‘We have witnessed much hardship these past years. It has been our fortune to live in times of great change, to be given the opportunity to forge our own fate; but it has been our misfortune too, that so much blood was shed to secure this inheritance for our children.’
His eyes flicked back to Mercia. But then trumpets blared from underneath his platform, a small band of heralds interrupting his words.
‘They are trying to drown out his speech,’ said Mercia. ‘The bastards. Can they not give him even this last honour?’ Nathan squeezed her hand. Behind her, she could hear Lady Markstone murmuring a quiet prayer.
Undaunted, Sir Rowland shouted as loud as he was able, so that despite the trumpets those near the front could still hear.
‘And yet now I am glad to die, in the assurance that never again in the history of our people will power be vested so cruelly against them. That is the legacy of Parliament, that our rights and laws are respected by all, and that men are judged by the virtue of their deeds. And if it is an irony that I am condemned to die in the same manner as the King whose claims to autocratic rule created such conflict, then I am content nonetheless. I never approved of that murder, but I hold firm my principles as old King Charles was brave to die for his.’
Those who could hear turned their heads at the mention of the executed King, creating a rippling effect in the crowd, until everyone was looking at his younger son, the Duke of York, who was standing on a high platform to their left. But he merely folded his arms. As she looked at the platform over the heads of the crowd, Mercia saw next to the Duke Sir Bernard Dittering, the man who had overseen her father’s trial, and beside him another grandly dressed man she did not recognise but who was looking straight at her. Behind those two stood her uncle. So that was where he was.
The trumpets ceased, but Sir Rowland did not lower his voice.
‘I hope that in a hundred years this great nation of ours will remain steadfast in embracing the freedoms of men, so that all may live together in a just society in which hard work leads to a common happiness. To my family, whom I pray God save in their grief, before I pass to eternal life in heaven I want to say: forgive me. If I have brought you pain, I am sorry for it.’
He paused, looking at Mercia once more. There was something in his expression, a deep worry for her, something beyond pain for his imminent death. It was as if he – yes, as if he feared for her. Her heartbeat quickened.
‘To my daughter, my own dear fairy queen, I say this –’
His fairy queen? He had not called her that since she was a girl, when he would read to her in his study. The Faerie Queene had been her favourite story. It still was.
‘– I hope you can understand my reasons, as I taught you to love reason itself.’
He had always told her, as a child, to love reason, to learn. It had never mattered to him that she was a girl, although he was frowned upon for it. Now she leant forward as he clasped his hands together, in that exact way he always did when he wanted to teach her something important. She listened intently.
‘For I promised I would make a lady of you, and I did, and behind that promise, I have left you a legacy to explore.’
Mercia stared at him, and there was the gentle nod he always gave when he was satisfied she had understood. He was telling her something, she was sure of it.
Make a lady of you … a legacy to explore …
But what did it mean? There was no time to think. Her father was finishing his speech.
‘I go to my rest, satisfied I have carried out my role in our nation’s journey in the honest belief I was doing right. I forgive all my detractors, and those who have brought me to this place. I pray God that the King be a man of charity and honour, that he respect the will of his Parliament, and that the men and women of this blessed England be protected in his care. Please God take me to His immortal attention, where I will rejoice in seeing my departed compatriots again, and hope to see my beloved wife, daughter, and innocent grandson when they join me at their correct time.’
He looked at Mercia once more, his eyes sad but resolute, and he said goodbye in a brief smile. With a flick of his head he signalled that she should leave. She held his gaze for one final moment, then with tears burning the backs of her eyes she put away his words and got down from her viewing point. She had wanted to see him, but it would be barbaric to witness the end.
And then she left, allowing Nathan to forge a way for them through the crowd, the people oblivious to their retreat as they watched the doomed man being led to the axeman’s block. As Sir Rowland knelt, now out of her sight, faster and faster Mercia pushed Nathan through the crowd that parted and re-formed around them, until they made their way back onto Tower Street. She looked at him, her face quivering with suppressed anguish, before the horror of the situation finally grabbed her, and she abandoned the mocking scene for the dirty London streets. In her agony, she scarcely noticed the crowd’s exultant roar rising up behind her as she fled.
It was nearly nightfall when she descended from the carriage she had hired to take her back to the coaching inn. She paid the driver and he whipped his horses, driving off into the gloomy streets. The sign of the Saracen’s Head swung lightly in the gentle breeze, knocking against the darkening wall with a soft thud.
She found Nathan inside, gripping a mug of ale. As soon as she entered he dropped the chipped tankard and came over.
‘I walked,’ she explained simply. ‘I wanted to be on my own.’
He nodded. ‘I know.’ He looked into her eyes; the familiar brown was somehow comforting, even in her intense grief. ‘I searched for you, but you had vanished.’
‘I sat by the river for a time, behind a warehouse.’ She tried a smile, but none came. ‘One of the dock hands brought me a glass of beer.’ She sighed. ‘I will survive, Nathan. I have done so before.’ Her illusive mood faded as an unwelcome memory resurfaced, but she pushed the thoughts away.
Nathan bit his lip. ‘Perhaps, but I am worried about you. So is your uncle, it seems. He came here not one hour ago asking for you.’
She paused from untying the lace on her hood. ‘My uncle, in a coaching inn? I cannot believe it.’
‘I am afraid he wants to see you tomorrow. At the palace.’
‘Does he?’ She clawed at the lace. ‘I suppose he thinks with father dead—’
Of a sudden she found herself gasping for breath, unable to continue; Nathan steered her to an empty table, facing her away from the room. He called to the innkeeper to bring over an ale. She sipped at the brown liquid, calming herself.
‘I suppose he thinks he is in charge now,’ she said finally. ‘Well, he can try.’
‘And you will not let him.’ Nathan reached out a hand across the table, but checked himself. ‘Still, he was adamant he wished to see you. He must know we are leaving by the late morning coach. He is sending a carriage at seven o’clock.’
The sound of horses being saddled in the courtyard below woke Mercia early, a pit of sadness in her stomach reminding her where she was. She lay in bed awhile, unwilling to get up, until the church bells of St Sepulchre’s opposite chimed out six o’clock. Reluctantly she rose, pulling a black woollen gown from her battered trunk. She entwined her arms in its darkness for a time before forcing it on over a similarly black petticoat.
She came downstairs as her uncle’s grand carriage swept into the courtyard, pulled by four massive horses. But she was hungry, and she made the immaculately dressed footmen wait while she finished a plate of eggs.
Despite the early hour, the streets were flowing with people. The painted carriage trundled along the old city wall, turning right opposite the Ludgate and over the River Fleet, forcing everything in its path to one side. Down Fleet Street they passed seamlessly onto the Strand, easing left at Charing Cross to ride towards the Banqueting House where the first King Charles had faced his execution fifteen years before. Immediately before the columned edifice they pulled into the courtyard of the vast Whitehall Palace wh
ere his namesake son now reigned.
The footmen handed her to a waiting palace servant with dark patches under his eyes, evidence of drunken revelry the previous night, perhaps. She did not want to think in celebration of what. Still he led her without pause through the labyrinth of corridors, leaving her in a small, green-walled chamber, fine upholstered chairs set around a welcome fire within.
She was staring blandly at a walnut cabinet, not really noticing its ostentatious splendour, when a slight quivering of the flames heralded a new arrival to the room. Shivering, Mercia rubbed her hands over her arms and looked up. Shaded in the doorway stood a well-dressed gentleman: her mother’s brother, Sir Francis Simmonds.
‘Uncle,’ she acknowledged.
He rested against the doorframe, clutching a parchment. ‘Mercia. Such a sorry few days. I know you must be upset.’ He walked to the fireplace, setting the parchment on the mantelpiece while studying his reflection in the mirror above. ‘Although a night in Newgate is hardly decent.’ He brushed a gloved hand over his greying hair, teasing loose strands back into place, not yet taken to wearing a wig like some men of the court.
‘I am grateful you secured my release.’ She folded her arms. ‘But my coach leaves soon for Oxford. You wished to see me?’
Sir Francis turned and smiled, the right side of his face arching higher than the left in that particular way of his that made her wonder about his real thoughts. He was dressed in dark brown, doubtless his concession to mourning in a court hostile to the deceased man. But in contrast to Mercia’s subdued clothing he wore a fancily patterned doublet, unbuttoned to show off a snug waistcoat beneath, his well-fitted silk breeches pleated at the knee.
He pulled off his gloves, resting them on an adjacent table: their perfumed scent drifted across the room. ‘I thought I would wish you well before you return home. ’Tis a terrible thing to lose a father.’ He looked at her. ‘Traitor though yours was.’
‘My father—’ She stopped. He was goading her.
‘Your father chose his side.’ Sir Francis sighed, but she could tell it was fake. ‘And so your care passes to me.’
She let out a bitter laugh. ‘Really, Uncle. I can care for myself.’
‘Can you?’ He sniffed, toying with his fingertips. ‘If you refuse to marry again, you can hardly expect me to stand aside.’
She looked through the window beside her. The River Thames flowed below in its steady course to the sea; dotted with boats it still seemed grey, bleak. ‘I have managed these past few years,’ she said. ‘I will manage now.’
‘On your widow’s jointure? I think not. Rowland cannot add to it any more.’
She frowned. Something was not right. Her uncle’s tone was almost – what? Triumphant? She turned her gaze on him. ‘I can manage, because I will have care of the lands Daniel is inheriting from his grandfather.’
Sir Francis picked at a thread on his doublet. ‘Well, that is the point. Your son has fewer lands than we both supposed.’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
His right cheek arched upwards. ‘I mean that the manor house and its lands are to pass to me.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘And Daniel – he gets nothing.’
‘What?’ A coldness formed in her stomach. ‘That cannot be. Daniel is my father’s heir. The will is clear.’
‘Have you seen this will?’
‘No, but Father discussed it with me. My mother receives her jointure from their marriage settlement, and Daniel gets the manor house and lands. Quite naturally I am to be his guardian until he comes of age.’
Sir Francis tapped on the mantelpiece. ‘Did you know Rowland appointed me his executor? I reviewed the papers with him last week. It is quite clear in that same marriage settlement you speak of that the manor and all its contents should pass to a son.’
Her face set. ‘You know there is no son. I am the only living child.’
‘So you cannot inherit.’
‘I do not claim that. As his grandson, my son is to inherit. The will makes it plain.’
He held up his hands, his face perfectly composed. ‘But there you see the problem. The terms of the settlement must take precedence over the will. Study it if you like.’ He nodded at the paper on the mantelpiece. ‘In the absence of sons, the estate goes to brothers. Not daughters. Not grandsons through daughters. And as Sir Rowland’s brothers are both dead, that means to me, his brother through marriage. I am surprised he never mentioned it.’
Mercia walked over and snatched up the parchment. Pre-marriage settlements were common enough in families of wealth, to ensure property descended down the male line. But she had never heard of it leaping across to the wife’s family. She read quickly.
‘This says nothing of brothers-in-law, only brothers.’ She looked up. ‘It is irrelevant.’
Sir Francis folded his arms. ‘Mercia, what know you of the law? I have discussed this with Sir Bernard Dittering and he agrees with my assessment.’
She let the paper drop to the floor. ‘An assessment which favours you immensely. Validated by the man who orchestrated my father’s so-called trial.’ Her breathing quickened. ‘I will not allow this to happen. You will not disinherit my son.’
He pursed his thin lips. ‘You have your own house, do you not, that charming cottage Rowland provided with your dowry?’
‘That is beside the point. Halescott Manor belongs to my family. To my son.’ She bored into her uncle’s eyes. ‘I will fight this. Your claim is spurious.’
‘Then you will lose. You are a woman, the child of a traitor. I have many friends at court, Mercia. I asked you here to explain the situation. Now accept it.’
The coldness inside her intensified. ‘And my mother? The manor house is her home.’
Sir Francis stooped to pick up the settlement. ‘Your mother is in my care now. I have sent riders to take her to someone who can look after her properly. The servants will be informed. And I have arranged for a tenant for the house. He will receive the authorisation today.’
Mercia stared at him, pure fury in her heart, her breaths quick and shallow. ‘You have no right to do this.’
For an instant his eyes darted away, but then he returned her fierce gaze. ‘You are too proud, child. I have every right. I am your uncle, your protector. When you return to Halescott, I expect you to live in your cottage and behave as I say.’
She said nothing. The anger was too acute.
‘However, I do have an alternative for you. One that will allow you to keep living in the way that you wish.’ He picked up his gloves and strode to the door. ‘Follow me. There is someone who wishes to meet you.’
She remained where she was.
‘Now, Mercia.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘This is not a request.’
The whole affair was a set-up. The pain was physical, as though she had been stabbed.
She allowed her uncle to lead her through the huge palace, following in a daze. The magnitude of what he had told her refused to sink in. Instead of inheriting the manor house and its profitable lands, she and her son would be left with nothing but a small amount of money. Her mind flew back to her father’s speech, to the message she was certain was hidden within. Had he known this was going to happen?
A chill wind interrupted her thoughts. They had come out onto a paved terrace overlooking the Thames. A light drizzle was falling, irregular gusts propelling stray flower stalks and embroidery threads across the damp stone. Sir Francis stopped, pointing to a man in a thick, fur-rimmed cloak who was standing with his back to them, looking out onto the river.
‘Do you see that man?’ His tone was curt. ‘Do you know who he is?’ He grabbed her chin and forced her to look. ‘Well?’
She wrenched her head from his grasp. ‘No. No, I do not.’
He scoffed. ‘That, child, is Sir William Calde. He is one of the Duke of York’s most trusted advisors. A man of high influence.’ He paused. ‘And a man with a fancy for you.’
A burst of cold air swept ove
r her face. ‘My father died yesterday.’ She felt her jaw clenching. ‘And today you want to take my house, whore me out to your friends?’
‘Do not be absurd. You should be honoured at his interest.’ He sighed. ‘Listen to me, Mercia. Sir William is wealthy. He has made a fortune these past several years. You want to live in grand houses, have pretty trinkets? Well.’ He waved a hand towards Sir William. ‘That is how.’
She looked her uncle in the eye. ‘And his wife?’
He shrugged. ‘Wife, mistress, ’tis all the same. You will do well by him, as will our family.’
She began to retort but he had already moved away, beckoning her to follow. Unsure how to react, she complied. As he neared his quarry, Sir William turned, the edges of his grand cloak brushing the dusty ground.
‘Sir William.’ Sir Francis inclined his head. ‘Not such a pleasant day, this morning.’
‘Not yet.’ Sir William looked at Mercia and smiled. ‘But I hope it will improve.’
‘This is my niece.’ Sir Francis laughed. ‘But then you know that.’
Sir William beamed at her, his ample cheeks red, before commanding Sir Francis to leave with a barely perceptible jerk of his head. With a penetrating glance at Mercia, Sir Francis bowed and retreated. She watched him leave, a sudden rage flaring within, but Sir William’s words snapped her back into the reality of the cruel terrace.
‘Will you walk with me?’ he asked. ‘I know you are to return home on the morning coach, but we have a little time.’
She acquiesced, keen to get away as quickly as she could. As they strolled along the terrace she looked sideways at him. He was about twenty years older than she, just in his fifties perhaps, but his face was pleasant, the ends of his hair still a deep brown, his large hat trimmed with fashionable ostrich feathers. But she had no desire to be his mistress, or anyone’s.
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