dark spectre of the treasure’s power. ‘Yet the thief dared all to take it,’ I said. ‘She must have been brave.’

  ‘Or desperate,’ Ginevra said. For a second, I could have sworn I saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. ‘She had bargained her freedom upon it,’ she said simply. ‘She was a serf – a slave – and her sister the same. They belonged to the man who ran the gang of thieves. He told her that when she delivered the treasure to him, they would both go free.’

  This seemed to me a very dark and unhappy fairy tale, not a cheerful story for a wedding eve. I no longer felt warm and sleepy but cold inside and I wished she had not started it.

  ‘Did she succeed?’ I asked, hoping that the story would have a happy ending.

  ‘She did,’ Ginevra said. ‘When the guests became drunk on good food and wine a cry went up to play a game of hide and seek. That gave the bride the chance she needed. Quick as a flash she offered to be the one to hide.’

  ‘I like that game,’ I said. ‘If you are clever you can find a hiding place no one else will discover.’

  Ginevra looked at me. Her eyes were very dark and impossible to read. ‘Sometimes you may hide too well,’ she said, ‘and no one ever finds you.’

  ‘Then you win the game,’ I said.

  She laughed. At some point her hands had fallen idle and the click of the spinning wheel had died away to leave nothing but quiet in the room, broken only by the hiss and snap of the fire.

  ‘There are some,’ she said, ‘who say that that is what happened to the Mistletoe Bride. They say she hid in a wooden chest and that although the bridegroom and his guests hunted for her for days, she was never found. Only years later was her body discovered in the trunk, a sad and withered corpse dressed in the tattered rags of her wedding gown. That is the legend men tell on dark winter nights.’

  I shuddered again. ‘That would be harsh punishment,’ I said, ‘even for a thief.’

  ‘Those who tell that tale do not know the true story, of course,’ Ginevra said. ‘They do not know it was never the bride’s intention to hide, that she planned to steal the treasure and to run.’

  I was starting to warm to this thief who had the sense not to become trapped in a chest and the courage to try to free herself and her sister – even if her actions were morally dubious.

  ‘What did she do?’ I asked. ‘When the game of hide and seek started – what was her plan?’

  ‘First, she ran to the muniments room where the old books and documents were kept,’ Ginevra said. ‘There, she prised open the iron bars on the trunk where the treasure was stored for the wood was old and rotten and gave easily. Then she snatched up the golden box in which it lay, and then—’ She stopped. I was holding my breath and almost burst with frustration.

  ‘Yes? Did she open the box? Did she touch the treasure?’

  ‘You are impatient,’ Ginevra said, laughing. ‘No, she did not. She jumped into the muniments chest and hid away.’

  ‘So, she did hide,’ I said. ‘She became trapped in the box just like the story said.’

  ‘She hid only as long as it took for the groom and his men to hunt for her,’ Ginevra said, ‘and then when they set out to search through the snow, she climbed out of the box to make her escape.’

  ‘That was clever,’ I admitted, ‘and courageous.’

  Ginevra nodded. ‘Once the hue and cry had died down, she imagined that she might escape via the river. She stowed the golden box beneath her gown and crept through the silent house and across the snow-filled courtyard. There was a water gate in the wall and a boat tied to the staithe…’

  ‘She escaped by water!’ I said but Ginevra was already shaking her head. ‘Perhaps she might have done,’ she said, ‘had she not opened the box.’

  ‘She should not have done that,’ I said. I felt a sickness in my stomach as though this were a true story and not a fiction. I wished with all my heart that the Mistletoe Bride had not succumbed to her curiosity. Curiosity was dangerous.

  ‘The box was a beautiful piece of gold set with jewels,’ Ginevra said, ‘and would fetch a good price, but not enough to buy her freedom. So she looked within.’ She took a breath. ‘But when she saw what it contained, she thought she had been cheated, for the treasure was so small and plain a thing that it had to be worthless. She took hold of it, intending to cast it aside, but then she felt as though she was falling, far, far down through the dark, so far that she thought she would never step out again into the light. And when she did’ – Ginevra’s voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear her – ‘when she did, she was in a different place, in a different time.’

  ‘An enchantment!’ I said. ‘The treasure was enchanted, just as she had heard! She stole it and it took its revenge upon her.’

  Ginevra took a little golden pair of shears from her belt and cut the woollen thread. The snap of the blades sounded loud in the quiet room and, somehow, very final, as though she were drawing a line under the story and the Mistletoe Bride’s fate.

  ‘It did indeed,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘She has had plenty of time to repent of her crime.’

  ‘If the treasure had the power of enchantment,’ I said, ‘and had taken her to another time, could it not have taken her home again?’

  Ginevra looked at me. Her gaze was dark and inward-looking. ‘Many times she tried,’ she said. ‘She took hold of it and wished with all her heart to return to her sister, back where she belonged. But the magic the treasure possesses is old magic; it is not so easily bent to the will.’ She looked me straight in the eyes. ‘The treasure must be returned whence it came,’ she said. ‘I see that now. Only then will the circle be closed.’

  She picked up her box of wools and closed the lid dousing the brightness of the colours within. She stood, unhurried and graceful. ‘It is time for me to go,’ she said. ‘I have a commission for you, Anne Lovell. Return here in a half-hour and the treasure will be waiting for you. I want you to care for it. Take it to Minster Lovell when you go there. Take it back where it belongs.’

  She stooped to kiss my cheek and her lips were as cold as snow. I put out a hand to catch her sleeve. ‘Wait!’ I said. I wanted to ask her how she knew my full name, whether she was the Mistletoe Bride and so many other questions. But I was too late – she had gone. It was odd, but as soon as she left the chamber the fire seemed to dwindle and die to ash and the candles dim. The wheel sat silent, the cut thread trailing. A melancholy mood came over me then. For a little while, listening to Ginevra’s fairy tale, I had forgotten about Francis and the King’s plans for him, but now I felt downcast once more. Although I did not want to go back to the feast, I knew that by now mother would be seeking me and I had no desire to be upbraided by her.

  Slowly I got to my feet and wandered out into the corridor finding my way back to the great hall more by luck than judgement. To my astonishment, it was as though no time had passed at all, though it seemed to me I must have been closeted in that little chamber with Ginevra for an hour or more. The sweating pages still ran hither and thither with platters high with food, the wine still flowed and Francis was bowing politely to the lady the King had just introduced to him. He looked up, caught my eye and smiled, and then he excused himself and came down the room towards me, guiding me back to my chair and seating himself beside me.

  ‘I am sorry to neglect yo
u,’ he said. ‘I came back as quickly as I could.’

  ‘I thought that the King was proposing a new match for you,’ I blurted out, my indignation at Edward’s behaviour overriding my recent experience with Ginevra. ‘He seemed most anxious to acquaint you with that lady.’ I jerked my head in the direction of the girl who was now smiling charmingly as she was introduced to another young knight, like the tempting prize she was.

  Francis’ eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It gave his expression a warmth I loved. ‘Lady Jane Conyers,’ he said. ‘She is vastly wealthy, so I am told.’

  ‘And vastly pretty,’ I mused.

  ‘And already a widow who is a favourite with a number of gentlemen at the court,’ Francis said, even drier.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see. The King wishes to find her a husband…’

  ‘In repayment for services rendered,’ Francis said smoothly. ‘Alas, I could not help him. I pointed out to him that I already have a wife and am very content with her.’

  I looked again at Lady Jane and felt a flash of pity for her, bartered away when the King’s lust for her had been sated. She mattered nothing to Edward other than as a commodity to buy a man’s loyalty through warming his bed.

  ‘I commend your loyalty to me,’ I said a little stiffly. I wanted to ask if that loyalty also extended to him not taking a mistress, but I did not dare, did not really want to know the answer. I knew that Francis, at seventeen, was the same age that the Duke of Gloucester had been when he had first fathered a child. If I had no wish to think of Francis annulling our marriage to take a new wife, I was equally unhappy to contemplate him taking a mistress to while away the years until I could fulfil my wifely duties.

  Francis took my hand. It looked small in his, a child’s hand still. He turned it over and kissed my palm, closing my fingers over the kiss. ‘I will wait for you, Anne,’ he said. ‘I will always wait for you.’

  And now, at last, the feast was finally coming to an end and Gloucester and his bride were preparing to leave. The guests started to fragment into different groups, my cousin Anne’s ladies sweeping her from the room to prepare her for the bridal bed whist a more ribald party assembled around the Duke. Mother, evidently awakening to the way in which the night was sliding into impropriety, came over to take me away.

  She was in high spirits, having mended her fences with her cousins of York. ‘We are all of Neville blood,’ she told me, conveniently forgetting that one branch of the Neville family had risen against another not so long ago, ‘and kinship is stronger than all else.’

  ‘I am glad,’ I said, ‘for I feared that the King might look to overset my marriage to Francis.’

  She stopped then and caught me by the shoulders, turning me so that the light from the torches fell on my face. ‘You are very loyal to him,’ she said.

  ‘I love him,’ I said simply, and it was true, for I did love Francis. I pressed my fingers against my palm, feeling the imprint of his kiss there.

  ‘He has been a part of my life for almost as long as I can recall,’ I said. ‘I would miss him sorely if we were to be parted.’ My feelings were more complicated than a child’s affection whilst less than the emotions of a grown woman since I was still betwixt and between. One day soon though, I sensed, that love might grow and change.

  ‘No one can break the bond of marriage without your consent,’ mother said reassuringly. ‘You need have no fear. Nor would I ever permit that to happen.’

  She threaded her arm through mine as we resumed walking. ‘Gloucester’s marriage will strengthen our hand still further,’ she said. ‘He is a good friend to Francis and will reward him well. The Woodvilles will soon be in eclipse.’

  For mother, I thought, everything was measured out in ambition and achievement, and if it was at the expense of someone else, so much the better.

  ‘I met a servant who was tirewoman to the Duchess of Bedford this evening,’ I said, recognising that we were following the same corridor that I had trod earlier when I had met Ginevra. ‘She gave me sweet blackberry juice and told me a tale of a thief at a wedding.’

  Mother raised her brows. ‘You should not consort with Jacquetta of Bedford’s women, Anne,’ she said sharply. ‘Everyone knows that the Queen’s mother meddles in dangerous enchantments. Besides, when did you meet her? You were only gone from the feast for but a moment.’

  I was not really paying attention to her for we had reached the little chamber where Ginevra and I had spoken, and despite half-believing that it had been no more than a fairy story, I wanted to see if she had left the treasure for me to return to Minster Lovell. The door was wide, the room lit only by the flare and shadow of the torches without. There was no fire and no candles, no spinning wheel and no beaker with the dregs of my drink left in it. All had been swept away, vanished as though they had never been, and suddenly I felt tired, so very tired, as though I were awakening from a dream.

  ‘Perhaps I imagined it all,’ I said, staring blankly into the darkness. ‘Yet I was sure…’

  ‘You’re seeing ghosts,’ mother said indulgently, patting my cheek. ‘It’s time to sleep.’

  I was about to follow her when I saw on the bare mantel what looked like a black arrowhead. I picked it up. It was only about four inches long, with a small hole drilled through the slender shaft, and its surface was pitted and a little rough yet in the palm of my hand it felt smoother than silk.

  ‘What have you there?’ mother asked. Then seeing it was nothing of value: ‘You are like a magpie, Anne. Throw it away!’

  I looked at the arrowhead. Surely this was nothing but a piece of discarded old iron. Despite Ginevra saying that the treasure was small and insignificant I had been expecting something a little gaudier – the gold box studded with jewels, perhaps. I was very disappointed. Even so I tucked it within my bodice where the warmth of my skin warmed it too and it was lodged against my heart. When I undressed that night, I took it out and rolled it up in one of my smocks and packed it in my trunk for our return to the North.

  ‘It’s some sort of lodestone, Lady Anne,’ Crowther, the farrier at Ravensworth said, when I showed it to him. He was an old man who had worked at the castle for much longer than I had been alive. I liked him because he knew all manner of interesting things, which was why I had shown him my arrowhead in the first place.

  ‘What is a lodestone?’ I asked. I’d never heard the word. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘In the old days a lode was a path or a journey,’ the farrier said. ‘A lodestone is said to show you the way, for it points to the North.’ He shook his head. ‘I know naught of that but I do know that it draws iron. Look…’ He took some of the small nails he used for the horses’ shoes and I watched them spin and dance towards the arrow as though by magic. They stuck fast to it, like the prickles on a hedgehog.

  ‘It’s enchanted!’ I said, drawing back. I thought of Ginevra then and her stories. Mother had been right that the Duchess of Bedford’s women dabbled in devilry. This was the treasure indeed and it possessed some strange power.

  The farrier laughed. ‘It’s no enchantment,’ he said, ‘unless it is nature’s magic. You keep it safe, Lady Anne.’ He sounded reverent, turning the stone over in his gnarled hands. ‘That’s special, that is. I’ll make you a case for it.’

  I thought he would forget but he did not – two nights later he presented me with a wooden box lined with blue velvet where the arrowhead fitted snugly. For so plain a piece it looked curiously precious there, gleaming black and shining on its rich cushion. I decided that Crowther had been correct. There was something otherworldly about this lodestone. Its very plainness concealed a heart of magic. There and then I decided that I would keep the relic close by me.

  Chapter 11

  Serena

  Minster Lovell, Present Day

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Serena said. Shock at seeing Jack had given way to a sharp antagonism. First, he’d been snooping around Caitlin’s grave at Minster Lovell and now
he was here talking to her grandfather. If he had told Dick that Caitlin’s body had been found, before she had had the chance to talk to him, she really would have to kill him. A hot wave of anger washed over her.

  Jack got to his feet unhurriedly, a wry smile on his lips. Unlike her he looked cool and effortlessly in control, which only made Serena feel hotter and more annoyed.

  ‘Hello, Serena,’ he said. ‘That seems to be our default greeting.’

  ‘Mr Lovell came to do a talk for some of the residents today.’ Bella, the carer, sensing an atmosphere, was quick to throw herself into the breach. ‘Wasn’t that kind of him?’ She gave Jack a starry-eyed look. ‘We do a programme of talks throughout the year; this month it’s about TV stars. The residents love a celebrity.’

  ‘Actually most of them hadn’t a clue who I was,’ Jack said self-deprecatingly, ‘but they did seem interested in hearing about journalism. Most of them think all journalists are scoundrels.’

  ‘Far be it from me to disagree,’ Serena said frostily.

  ‘Mr Lovell’s a patron of our local dementia charity,’ Bella said. ‘Definitely a good guy, not a scoundrel.’ She gave Jack another adoring look that reminded Serena irresistibly of the dog.

  She felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Jack’s look of acute embarrassment. Despite everything, she could feel herself softening a little towards him. It wasn’t every hard-nosed forensic journalist who would bother to visit a local care home. She looked at him and he raised his brows slightly, as though challenging her to question her assumptions, but he said nothing. The Labrador, which had been watching Serena with its limpid dark eyes, came over and pressed a damp nose to her palm. She dropped down onto her haunches to stroke it.

  ‘She’s called Luna,’ Jack said.

  ‘You’re a beautiful girl,’ Serena said to the Labrador, who wagged her tail in total agreement. She looked up from tickling Luna’s tummy. ‘Does she parachute into hostile territory with you, Jack?’