The Last in Line (The Royal Inheritance Series Book 1)

by Banks, Evie

  They were interrupted by an older gentleman with round spectacles, who was so short he barely reached Cassandra’s height.

  “Ah, there you are Owen!” bellowed Erastus. “Come meet our guests of honor. Lady Montshire, this is Owen Millthwaite, our resident historian.” The little man bowed.

  “I know you!” exclaimed Renee. “I saw you on television giving the speech about the family tree at the Grand Reunion.”

  “A terrible day,” said the small man.

  “Owen is the one who tracked you down. He put all the clues together and went digging around in libraries and archives in America to track down the Montshires,” said Erastus.

  Owen seemed pleased to be recognized for his work, but was startled when Renee slipped off her kitchen stool to give him a hug. “Your Majesty!” he said, turning red.

  Erastus clapped Owen on the back, knocking his spectacles askew. “Don’t let his pint size fool you. He’s a member of the League; a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce and as keen a mind as ever you’ll meet. I asked him to come here so we can all have a look at some of the records I have in my possession.”

  “Oh, yes. Do lead the way, Hughes,” said Owen, and they all went to the library. Several minutes were spent digging the armchairs out from under the piles of books and clearing off a table for Owen to use. Despite the windows which reached nearly two stories, the room was dark from the wood paneling and muted sunlight, so Owen switched on a lamp and settled into a wingback chair.

  “Brandy?” asked Erastus. Owen readily agreed, but Renee shook her head and looked sternly at Cassandra who had initially nodded her head. Erastus poured from a crystal bottle. Owen took a drink, sighed contentedly, and opened the file in front of him which he had brought with him.

  “I’ve made copies of all the relevant documents for you to have in your own records, Lady Montshire. It’s all here: the land deeds, birth records, the letter stating George had been stopped at Winchester, the letter from the neighbor of George Montshire in Virginia, etcetera, all the way to the birth certificate of Cassandra Montshire Krebs. It’s watertight. No one can question your origins.” He closed the file, tied it with a strap and pushed it across the table to Renee who cradled it in her arms. This was her family. She had always felt so lonely out there on the ranch with no cousins or family stories, but here it all was.

  “That is everything that could be found through public research. But what I haven’t seen yet are the materials in the care of the Hughes family,” said Owen.

  Erastus coughed a little guiltily. “It didn’t occur to me that they would be important until after a Montshire descendant had already been named as the heir on television. If I had known you were looking in that direction, you could have had unfettered access.”

  Owen waived his hand dismissively. “It makes no difference. No difference at all. We accomplished the impossible without it, but this will be a delight,” said Owen, looking as if Christmas Day had arrived early. “Have you looked through them before?”

  “Never,” said Erastus.

  “How did they come to be in your family’s possession?”

  “They were entrusted to us. It’s quite a dramatic story, really. Alfred, the third son, was overthrown and Agnes Montshire, the mother to the ill-fated boys, galloped out of London with her foes on her tail. She stopped at Highlowe to change horses and she was implored to rest the night, but she insisted she be off and it was then that she thrust the bundle into the then Lord Hughes’s arms and begged him to always protect George, to which my ancestor agreed though he believed George, if he still lived, would not be long for this life. She was gone again on the fresh horse, her long hair flying behind her. It was a good thing that she did not stay the night because her pursuers reached Highlowe within hours and pulled it apart looking for her. Highlowe was gone by morning, having been burned to its foundation. These papers survived because Lord Hughes’s wife had the presence of mind to hide them behind some loose bricks in the cellar. These and some excellent bottles of wine were all that survived the destruction, but once the Montshires had been deposed for good, it was in no one’s favor to read them.”

  Renee was riveted.

  “What happened to Agnes?” asked Cassandra in a small voice.

  Erastus sighed. “She was put to the sword on the floor of Canterbury Cathedral two days later. She had sought protection there, but not even the Church could protect her once the dynastic winds had changed.”

  Cassandra shivered and pulled her chair closer to Renee’s. Renee could only think of her many times great-grandmother’s blood spilling out over the cathedral. She and all her sons dead. Not all her sons, Renee reminded herself.

  “Well, let’s have a look at them, shall we?” said Owen, suddenly very much the historian. Erastus produced an old-fashioned key and went to a glass-fronted cabinet that was built into the bookshelves. He unlocked it and pulled out an ancient looking leather folder. Dust flew up when he put it in front of Owen who waved away the dust and examined the folder on every side. “A very typical example of the period,” he said.

  “Hurry up. It’s what’s inside the folder that we all want to know about,” said Erastus irritably when Owen continued to examine it. Owen sighed, clearly unhappy that no one could appreciate the thoroughness of his historical examination. He opened the folder and Renee, Erastus and Cassandra leaned in forward to see what it contained.

  Renee couldn’t read any of it. It was written in a script that was so ornate she couldn’t tell if it was English or not. Owen bent his head over it. His eyes went back and forth, scanning the lines of script, turning a page every couple of minutes and saying, “Hmmm,” every so often.

  Erastus drummed his fingers on the table. “Well?”

  Owen looked up over his spectacles. “Patience never was a Hughes virtue.”

  “Damn and blast, man!”

  Owen sighed. “So far it looks like government correspondence, not very interesting at all: Discussions regarding the interest rate on a loan to refurbish the royal residence; instructions to pay a departing employee five pounds and a length of damask; appointments to various positions of no import….”

  Renee sighed. She didn’t know what she had been expecting. Erastus slouched in his seat.

  Owen turned another page over. “What’s this?” he said, startled. His eyes read over the page and then started back at the beginning again.

  “Find something?” asked Renee. She stared listlessly out the window at a crow, which was being chased by a sparrow. The crow must have gotten too close to the sparrow’s nest, she thought.

  “It’s a letter,” said Owen, “from William, the oldest brother, to his mother, Agnes. Some is in Latin and some in French, but I believe I understand enough. It was written during his brief reign in 1688. It mentions that his Master of the Horse, who has become invaluable to him, has heard a rumor of a plot against him.”

  Owen read haltingly as he translated:

  Dearest Mother, The blessings which have touched our family are manifested daily in your prayers and hours spent in studying the Holy Scriptures. Once this would have brought danger to our door and our prayers would have been whispered in secret, but now, by the grace of God and His Son, the defenders of the pure faith have been elevated for His glory.

  While I foresee much good, there is also much peril and the slightest crack of the door will open us wide to it. My master of the stables, who rides with me and is skilled with the bow as well as the musket, has proven invaluable and daily brings me news of our vast household and of the common folk. Often it is of a minor matter and I have more than once fabricated a solemn countenance in front of a servant for while he speaks gentlemanly, I know him to be an imbiber and wanton carouser who was struck across the face by his own wench. I should not report such things to a Lady of piety, but I mention it only to inform of the intelligence I receive from this man for he has brought it to me only this morning, and his news unquiets my mind. He has heard in the Town g
rumblings among the people that their king is not a true defender of the Church of England and has allowed its popish enemies to flourish. This strikes at my core as I have not forgotten the stories of how our family suffered during the reign of Mary Tudor, but nor do I wish to inflict those same terrors on those who choose to remain wallowing in ignorance and heresy. The Lord knows His own and will sort the wheat from the chaff at the end of times. My heart is grieved but I shall remain on this course for I shall heed the Prophet Micah who asks what the Lord requires of us, and answers that he requires us to love Mercy and Justice, and to walk humbly with our God. Amen, and may the Lord bless you.

  Your faithful son,

  William

  Owen flipped through the pages, his eyes quickly scanning the lines of faded ink. He was on the hunt now and knew, with an historian’s instinct, what he was looking for.

  “Here’s another one dated a month later,” said Owen.

  Dearest Mother,

  I pace my quarters in a frenzy, convinced that the walls are not solid and the curtains shall transform into snakes and strangle me, for how else can I perceive the world which was until today a place orderly and understandable? Mother, it will pain you when I relay this news. It will pain you more than when our dear sister died in infancy for at least then we had consolation that the child would find a home in Heaven, but there is no comfort in this case for the souls in question will find Terminus in Hell, and these your own children!

  My master of the stable, who has been keeping me well-stocked in information of the sort that a ruler cannot do without, made bold to speak to me today when we had outstripped the other hunters and were stopped in a quiet grove. He begged his pardon and when I bade him to speak freely, he, with many sidelong looks to ensure that foreign ears would not hear us, said that he had heard word that there was a plot to unseat me and that the blackguards were people I knew well. He faltered then and would not speak more, but when I urged him on pain of whipping to divulge this information, he said that it was mine own brothers!

  He caught the bridle of my horse for a wave of dizziness overtook me, but I was well enough in a moment. The galloping of hooves alerted us that the rest of our party was upon us and we could not speak more of the subject. Among them were the brothers, previously so dear to my heart, and when Frederick, closest in age to me and the companion of my youth, called out “Hallo!” I recalled that he had always been the most pious among us, spending entire nights in prayer before the chapel altar. It is Frederick who most fervently defends the English Church and calls out the papists as rascals. It would be he who is not satisfied with my policies. When I saw him raise his arm in greeting to me, I had to resist the urge to kill him on the spot and only the steady hand of the horse master on my steed’s bridle and the urgent looks he gave me prevented me from doing it. I understood his meaning, for if I were to strike Frederick there in the presence of the others of our party, it would not be understood. No, there must be charges and proofs. And proofs there shall be…

  Owen patted his brow with a handkerchief and Erastus gripped his glass of brandy. Renee could scarcely breathe. Cassandra had drawn her knees up in her chair and her fingers were laced tightly together. Owen turned the delicate page over and picked up a new one. “This one is not dated and part of it is missing.”

  “Go on,” urged Erastus and Owen began to read.

  ...Alfred and George stand against me in favor of Frederick. They plead for mercy on his behalf and demand an explanation, and the falseness of their words belies their demeanor of brotherly concern. I quiver when I think of how I have been betrayed. Alfred, always so hot-headed, has declared that if Frederick is not released from his prison chains, that he shall go in there and free him himself. I wished him luck and that chains are reserved for him as well. My youngest brother George, attempts to make peace between Alfred and I, but their deception is too much to bear. He counsels that I should shut out whichever wicked voice is whispering in my ear, but he is still a boy and easily turned. I know the truth and I shall stand by the truth. The burden your king carries is heavy indeed….

  Another page. The ink on this one was unclear and splotched as if tears had been shed over it.

  Trust dearest mother that I have not put you out of my heart, but I have not allowed your admittance for I know your purpose: to plead for the lives of your sons. The one thing you want is the one thing I cannot do, for it is done. Frederick is dead. The heart of the one who bore him cannot be rent more fully than the one who got into mischief with him, who received punishment with him, who learnt to ride and scrape and meet the world with him, side by side, always. You can cherish the memories of your second son and let them warm you like a flickering candle, but I no longer have even the consolation of my memories. His betrayal has struck me twice: first in the infamy itself, and second in the infamy I am forced to commit to save the kingdom. His brothers are soon to follow for the testimonies against them are damning. Pray for their souls, dearest Lady, for I know your voice is heard in Heaven. And pray for mine.

  Renee wanted to shout at William that he shouldn’t take someone’s word over his brothers’, that he was being blind and bullheaded and that it would ruin him…. But there was no one to shout at and she knew how it ended, for the actors had long since turned to dust. She put her head in her hands. Owens continued to scan pages and the sound of them quietly turning cut through her agitated thoughts. Those pieces of paper held the story of life and death. And betrayal. She couldn’t count that out. Either the younger brothers had betrayed the eldest or someone had lied to get the younger ones in trouble and out of the way. Owens mumbled quietly as he looked through the materials. “Remarkable, remarkable. We’re the first to read this, I dare say. Remarkable.” His mutterings stopped suddenly and he held up a page that even Renee’s untrained eye could see was not written in William’s fine, dense script.

  “This one was written by Alfred,” said Owen.

  The letters sloped and looped wildly as if written by a person in a hurry. Or someone hot-headed with a temper, thought Renee.

  Mother,

  I write this to you with a hasty hand to urge to stay in your country lodgings and not return to Town just yet for it is unknown who are yet loyal to the former king. Yes, mother, I write ‘former’ for I have avenged the death of my brother Frederick who was always so noble of heart and strong in body. Frederick’s death was murder, but William’s death was justice. I will spare you the details mother for I know how it must grieve you. The eldest is never replaced, but I hope I shall fulfill my duties as the oldest son admirably…

  Quickly, I will tell you that our rescue was like the aid that never came to Thermopylae. The clang of metal on metal, the shouts of men, the brandishing of muskets, and the chaos of gates thrown open and chains struck from our wrists. And then a sword in my hand and George and I fighting our way out to find that a multitude had joined us! My heart has never soared so high in my entire life. A man who I recognized as the royal stable keeper led us through the Palace and to the very room where William—but of this I shall speak no more for what is triumph for me is a lit candle in the Church tomorrow for you, but my life and George’s are owed to him and for this and I have made him my Lord of the Bedchamber. He is noble-born, from one of the many families who once were exalted, but like so many find themselves richer in name than in gold….

  Erastus interrupted. “There’s that man again, the stable keeper. Wasn’t he mentioned before? The one who first warned William there was a plot? And now he’s the bloody Lord of the Bedchamber after William is killed? Something is not kosher.”

  “Patience, Hughes,” said Owen. “We’re almost to the end.”

  Indeed, Renee could see that there were only a few sheets left unread in the folder.

  Renee held her breath as Owen read silently. He shook his head and raised his eyes in a sorrowful expression and then lowered them again to the paper as he began to read.

  Mother,

 
Upon receipt of this letter, you must flee immediately. Do not pause to gather your valuables for your life is more valuable than gemstones. Indeed, by the time you read this, your son and your king is likely already dead and a usurper sits in his place. Do not weep for me, Mother. Spare your tears and hopes for the one of your sons who still lives—if he lives. I have been chastened and humbled, humbled lower even than Saul whose sins were revealed to him on the road to Damascus. Mine own follies are clear to me now and I pray to God to forgive me for I have committed the gravest of sins: I have murdered my eldest brother, the king, in a moment fueled by vengeance, and I have likely killed my younger brother also. We were all deceived. Only George did not allow the shades to cover his eyes. He questioned me about the motives of my Chamberman and said not to reveal too much to him, a stranger to our household, but I proclaimed that I would trust him with my life. He was the one who freed us and to question his integrity was to question the King himself. George’s eyes grew wide and he said, “Yes, your Majesty,” and bowed out of the room. The next morning George could not be located and I suspected the worst: that he had betrayed me, just as we had been betrayed by William. My Lord of the Bedchamber, the man whom I trusted above my own blood, begged to be of service and to be allowed to lead the party to hunt my brother. I agreed for I trusted this man as our savior and had grown reliant on his counsel. He departed at the head of a group of soldiers and a week later I received word that George had been stopped at Winchester. I asked for his body to be brought for Christian burial, but the guards informed me that he had already found his resting place, though they could not provide a single token of his. I breathed easier now for the kingdom and planned to reward the Chamberman with an exalted position for his service, but now I see the error. A few hours ago I received word that he has been gathering forces in his family’s name to oust me. Now I realize that it is not the Montshires who have been saved, but who have been hunted one by one by this clever man, who, rather than raising the sword himself, turned each brother’s hand against the next.