The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  Beside me, the bishop’s man shifted a little and blinked blearily, sensing the atmosphere. His hand moved uncertainly towards his sword hilt. I cocked my head in his direction and Franke nodded at me.

  ‘There was a wedding, was there not, Stillington?’ Francis continued, as though the bishop had not denied everything. ‘Years ago, here in the middle of nowhere, secret and intended always to remain so? A young man, hot-headed and eager to bed a beautiful but virtuous woman… He promised her marriage to win her consent to lie with him, and you performed the ceremony.’

  We were all watching Francis now. I could see now how the King’s brother might grasp after this as his way to the throne. Declare his brother a bigamist, denounce his children as illegitimate, and Clarence would be within touching distance of what he had most desired for all his life.

  Stillington was also watching Francis as a mouse watches a cat. ‘I do not understand you, my lord,’ he quavered, his Adam’s apple wobbling. There was a bright spot of red high on his cheekbones now.

  Francis toyed with his wine cup. ‘Come, bishop,’ he said, ‘you need not pretend to me. I am the King’s man through and through, but are you? Both His Majesty and His Grace of Gloucester asked me to impress upon you how imperative it is that you should remember where your true loyalty lies.’ He fixed Stillington with a very direct gaze. ‘Furthermore, they want the papers you have come here to collect. You are to hand them over to me.’

  This seemed finally to spur Stillington to action. He jumped to his feet, gesturing impatiently to the manservant, who stumbled up, grasping for his sword. Franke leaped up in response; I stuck out a foot and tripped the manservant who fell forwards, connecting with Franke’s fist in the process and tumbling face down in the rushes on the floor. It was all over in a moment. The dog, clearly too old for combat, watched with incurious eyes from his place by the hearth.

  ‘You need to choose your servants better, Stillington,’ Francis said, dispassionately, viewing the man’s prone body. ‘Now, where do I find those papers?’

  ‘My lord…’ Stillington was as pale as he had been flushed a moment before. ‘His Majesty… and His Grace of Gloucester… They misunderstand! I never had the slightest intention—’

  Franke took a step towards him.

  ‘The papers,’ Francis said again.

  ‘In the church!’ Stillington babbled. ‘They are stored in the chest there.’

  ‘Hidden in plain sight,’ Francis said. ‘Very clever, bishop.’

  Franke grabbed Stillington’s arm. ‘Come along then, bishop, we will go and fetch them together.’

  They went out. I heard one of the holy brothers asking questions in a high, anxious tone and then I heard a babble of noise and shouting explode into the clash of swords. On the floor the servant was snoring in his unconsciousness and the dog, magnificently uncaring, was fast asleep.

  Well, Franke had got his wish of a fight. I paused, trying to decide what I could most usefully do. I knew better than to try to intervene in a sword fight and I judged that whilst Stillington’s men delayed Francis and Franke, the bishop might get clean away with the marriage documents. I should try to stop him.

  I wondered if there might be another way to get to the church. I crossed to the door behind the arras. It was well concealed by the rich tapestry, a little archway that led directly to a spiral stone stair curving both upward to the next floor and down into darkness. I chose to go up first. It was cold out here after the comfort of the parlour; the icy wind found every crack in the wall and whistled down the stair making me shiver. On the first floor a doorway opened directly into a grand bedchamber that was lit by the embers of the fire and one candle. In the shadowy dark I could make out a little oratory with altar and prayer stool. A Bible lay closed on the stand. There was no one there, no movement but the mice that scattered at my approach.

  I took the candle and retraced my steps down the stone stair. In the dining parlour the lay brothers were standing around looking lost and perplexed. I carried on down the steps into darkness. No one tried to stop me. I thought the stair would lead to the buttery or perhaps storage cellars, but at the bottom was a stout wooden door that stood ajar. Pushing it open, I entered a narrow passageway that sloped downhill.

  Just as at Minster Lovell where there was an old tunnel connecting the manor and the site of the old Minster church, so here, it seemed, there was also a passage linking the two. The ceiling of the passage was low and the walls were smooth and chalky white in the candlelight. The floor bore the print of many feet. The sense of being trapped in an enclosed space made me catch my breath but I calmed myself. It was a warm and sheltered place. There was nothing to fear here. My little candle flame burned steadily. Eventually I reached a place where the path started to incline again with steps cut into the chalk rock.

  The corridor opened out into a room and there was a change in the air, fresher and colder. I stumbled over the corner of something hard and almost fell. The wavering candlelight revealed it to be a stone coffin, covered in cobwebs, its carvings worn and battered. Rank upon rank of them stretched into the dark. I was in the crypt of the church.

  A sharp sound echoed above my head, the noise of a heavy lid falling. I froze. Had the bishop escaped the mêlée at the monastery guesthouse to race up here and retrieve the marriage lines or was there another of his men guarding the church? I crept up the steps from the crypt into the church and eased open the door a tiny crack. The church was empty and pitch-black but for one lantern lighting the chancel. I waited. Nothing moved. I tiptoed forward. I could see the huge chest where the vestments and silver were kept. The chain that would normally have held the lid fast was hanging loose. I tiptoed closer. There was a sudden movement to my left and from the corner of my eye I saw the fall of a flashing blade. I leaped back just in time, feeling the sword slice through my sleeve, and darted away down the nave.

  Stillington’s man followed me. I could hear his panting breath behind me. He was so close. He made a grab for my arm and I slipped on the floor and saw the sword come down again, aiming for my throat.

  It hit the chain around my neck where I was wearing the lodestar, the misshapen arrowhead that had become my talisman. The ring of steel on stone was musical, like the sounding of a bell. I saw sparks fly from the tip of the sword and in their light the man’s face, his eyes narrowed in shock and sudden horror. The light grew and spread like a great explosion. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the glare.

  Then there was nothing. A silence so loud it hurt my ears. Darkness, impenetrable. I wondered whether I was dead. Then I thought perhaps I was not. I sat up, looked around and saw that I was alone. I touched my throat. There was no wound at all. The lodestar nestled against my skin, smooth and warm. My assailant had vanished without trace.

  The church door crashed open in a welter of snow and noise. Francis and Franke burst in, torches in hand.

  ‘That whoreson bishop!’ Franke was swearing, blood dripping from a long slash on his forehead. ‘He meant to double cross us all along. The coward, to run like that! Surely he knows that the King will not let this matter go?’

  ‘No matter,’ Francis said. ‘If we get the papers—’ He stopped as he saw me, staggering to my feet. ‘What the devil?’

  ‘I came to get the marriage lines,’ I said. ‘They are in the chest.’ I pointed to the chancel where the one lantern flared.

  ‘That’s a sword cut,’ Franke said, pointing to my arm where the blood dripped.

  ‘There was a man,’ I said, ‘guarding the chest. He had a sword.’

  Francis looked around. ‘There is no one here now.’

  I shivered. My mind was still grappling with what had happened. Francis was right; the church was empty. I remembered the falling blade and then the burst of light. I’d not heard the man run away, nor seen any place he might have hidden. It was as though he had disappeared in front of my eyes.

  I touched the lodestar again and felt the slightest of vibrations again
st my fingertips. My talisman. Surely it had saved my life.

  ‘Franke, give me a strip of your shirt,’ Francis ordered, recalling my thoughts from the supernatural to the real. ‘We need to bandage Anne’s arm.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should be the one to shed my clothes,’ Franke grumbled, but he did as he was bid and Francis bound the cut on my arm so tightly it hurt twice as badly.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he asked.

  ‘There is a secret passageway from the guesthouse into the church,’ I said. ‘I thought I would get here and stop the bishop if he came to retrieve his documents.’

  ‘The guard cannot have gone far.’ Franke started towards the door. ‘No doubt he and that cursed bishop have arranged a place to meet. I’ll go after them.’

  ‘No,’ Francis said. ‘There is no point. Get the papers and we will be gone. The King will hunt Stillington down if he so wishes.’ He placed his cloak about my shoulders and I drew it close, burrowing into the warmth, inhaling the scent from his body.

  ‘We’ll return to the guesthouse,’ Francis said. ‘Franke, I need you to carry those papers directly to the Duke of Gloucester.’

  Franke had seen me shivering and gave a brusque nod. ‘Very well, my lord. We’ll get your lady back to shelter and then I’ll ride to the Duke.’ He glanced towards the church door where the snow spun and tumbled on the wind. ‘With any luck the bishop and his man will freeze to death out there in the cold and save the King his trouble.’

  He took up the lantern and led the way to the door, slamming it closed behind us. In the sputtering light I saw the standing stones about the churchyard draw close like sentinels. There was blood on the church steps. I drew back in alarm and Francis put an arm about me. ‘It is only Franke’s,’ he said. ‘One of the bishop’s men ambushed us and got in a lucky blow.’

  Franke grunted, clearly put out to have been bested. ‘It’s no more than a graze,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll patch you up when we get back to the guesthouse,’ I promised. ‘It’s the least I can do when you sacrificed your shirt for me.’

  We made our way back down the frozen street to the abbey guesthouse, the snow obliterating our footprints as soon as they were made. This time the gate to the courtyard stood open and the space was lit with flaring torches. A monk was shovelling snow to cover what looked like bloodstains on the ground. He looked at us with wide, frightened eyes as we passed.

  ‘Nobody died,’ Franke said, in response to my look. ‘I barely touched them.’

  ‘Dear God,’ I said, shuddering. ‘I hope we are safe here. I shall not sleep a wink until dawn.’

  Francis too seemed disinclined to rest. Once Franke was patched up and sent off on the only decent horse in the stables, he and I went up to the guest chamber. He paced the floor whilst I poured wine for both of us, passing a cup to him. He took it with a distracted smile, finally easing himself into a chair.

  ‘You got what you came for,’ I said. ‘Once Franke delivers the papers to Gloucester, all will be well.’

  ‘I wish I believed that,’ Francis said heavily. ‘The King’s marriage is invalid, Anne. That is dangerous information in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Did Stillington really tell Clarence?’ I asked. ‘Of all the foolhardy things to do.’

  ‘He thought to profit by it,’ Francis said grimly. ‘Whatever preferment Edward has shown him, Clarence promised more. Archbishop of York, or even Canterbury.’

  I shook my head at such stupidity. ‘He will live to regret it,’ I said. ‘Or die for it, more likely.’ I sat down on the rug at Francis’ feet and leaned into his warmth. ‘Who is the lady?’ I asked. ‘The one whom Stillington married to the King?’

  ‘The Lady Eleanor Butler,’ Francis said.

  ‘But she is dead!’ I said. I felt a sense of relief. ‘She cannot bear witness.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Francis mused, ‘she did not die until after Edward had married Elizabeth Woodville.’

  I snapped my fingers. ‘Even so. The King may dismiss any stories as no more than idle gossip and any papers as a forgery. In fact, if he were to destroy the papers, no one would be any the wiser.’

  Francis smiled at me. ‘You are always pragmatic,’ he said. ‘Would you have Stillington murdered to ensure he holds his peace? And anyone else who can bear witness to the truth?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But Edward must deny it, for what is alternative? He would have to put aside the Queen and remarry legitimately and beget another heir, and that will never happen. Better to destroy the evidence, allow a strong king to continue to rule and his son to come after him. Declaring Edward’s children to be bastards would only serve to plunge us into further war.’

  Francis smothered a yawn. ‘I fully expect Gloucester to do just what you say,’ he said, ‘or to pass the papers to the King who will burn them without a backward glance. As for Stillington, perhaps a spell in the Tower will persuade him to hold his tongue.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. I had no truck with the bishop who seemed to me to be a foolish, venal man, but I had some softness for the King’s children and, more importantly, I knew what it was to have a disputed succession to the throne. Edward and his sons were our best, our only hope for continued peace.

  I did not know then that Edward had less than a half-dozen years to live.

  Chapter 17

  Serena

  Minster Lovell, Present Day

  The smell of pizza greeted Serena when she arrived at Lizzie’s house that evening. Although she’d agreed to come over for supper, she wasn’t sure whether she could eat anything. Whilst Jack had gone into Oxford to do some research in the records office, she had spent the afternoon at the police station, running over her initial statement from the time that Caitlin had disappeared. It had been a bruising experience; her seventeen-year-old self’s grief and misery had burned from the page even though it was a formal statement that Inspector Litton was reading aloud:

  “The last thing I remember was walking back from the dovecote that afternoon. I don’t remember whether I saw Caitlin again after that… I don’t remember anything else that happened that day. I wish I could… I’ve tried so hard… When I think about it, all I can see is blankness like a bright mist, so bright I have to shade my eyes.”

  ‘The interview was paused at that time as Miss Warren was in distress,’ Inspector Litton had read, looking up at her.

  ‘Yes,’ Serena had said. Then, with irony: ‘That I do remember.’

  She’d told the police that she had recovered a little more of the memory of that afternoon, and that she had met Jack Lovell in the ruins on her way home. Inspector Litton had made a note to ask Jack to verify this and had said politely that she hoped this was a sign that Serena would remember more details. Sergeant Ratcliffe had smiled sympathetically then walked her back to the reception as he had done the previous time. There had been no substantial progress in the investigation. The stumbling block was still the apparent burial of a twenty-first-century corpse in the eighteenth century, a fact that forensics had been unable to disprove, which put Inspector Litton in a very bad mood.

  ‘Serena!’ Lizzie flung open the door before Serena had had a chance to knock, and embraced her warmly. ‘How are you doing? Was it ghastly? Do you need a glass of wine?’

  ‘I don’t expect she needs another interrogation,’ Arthur, Lizzie’s fiancé, said dryly. He smiled at her. ‘Come on in, Serena. Jack’s here,’ he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Serena could feel herself turning pink. ‘The pizza smells amazing.’ She turned the subject. ‘Is it homemade?’

  ‘Arthur made it.’ Lizzie looked smug. ‘You know I can’t cook.’

  ‘You’re a good gardener, though.’ Jack had come out of the kitchen, a can of lager in his hand. ‘You grew the salad. Hi, Serena. How did it go?’

  ‘There’s no news.’ Serena accepted the glass of rosé Lizzie proffered, a non-alcoholic version to keep her friend company.
‘The police can’t get beyond the whole issue of the burial.’ She took a seat at the big, scrubbed pine table. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was gorgeous, an eclectic mix of the old stuff that Lizzie had inherited and bespoke modern design. Almost all the units and appliances were white and chrome.

  ‘I know,’ Lizzie said, sighing, as she saw Serena looking. ‘They won’t withstand the onslaught of children.’

  ‘Worth it, though,’ Serena said, with a smile.

  ‘Tell us how everything is going,’ Lizzie said, subsiding onto the bench next to her. ‘Assuming you’re OK to talk about it?’

  ‘I’m fine as long as you all are,’ Serena said. ‘I’m just disappointed, I guess. This morning I remembered some more stuff that happened on the day that Caitlin disappeared’ – her eyes met Jack’s for a moment and he smiled at her – ‘but there are still big gaps.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ Lizzie said, squeezing her hand. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of days; there’s plenty of time to remember more.’ She sighed. ‘At least recovering the memories doesn’t appear to have damaged you in any way.’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ Serena said, this time avoiding Jack’s eyes but very aware he was watching her. ‘It was… very interesting.’

  Arthur transferred two pizzas from a tray on the worktop to the centre of the table and Lizzie immediately started to pull a piece off one of them. The rich smell of cheese, basil and tomato made Serena’s mouth water and she realised she had an appetite after all.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lizzie said with her mouth full. ‘I’m hungry all the time.’

  ‘There are plates,’ Arthur said mildly, passing them to Jack and Serena, and pushing the bowl of salad towards her too. ‘Don’t hold back,’ he said with a grin, ‘or it’ll all be gone.’

  ‘I gave Lizzie and Arthur the diary entries to read,’ Jack said to Serena as they settled down to eat. ‘The ones written by the eighteenth-century lady’s companion. I thought it would be interesting to have their perspective.’