The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  My eyes met Francis’. It was a measure of our opinion of the King that neither of us denied the possibility.

  ‘Who is the woman?’ I asked. ‘Who do they say is the King’s true wife?’

  Francis shook his head. ‘That I do not know. Nor where and when the marriage is alleged to have taken place. Gloucester is working to discover if there is any truth in the story and I have pledged him my aid should he need it.’

  I did not move; did not speak. It was easy to see how such tittle-tattle might take root, and how dangerous it could be. I thought of the King’s young family, of Edward his eldest son and heir, the younger boy, Richard, a chubby child of three now, and the little golden-haired princesses of York. The Queen was almost perpetually pregnant. King Edward would not risk any threat to their future. He would stamp out anyone who tried to blackmail him, even his own brother.

  There was a knock at the door, Francis’ man Franke stuck his head around. ‘A messenger, my lord. Gloucester’s livery.’

  Francis saw the man alone in the hall whilst I endured an awkward wait with Sir William and Lady Stonor in the parlour. When Francis returned, his face was pale and set.

  ‘We leave at once,’ he said to me, and although we had only just arrived and I was aching from travelling and longing for hot food and a comfortable bed, I was glad he made no mention of my staying behind. So often it seemed that women missed out on all that was of interest.

  ‘Cousin Stonor’ – he turned to William – ‘I must apologise for my abruptness. A most urgent commission…’

  Lady Stonor was, of course, quite frenzied in her desire to know what was happening. ‘What in God’s name could prompt such haste?’ she demanded. ‘Surely one night’s delay can be of no consequence? It is but a few hours to nightfall and the weather is bad and the roads are worse! You will be set upon and robbed, or fall in a ditch—’

  ‘Dear Elizabeth,’ I said, seeing Francis’ deep discomfort and having fewer qualms about lying than he had, ‘I am so sorry that we must leave your hospitality so soon. No footpad in their right minds would be out on a day like this. I am sure all will be well and we shall reach home in safety.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Francis make a slight, instinctive movement and knew at once that we were not to return to Minster Lovell that night. The Duke of Gloucester’s commission would take us elsewhere.

  ‘Thank you, Anne,’ Francis whispered in my ear, as I went up to our chamber to oversee the packing of trunks so recently unpacked whilst he went to the stables. ‘We travel light,’ he added, ‘and the servants will not accompany us. Only Franke comes too.’

  I felt the tiniest shiver of premonition. ‘Francis,’ I said. ‘What is it? What has happened? Is it to do with the Duke of Clarence?’

  He shook his head quickly for we were easily overheard. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now we must make all speed if we are to catch up with our quarry.’

  As I had guessed, we did not take direction for Minster Lovell but cut south-westward on paths and tracks almost blocked with snow. This was downland country, high, fierce and wild. It was the closest to Yorkshire that you could find in the soft southern counties and for all the cold and the hard riding I relished it. The skies had cleared now and were bright with the last light of a winter afternoon. Far above us the buzzards wheeled and called on the wind, a keening sound of plaintive isolation. The snow-shrouded hills stretched for miles with nothing to break the emptiness.

  ‘A man could die out here and no one would find him for days,’ I remarked cheerfully, ‘and by then he would have been picked clean by the birds and the beasts.’

  Francis and Edward Franke both looked at me as though I were the least congenial travelling companion and I laughed at their expressions. I liked Franke, who was as sound a man as one could ask for as well as very handy in a fight.

  ‘Whither do we ride?’ I asked.

  ‘Along the old Ridgeway,’ Francis said, drawing his cloak closer against the bite of the wind. He had snowflakes on his eyelashes, ‘and down into Ashbury.’

  I had no notion of where Ashbury might be or why the Duke of Gloucester might send us there, but I knew that the Ridgeway was an ancient track, built centuries ago across the high hills. It would not be a comfortable ride.

  Even I had lost my eagerness by the time we reached the scarp of the Downs above the Vale of the White Horse. The snow had returned with nightfall, more lightly, punctured by moonlight, and we were picking our way along the track at what felt slower than a snail’s pace. There was something primeval about this land, especially at night and alone, something unfriendly, supernatural even.

  ‘We should have crossed the hills earlier and made our way along the vale,’ Franke grumbled. ‘The land is gentler though the road is longer.’ He sighed. ‘No matter. At least we are almost arrived.’

  He led us down a steep hillside, the horses picking their way with care. They were tired now too and reluctant whilst I could scarce feel my legs for the cold and stiffness of the ride. Within a few minutes, though, a squat church appeared on our left, encircled by shrouded white standing stones which only added to the ghostly air. Dimly through the snow we saw a sullen fire burning; there was a brushwood barrier across the path. A man stepped out to challenge us.

  ‘We are travellers seeking refuge at the monastery guesthouse.’ It was Franke who spoke up whilst Francis, I was interested to see, hung back, even whilst he had his hand on his sword hilt beneath his cloak. ‘Don’t keep us standing out here, man – the horses are exhausted and we scarcely less so.’

  With some muttering the man dragged the makeshift barrier aside and let us through. The village was wrapped up tight against the night, a meagre place, no more than one muddy street with poor cottages and above it the solid church. How could there possibly be a monastery here, I wondered, and what urgent business could the Duke of Gloucester have with anyone in this place?

  We picked our way along the street between the blank-faced cottages and turned right down the hill. Franke seemed to know where he was going. I remembered that he had a brother who served the Duke of Gloucester. No doubt both of them were as deep in his confidence as Francis was. I felt a chill then that was nothing to do with the cold of the night. All my life I had been an observer, watching the games of the men and women who brokered power. Now I realised properly for the first time how deep Francis was in those games and how much that was shaping our lives.

  At the base of the hill a high wall reared up out of the dark. ‘We are here,’ Francis said, and he held my arm lightly for a moment in a reassuring grip.

  ‘I wish I knew what was going on,’ I grumbled. ‘Supposing there is trouble? What am I to do?’

  Francis laughed. There was an air of contained tension about him, like a soldier on the edge of battle. I realised this was the first time that I had seen him thus, ready for the fight.

  ‘You need have no fear of violence,’ he said. ‘This is a house of God.’

  Franke rapped sharply on the wooden door in the wall and we waited whilst the horses blew and the snow still fell.

  ‘I could climb the wall,’ Franke suggested, measuring it with an experienced eye, but then the hatch slid back abruptly and a face peered out, tonsured, wrinkled, with deep-set eyes.

  ‘We seek accommodation for the night,’ Francis said crisply. ‘Let us in.’

  The gatekeeper gaped at us. ‘Open the door, man,’ Franke said impatiently. ‘You heard Lord Lovell.’

  The door creaked open and we stepped through into a small, torchlit courtyard. There was no monastery here but I could see now that the place was a manor grange, with a small but elegant little house surrounded by more practical farm buildings. From one of the sheds came the scrape and cluck of sleepy chickens who had no wish to be disturbed. There was the scent of warm manure in the air. A working farm, then, and again I wondered at Francis’ business here, in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Your pardon, my lord. We are ill-prepared for guests.’ The broth
er who had let us in was already regretting it, judging by the way in which he was wringing his hands together nervously.

  ‘We are easy to please,’ Francis said pleasantly. ‘All we require is a warm bed for the night and some food for we are sharp-set from the journey.’

  I slid from my horse rather than dismounted, I was so cold and stiff. Franke led them away to the stables whilst the anxious monk ushered us under a porch, through the enormous oaken doorway, and into the house.

  ‘There are only four of us here,’ he said, as though to excuse the lack of fuss on our arrival. ‘We have few visitors in the winter.’

  The house was a haven. A stone-flagged corridor led almost immediately into a chamber on the left with a roaring fire in the hearth. There was no monastic austerity here. The cushions were soft, the wood highly polished and the silver very fine. An inner door was closed; behind it I could hear the clink of crockery and the low hum of voices. A tantalising scent of roasted meat was in the air. My stomach rumbled.

  ‘This place belongs to Glastonbury Abbey,’ Francis said in answer to my unspoken question. ‘It is a guesthouse for pilgrims and scholars travelling between the West Country and Oxford, a useful staging post on the journey east to London and beyond.’

  ‘I have never heard of it,’ I said, stripping off my gloves and holding out my hands to the fire.

  ‘Not many people have,’ Francis said. ‘That is what makes it such a useful place for clandestine business.’

  I glanced towards the closed doorway. ‘Is that what is happening now?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Francis helped me remove my cloak and placed it over the back of a chair by the fire to dry. ‘All I expect to find here is the Bishop of Bath and Wells, travelling home from London and pausing to collect some important papers from the church coffers on the way. This was once his parish in the days before preferment took him to higher things. He knows the village well.’

  I looked at him. His gaze was sharp and bright, fixed on the panels of the closed door.

  ‘And Gloucester needed you to catch up with him,’ I said. ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To ask him about a secret marriage he performed here years ago,’ Francis said, with the ghost of a smile, ‘and to retrieve those self-same documents he guards so carefully.’

  ‘You seek a marriage record,’ I said.

  Here was the answer to one, at least, of the questions that I had asked at Stonor Hall. The King’s first secret marriage had apparently taken place here, in a tiny, remote village that was perfect for clandestine business. I shivered a little to think of it and the consequences it might have now.

  The door reopened and Franke strode in carrying a bowl of steaming water and a towel which he offered to me first. The water was deliciously hot and though I was certain to have chilblains I plunged my hands in with a pleasure that made him laugh.

  ‘The servant tells me there is a garderobe up the stair should you require it,’ he murmured, ‘and a comfortable chamber where you might take supper whilst we’ – he inclined his head towards Francis – ‘speak with His Grace the Bishop.’

  I was about to object to being excluded but Francis came across to take the towel from me and to wash.

  ‘I think Anne should stay,’ he said. He splashed water on his face and over the fresh rushes on the floor in the process, shaking his head like a dog so that the droplets flew wide. ‘Her presence may induce the bishop to behave… differently,’ he continued, ‘and the meeting to progress more calmly than it might if only men were present.’

  I took this to mean that Francis wished to avoid a violent confrontation. Franke realised it too. His face fell.

  ‘The bishop rides with an escort of five men only,’ he said. ‘Two in the stables, two in the kitchens, both as drunk as lords, and one’ – he jerked his head towards the door of the dining parlour – ‘in there with His Grace. I do not know if there are any other guests, but five to two is good odds,’ he went on. ‘The holy brothers will not intervene if there is any trouble.’

  Francis laughed. ‘You are spoiling for a fight,’ he said, ‘but Gloucester felt that would be unnecessary. All he wishes us to do is… ask nicely.’

  ‘He also demanded the strictest secrecy,’ Franke grumbled.

  ‘Anne can keep a secret,’ my husband said.

  ‘I can,’ I averred.

  Franke’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I do not doubt it, my lady,’ he said, ‘but this is a murky business.’

  The nervous monk appeared at that moment with a platter piled high with slices of beef and nothing would have induced me to leave the room, not even Francis’ direct instruction. I would have fallen on the meat there and then had the door from the inner room not swung wide in that moment as well. A tall, thin man stood there, a man with a querulous expression and a grease stain on the front of his robe which spoke of a dinner too greedily and carelessly consumed.

  I had never met Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, before, though I had heard much about him. He was a churchman who also enjoyed more earthly pleasures – it was common knowledge that he had a son – and was a politician who had hitched his fortunes to those of King Edward from the very start. He had risen high in royal service and favour. I wondered what on earth could have induced him to turn against the King when he had benefitted so much from his favour.

  ‘What the deuce is all this commotion?’ the bishop demanded. His gaze fixed on Francis and a curious expression crossed his face, furtive and truculent at the same time.

  ‘Lovell?’ he said. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘What do you do here?’

  ‘How do you do, bishop?’ Francis was smiling but there was an edge to it. ‘My wife and I’ – he drew me forward – ‘are travelling back to Minster Lovell from Stonor, and sought refuge for the night. The weather is appalling. It is our good fortune that this guesthouse is so handily placed. May we join you?’

  Stillington stared suspiciously at me before grunting a greeting and standing back to allow us to enter the dining parlour. The room was in a state of some disarray. The table was littered with the remnants of a meal already consumed. A mastiff lounged before the fire and a young man in Stillington’s livery was sitting with his feet up on the table, picking his teeth. He straightened as he saw us and his chair returned all four feet to the ground with a crash that roused the dog to open half an eye before it lay back down with a sigh. None of them looked particularly pleased that we had disturbed their privacy here.

  The monk placed the platter of beef on the table and hurried to fetch more chairs. The youth in livery slopped more wine into his own cup and viewed us insolently over the rim. Franke looked as though he would punch him given the first opportunity.

  More brothers came rushing in with food and wine: soup that smelled fragrantly of mutton and herbs, fresh fish and capon. Francis held a chair for me and filled my cup with wine. Stillington’s man, who had not been introduced to us, looked at me with an appreciative gleam in his eye. I smiled back and saw Francis raise his brows. If it was his intention to lull the bishop and his man into a state of intoxication they were already well on the way and I could play my part.

  The food was delicious.

  ‘I like a woman with a hearty appetite.’ Stillington’s man leered at me. I saw Francis make an involuntary movement and flashed him a look to tell him to keep quiet.

  ‘Are there any other guests staying tonight?’ I enquired, refilling the fellow’s cup. ‘Any other poor, benighted travellers here?’

  ‘There is no one,’ the man said, tossing a bone over his shoulder to the dog and taking a great gulp of the wine. ‘Our company must suffice.’

  ‘You have the choice of whichever bedchamber is the most comfortable, my lady.’ The bishop bared his yellowing teeth in a smile. ‘We are all entirely at your service.’

  ‘That is most generous,’ I said. ‘The weather was foul and the journey hard. It is a pleasure to find a good meal a
nd pleasant company at the end of it.’

  ‘Your husband is a brute to make you travel in such conditions, madam,’ Stillington’s man gave Francis a scornful glance. He took my hand, pressing a wine-stained kiss to it. ‘If you were mine, I would treasure you like the jewel you are.’

  ‘How pretty, sir,’ I removed my hand from his and wiped it on my skirt. ‘However, I assure you that my husband sees very well to my comfort.’

  Conversation dwindled. The bishop sat hunched like a heron over his food and showed no wish to talk at all. His man was fast slumping into a state of torpor. A half-hour and plenty of good food later I was feeling in a similar frame of mind but aware of the look exchanged between Francis and Franke, I knew the moment of confrontation was approaching and I pinched myself to stay awake.

  ‘So, bishop,’ Francis said genially, pushing away his empty plate and sitting back in his chair with every indication of being entirely relaxed, ‘I hear you have been very busy of late. Tell us, what manner of business have you been indulging in?’

  The bishop’s head came up, his eyes darting from Francis’ face to Franke and back again. He looked as though he had suddenly lost his appetite.

  ‘I have been travelling,’ he said. ‘Church business, my lord…’

  ‘I heard it was the Duke of Clarence with whom you had business,’ Francis said, suddenly deadly quiet. ‘What say you to that, bishop?’

  Stillington took a mouthful of wine, slopping some down his robe as his hands were shaking. ‘Your informant is mistaken, my lord,’ he said. ‘I have not seen the Duke for many a year.’

  ‘Clarence himself says that you have,’ Francis said. ‘He told his brother the Duke of Gloucester, and Gloucester told me.’ He shifted slightly. ‘The Duke of Gloucester is curious, Stillington. Clarence told him that you possess a secret that threatens the kingdom itself.’ He fixed Stillington with a very straight look. ‘What could he mean by that, lord bishop?’

  Stillington shrank in his chair, folding in on himself. ‘Clarence is a drunkard,’ he quavered. ‘He talks from out of a butt of malmsey. It means nothing.’