9,59 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Mercia Blakewood
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
1664. Four years after Charles II is restored to the throne, Mercia Blakewood stands to lose everything: her father to the executioner's axe, her freedom to her treacherous uncle, her son to his resentful grandparents. But when her father leaves her a cryptic message in his last speech, she seizes her chance to fight back. With would-be lover Nathan Keyte and unlikely new friend Nicholas Wildmoor, Mercia must unravel her father's mystery to find a great prize long thought lost, striving to recover the King's stolen birthright in the hope of reclaiming her own. From London's bulging metropolis to the forests of Manhattan she will contend with murder, intrigue and lust, fighting for her future and her life as the town of New York is born.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 577
Ähnliche
Birthright
DAVID HINGLEY
For Matthew,
with whom I travel the world
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Two hundred. Drip. Two hundred and one. Drip. Two hundred and two.
It had been an uncomfortable night, trapped in the close confines of her cramped Newgate cell. No sleep, of course. Not that Mercia cared for sleep, as she sat eyes closed on the sparsely strewn straw, the ever-falling droplet invading her troubled mind. Still, better to be caught in a counting loop than dwell on why she was in this stifling hole. Two hundred and nine. She wiped the sweat from her brow. Two hundred and ten.
Abruptly the dripping ceased, vanquished by the mad woman’s fists in the next cell along, her surely bloody knuckles beating a discordant rhythm on their shared stone wall. The noise in the prison was infernal. Mercia had expected the stench, the darkness, but it was the sound that overwhelmed her the most. Her melancholy diffused through the putrid air. She waited, unmoving, struggling to comprehend what had befallen her.
The banging ceased, the unexpected silence forcing open her eyes. She returned to thinking through how she might be released, but then the drip renewed its attack and a piercing scream rang out, the mad woman striking at the wall once more. Mercia shuffled to the other side of her filthy cell, mumbling curses.
The little light that came through the bars of her door flickered. She looked up to see a silhouetted guard passing in front.
‘Be quiet,’ he shouted into the adjacent cell. ‘By God’s truth, there are enough crazed devils here to send a man insane.’
The mad woman growled. Moments later she spat.
‘Right.’ The guard unlocked the woman’s door, crashing it hard against the wall. Mercia heard him stride in, his heavy boots pounding the floor. There was a small chink in the stonework she could have looked through to see what was happening, but she did not. Yet there was no avoiding the harsh sound of a fist striking ragged flesh, a thud against the wall signalling the woman’s collapse.
The door slammed shut. The light through Mercia’s bars wavered again as the guard walked back, except now it disappeared, blocked by his substantial bulk. He inserted a key into the lock and she looked up, fearful, remembering a moment from long ago. But he merely swung open the door.
‘Up you get.’ He motioned to her with a jerk of his head. ‘Warder says you can go.’
‘What?’ She stared at the shadowed guard in disbelief, her melancholy morphing into sudden anger. She staggered to her feet, but the feeling had gone from her legs and she had to rub at them for a while before she could hobble towards him. ‘I have been kept here in squalor since last night. And now I am just released?’
The guard shrugged, looking her up and down in the light of his near-spent torch. ‘Stay as you like. The lads could do with a bit of … company.’
Anger gave way to hope. Was there time? She had been here all night, certainly, but how many hours? She limped from the cell, stretching in the corridor, clammy and dark. More screaming sounded out from deeper inside the jail. She glanced at the mad woman’s door.
‘It was unjust, to strike her as you did.’
The guard stared. ‘From what the lads say you’re as handy with your fist as I am. Smacked old Dicken right in the mouth, teeth everywhere, that’s what I hear.’
She straightened up, pulling straw from the ringlets of her hair. ‘There was a disagreement. But teeth – you exaggerate.’
‘Imagine.’ The guard shook his head. ‘A woman striking a Tower guard as bold as that. Now, are you coming?’
He set off down the corridor, Mercia following as quickly as she could. As they turned a corner she looked back, struck by an unexpected sympathy.
‘What will happen to her? To that woman?’
‘Our Margie?’ The guard seemed surprised to be asked. ‘She’s been here near twenty years. She don’t even know the old King is killed, or that Cromwell has been and gone.’ He laughed. ‘I think she’ll be here for ever.’
They arrived at a large wooden gate. Three more guards perching around an oval table broke off their dice game to stare as she passed, but she ignored the leers. Emerging into chill dawn the heavy gate clanged shut behind her, releasing her into the dank London air. Despite the subdued light she screwed up her eyes, squinting. Her brown skirt was crumpled, the damp straw of the prison floor obscuring its criss-crossed pattern. Bending down to brush it off, a hand on her shoulder made her jump.
‘I am sorry.’ A tall man in a wide-brimmed hat stood before her, his dark eyes radiating concern. He held out a woollen cloak and wrapped her in its warmth before pulling his own firmly around him, covering the scar that protruded from under the simple neck frills of his shirt.
‘Are you unharmed?’ he asked. The furrows of his lightly stubbled face betrayed his worry. ‘I went to your uncle at once, but they refused to do anything until morning.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Nathan, is there time?’ She looked at the sky, assessing the amount of light. ‘I think there must be. Please tell me there is.’
‘There is. But we must go now.’
She felt her heart beat faster. ‘Then come. I need to see him before he dies.’
The carriage trundled slowly down the London streets. Impatient, she craned her head through the window, silently cursing every lumbering cart, every rambling pedlar, every early-to-rise housewife who got in their way. She realised she was gripping the edge of her seat, and as she pulled her hands away she noticed a stained news pamphlet on the floor, discarded by a previous passenger. A grisly image of a man carrying his own severed head was emblazoned on one side. She snatched it up to read a sort of verse on the rear.
Good Sir Rowland Goodridge knew
Where his deeds ’gainst the King would lead him
Now his head will be docked for a Stew
And they’ll send it to Charles, to please him
She tore up the paper and threw it onto the street.
‘Why didn’t they let me see him, Nat? I lost my temper, I know, but they would have prevented it anyway.’ She ran her hand over her face; remembering where she had spent the night, she sat up straight. ‘God’s truth, how do I look? ’Tis a blessing this cloak covers me well.’
‘You look fine.’ Nathan’s lips curled into a tentative smile. ‘Curls, topknot, all still in place.’
‘No straw anywhere? Dirt?’
‘Your hair is as brown as mine.’ He licked his finger, rubbing a couple of specks from her cheek. ‘All gone.’
They lapsed into silence as the carriage jolted down the cobbled streets. Soon the shaking stopped and she looked out the window to see a row of similar carriages stuck one behind the other, not moving.
‘Shall I drop you here by the Dolphin?’ the driver shouted back. ‘I don’t think I can get any closer. Too many people up the Hill. Wish I could go myself, but the horses, you know.’
Covering her head with her hood, Mercia flung open the door and jumped out, oblivious to the rowdy group of blue-aproned apprentices who were forced to duck aside. The teenagers swore at her but she took no notice. On the roadside Nathan slapped a silver shilling into the driver’s outstretched hand and the carriage rumbled off into a side street, steering a path through the boisterous crowd that was making its slow way down Tower Street. All these people, thought Mercia, come to watch a man die. She fought back her tears as she allowed herself to be swept along with the mob, not wanting to show her despair.
A church steeple rose up from the crowd as they approached Tower Hill. She stopped, unheeding the grumbling melee around her. ‘All Hallows,’ she mumbled. ‘Where they will put him afterwards.’ The tears began to well, but still she fought them down.
Nathan reached out his arm. ‘Think of it as a place of tranquillity where he will find peace.’
‘He will not be at peace until he is brought back to Halescott.’ She looked up at the steeple, her hand clutching her neck. ‘All his life in the service of his country, ending like this. He was safe, by Jesus. There was no reason for the King to remove him. So why now?’ She rubbed at her forehead. ‘Damn them all. And damn myself. Useless, useless again.’
‘You are not useless.’ Nathan turned her to face him. ‘You are the bravest woman I know.’
She forced a weak smile. ‘You are a true friend, Nat. Thank you for coming with me to this … this place.’
‘Of course I have come. We have been through a lot, these past years. I will always be here, you know that.’
She looked back at the deepening crowd. ‘Well, then. Let us be brave.’
The noise on Tower Hill was incredible. It seemed as though all of London had turned out, more and more people gathering into ever smaller spaces. The wounds of the civil war that had set King against Parliament were fresh and unhealed. For some, what happened today was vindication. For others, it was a tragedy.
‘There.’ Mercia followed Nathan as he carved a path through the tumult. ‘The family platform.’ She swallowed. ‘Near the front.’
He turned his head. ‘Keep your voice down. You don’t want people to know who you are.’
‘He is my father. I will not hide that.’
He pressed on, using his broad shoulders to intimidate less determined bystanders into giving way. But it took several minutes to reach the family platform, squeezing past the whole variety of London life – well-dressed men in fine wigs leaning on sticks, gangs of predatory pickpockets, hemp-clad women cradling dirty babies in their arms. At the platform steps Nathan kicked off two young girls whose poorly applied face patches were already slipping on their whitened cheeks. They fled, screaming unheard curses.
The roughly hewn steps wobbled as Mercia ascended to the fair-sized platform. Feeling ever more nauseous, she nodded to the three of her father’s old colleagues who had dared attend, amongst them Nathan’s neighbour, Sir Jeremy Princeton, whose lands he helped manage alongside his own farm. He doffed his hat to her in sympathy.
‘Is my uncle not here?’ she said, looking around. ‘I suppose I should not have expected it.’ She paused as her eyes fell on a portly woman standing under armed guard. ‘And yet Lady Markstone has come.’
‘She has not had far to travel,’ said Nathan.
‘Don’t jest.’ Mercia walked to the elderly woman at the back of the platform. Her covered head was thrust back, her fine silk dress of a purple so dark it was almost black. Seeing Mercia approach, she gave her a subdued smile.
‘Mercia,’ she said. ‘I am so pleased to see you, sad day though it is. I hope you do not mind my being here.’
‘It is a surprise today, Lady Markstone. I did not think it would be allowed.’
‘They let me out my prison to be here. I wanted Rowland to see he had at least some friends left.’ She leant in closer. ‘The guards say there was an incident yesterday.’
Mercia glanced at the soldier beside them. ‘You are right. They would not let me see him.’
Lady Markstone nodded. ‘They can be cruel, these Tower warders. They like to pretend they have power. But return soon to visit me. I will make sure they let you pass.’ She hesitated. ‘How is your mother?’
‘As you would expect.’ Mercia looked away. ‘She does not know what happens here today. ’Tis her melancholy. Her mind will not accept it. But please, I should return to Nathan.’
Not wanting to talk further, Mercia pulled her hood tighter and moved to the front of the platform, standing beside Nathan who was speaking with Sir Jeremy. The crowd below now seemed an impenetrable horde. Many of them were staring up at her, wondering who she was. ‘Must be his daughter,’ someone guessed. ‘Still pretty, though.’
She looked over the crowd at the castle beyond, desperate to avoid anyone’s gaze. The Tower of London glared impassively back, its massive walls dismissing her silent entreaties for mercy as irrelevant. Spurned, her eyes rested on an empty platform between herself and the fortress: empty, save for the dented wooden block. She grabbed the rail in front of her. Small splinters of wood drove through her thin gloves into her palm, making her wince.
Nathan broke from his conversation. ‘Do you want to leave? We can go whenever you want.’
She shook her head. ‘I need to see him. I need him to see me. I am just glad I will not have to see him – afterwards.’ She looked up at Sir Jeremy. ‘Thank you for taking care of … that.’
Sir Jeremy nodded, uttering words she did not really hear. She dared a look back at the crowd, here to witness a bloody blow of the axe, a head severed, a man destroyed. She glanced again at the block, fighting her rising nausea. How would it feel, to be beheaded? They said it was quick, but sometimes the axe stuck. She fixed her gaze on a knot in the wooden rail, breathing in and out, steady and sure, as her husband had taught her before he died. Striving to ignore the scene around her, she listened in to Nathan’s resumed conversation.
‘Some of my merchant friend’s wine barrels were swept away,’ he was saying. ‘By the time he found them lower down the Thames they were being pilfered.’
‘That flood was the worst I can remember,’ said Sir Jeremy, grabbing his hat at a gust of wind. ‘Water came into the palace itself. The corridors were full of dead rats.’
‘Peter says a whole horse washed up in Greenwich. Bits of people too. That superstitious lot down Lambeth Marsh found a finger rotted right to the bone, thought it was sent by the Devil, the mad fools. And what of that jilt on Broken Wharf who brought in a skull? Peter reckons it was a client who refused to pay, and she took her revenge by cutting off—’
He held the finger he was running across his throat dead still. ‘By the Lord, Mercia, I am sorry. I did not think.’ He looked at Sir Jeremy, mortified, and both fell silent. But Mercia patted his forearm, and they waited.
Not for long. The great din of the crowd ceased as movement was spotted at the Tower’s base. An unnatural quiet briefly descended, to be replaced by an ever-growing murmuring as a figure cloaked in a black hood approached, carrying a huge axe in his enormous hands. Gasps of horror and awe intermingled as the man who would deliver the fatal blow came ever closer. Who was he? Some said a pardoned criminal, others a sadistic nobleman, but nobody really knew.
Rejecting the need for steps, the axeman leapt onto the executioner’s platform. With one gloved hand he slowly stroked the block. He waited a few seconds, the tension ever rising, before he advanced to face the crowd, and with a triumphant roar he thrust his axe to the sky for all the mob to see. Groans, gasps, cheers, all resounded round the crowd, the people’s bloodlust dominant.
A drum began to beat atop the Tower. The axeman backed towards the block, his eyes invisible behind his black hood, his deliberate footsteps in time with the drum’s monotonous thud. Then a door opened in the Tower wall and more drummers emerged, adding their rhythm to the other. The crowd hushed, straining to see as the Tower disgorged a man dressed all in white, his grey hair loose around his face, a guard of soldiers behind. As he approached, a shout went up – Sir Rowland comes, the traitor is here! – before the mob let loose a baying, illiterate, cacophonous roar in anticipation of the spectacle to come.
Sir Rowland was pushed up the steps to the axeman’s platform. He stumbled against the block, but immediately straightened himself. His face and clothes were clean, his beard trimmed. He did not shake. He walked forward to the edge of the dais, surveying the people around, then opened his mouth to begin his last speech.
Chapter Two
A jackdaw called out nearby. Silence now reigned in the crowd.
‘I come here,’ Sir Rowland began, ‘not in misery, nor in anger, but in satisfaction that what I have done in the course of my life has been just, and necessary, to safeguard our country from tyranny.’
The silence evaporated. A deep-voiced man in the crowd called out, ‘Shut him up for good and all!’ while others clapped a chorus, singing, ‘We want his head!’ Mercia looked around, disgusted, a nauseous feeling swimming in her heart. But others turned on those who had shouted out, crying Shame! and threatening retribution.
Sir Rowland ignored the crowd’s taunts. He was scanning the mob, searching for someone, and Mercia knew it was she that he sought. His eyes roved left, and as his gaze fell on the family platform, she leant forward on the barrier until they locked with her own. For a moment the crowd did not exist as father and daughter looked into each other’s souls. Then he turned away, the crowd returned, and he continued in a stronger, prouder voice:
‘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 where 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 over 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.
‘I hope you do not think it unfeeling that I asked to see you today,’ he said. ‘But I am leaving for Hampton Court shortly, on business with the King, and I do not know when you might be back in the city.’ He renewed his smile. ‘I am pleased you have come. Your beauty enhances this otherwise forlorn day.’
She hid her impatience at his ridiculous flattery, keeping her expression neutral. Looking at him full on, she realised she had seen him before.
‘You were standing with my uncle yesterday.’ She spoke without emotion. ‘At my father’s execution.’
Her brashness discomfited him. He swallowed, looking out to the river. ‘Yes, with the Duke of York. I saw you too, near Millicent Markstone. You carried yourself with dignity.’ He looked at her as though awaiting a response, but when she stayed silent he continued. ‘I hoped, perhaps, to cheer your spirits. I have a gift for you.’
He paused, reaching inside his cloak to retrieve a magnificent necklace composed of three rows of pearls of an intensely white hue. Mercia took an involuntary sharp breath. She thought of her own necklace in her jewellery box at home: it only had one row, but had cost her husband a fortune to acquire.
The breeze teased at her hair. ‘You are most generous, Sir William. But I cannot – it is far too grand.’
‘Please. I want you to have it.’ He stepped behind her to place the pearls around her neck, bringing his face so close she could smell the faint odour of nutmeg on his breath, feel the individual hairs on his chin where he had not been properly shaved. He came round to smile at her. ‘There, you look beautiful. It sets off the blueness of your eyes.’
She looked at the busy river, its countless wherries carrying a multitude of people, but on that terrace she felt alone. She bowed her head.
Sir William laughed. ‘There is no need to be coy. Let us talk from time to time and see what comes to pass. But now I fear I must go.’ He grimaced as if in apology. ‘The King awaits.’
He traced an ungloved finger across her cold cheek. She raised her eyes to his, but it was not kindness she saw in them, merely lust.
Chapter Three
It was a two-day journey back to Oxfordshire. The coach was overbooked, so Mercia had to squeeze up tighter than she liked against an excitable woman who would not stay silent, prattling about every piece of scenery they passed. But it stopped her from brooding on all that had happened, and at least she had an inside seat, while Nathan had to sit outside in the pouring rain. By the time they arrived at their overnight halt in Stoaken Church his shirt was more or less part of his skin, the rain having penetrated deep beneath his cloak. While he went to change, Mercia, exhausted, retired to her own room and fell asleep to the sound of yet more pattering on the window. When she awoke it was dark, and she was ready to talk.
She was hungry, having avoided food since her scant breakfast, so when Nathan suggested they eat, she readily agreed. They sat at a candlelit table at the back of the busy dining area, away from the fire where there was most space. Although it was Lent and the King had once more prohibited meat, the innkeeper was not the most scrupulous sort. A calf’s head looked up from a silver platter set between them.
Nathan stared back at it. ‘Do you remember when my father served one of these at that birthday feast?’
‘He objected to the colour of Jane’s dress, as I recall.’ Mercia looked at him. ‘She was beautiful that day. You have mentioned her less of late.’
‘It has been some time now.’ He lowered his eyes for a second. ‘But we are avoiding what matters today. You have said hardly a word since we left London.’
‘I am sorry. I am struggling to contend with what has happened.’
Taking a deep breath, she told him about her conversations at the palace. As she spoke, his jaw began to clench, and when she had finished, his right hand was balled into a fist.
‘I am truly sorry.’ He punched his right hand into his left. ‘How can he do this to you? To Daniel?’
Mercia scoffed. ‘Daniel is nothing to him. As for me, I am just someone he thinks he can use. But Mother, my poor mother. She has lived in that house for thirty years.’
Nathan hesitated. ‘And Sir William? Will you … see him?’
‘I will not.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He thinks he has me with that damn necklace, but I will not be purchased like the King bought that harlot Castlemaine.’ She sighed. ‘I should be able to challenge my uncle. His argument is weak. But to fight him and his like? How does a woman do that?’
‘With her friends.’ Nathan reached for her hand. ‘I will help you however I can.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Nat. I would be lost without you now.’
‘You are too strong for that.’ Releasing her hand he pushed the platter towards her. ‘Now please, eat something. It will make you feel better.’
‘So now it is you telling me to eat.’ She carved at the head. ‘Yet there is one small piece of hope.’
‘There is always hope.’
She lifted a morsel of meat onto her plate. ‘I mean those strange words in my father’s speech.’
He frowned. ‘Strange words?’
‘He called me his fairy queen, like the book.’
‘The Fairie Queene.’ Nathan shook his head. ‘How many times have you read that?’
‘Many.’ She looked up. ‘You know the lady knight Britomart?’
‘Ah yes. Your favourite.’
‘He used to read those parts to me over and again. I dreamt of being her, of going on adventures as she did. I remember it now.’ She smiled, thinking of a happy time. ‘He would look at me from his chair, he would waggle his finger and he would say, “Look, Mercia, here is a woman who is strong, as you can be. Whatever you want to do, I will support it.” He scared my mother witless. She thought I should concentrate on needlework and dance.’
‘You dance well. But you were talking about your father’s speech.’
She nodded, recalling the words precisely. ‘There was one thing in particular. He said, “I promised I would make a lady of you, and I did.” And then: “Behind that promise, I have left you a legacy to explore.” I think it was a message.’
‘How so?’
She leant in closer. ‘When I was eight he commissioned a portrait of me. I was being peevish, refusing to accept I was not a Lady even though he was a knight.’
‘No child would be. His title is not hereditary.’
‘Yes, but when I was little I did not know that. I acted like a spoilt fool, all upset. He said he would make a lady of me anyway, dressed me up in finery and had a portrait done. So – he promised he would make a lady of me, and he did.’
Nathan raised an eyebrow. ‘You think he was talking about that portrait?’
‘Yes. And that behind his promise, in other words behind the portrait, he has left me something to explore, to use.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘I think he knew what my uncle was planning. It is my one hope.’
His knife wavered above his plate. ‘Where is the portrait now?’
She hesitated. ‘In the manor house.’
‘So go there.’
‘Oh, I will. It is my house. I will not let anyone stop me, my damned uncle least of all.’
His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘You taught me once there was always hope, even when I did not want to believe it. You were right then and you are right now. Never give up, remember.’
She speared her meat. ‘Never give up.’
Late next evening the coach rumbled into Oxford under a cloudless sky. Entrusting their luggage to a carter for delivery the next day, Nathan picked up his horse for the remaining few miles to Halescott, Mercia riding behind him. From experience he knew the roads well enough to manage the nocturnal ride, but even under bright moonlight it was still a harrowing journey, and they were ever vigilant for anyone who might be lying in wait along the muddy tracks. Once a rustling in the undergrowth up ahead caused him to spur on his horse, but it was only a nervous doe running out of their path.
Still, Mercia was relieved when the succession of large oak trees that signalled the boundary of Halescott village came into view. Before long they were passing the high walls of the manor house, an owl hooting in the impenetrable blackness beyond. Outside the iron gates they paused on seeing a tiny light in one of the windows, her uncle’s tenant perhaps already in residence. A quick anger shot through her. This should be Daniel’s, she thought. Mine until he comes of age. And it will be.
Resisting the urge to go through the gates tonight, she signalled to Nathan to ride on. They came into a wide street lined with stone cottages, but nobody was abroad at this late hour. Trotting quietly along the deserted road they crossed the green at the other side of the village to reach a larger cottage set apart from the rest, although small in comparison to the manor house. Mercia’s father had included it in her dowry; now she was widowed it belonged to her. As they approached, a shooting star flashed overhead. A sign of luck indeed – but would it be good or bad?
Dropping her at the cottage Nathan bade her a reluctant farewell, checking several times whether she would be all right before taking his leave. She watched him ride away, staring into the darkness until the sound of his horse’s hooves faded. It was still a long way to his farmland, but he was strong enough, and sharp, should he need his muscles or his wits.
Overcoming a momentary feeling of solitude she pushed open the cottage’s wooden door, wincing at the creak it made lest it wake her son. Shutting it with care, she tiptoed over the large hall flagstones and came into the sitting room, warm from the still-burning fire. Her maidservant Bethany was waiting in a chair, her baggy folds of skin sinking low into her face. As soon as Mercia entered she dragged herself up, setting down the pair of small breeches she was darning and disappearing to the kitchen, insisting Mercia take her seat. She returned with a plate of thick chicken stew, a homely smell of thyme filling the room.
Mercia pointed at the breeches. ‘That hole is new. Has Daniel behaved?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Bethany, setting the stew on a side table. Her eyes darted round the room. ‘But mistress, you need to know.’ Her voice shook. ‘Something has happened.’
‘Yes.’ Mercia sighed. ‘The manor house. My uncle … informed me.’ She stared listlessly at her prized globe of the Earth that filled a whole corner of the room. ‘Do you know what happened to my mother?’
A great sorrow accentuated the lines on Bethany’s aged face. ‘There was a commotion in the village. Horses came, riding this way and that. I went to the house to speak with Agnes. She said her mistress was to be taken to Warwick and that she was to go with her.’
‘Near family, then. At least he had that decency.’ She paused. ‘But who has he put in the house?’
Bethany’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Mercia frowned. ‘And you look petrified. Come, Bethany. Speak.’
Bethany’s face trembled. ‘’Tis – Mr and Mrs Blakewood. Your husband’s parents.’
Mercia sat up in her chair, stunned. ‘Anthony and Isabel? You are sure?’
‘Yes, mistress. I saw them there myself when I talked with Agnes.’
‘But that means they are complicit in disinheriting their own grandson!’ She felt sick. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘I am so sorry, mistress. What will you do?’
Mercia gripped the arms of her chair, talking more to herself than to her maid. ‘Whatever I must. I will not stand by and let this happen. I will retrieve what my father has left me, and then—’ She threw back her head. ‘Then I will fight back.’
Sunlight awoke her, a pleasant sight. She lay in bed for a few seconds, enjoying the way the oak of her bedside cabinet seemed to absorb the light. Then memories of the last few days surfaced. The injustice of the execution, the sorrow at the death. A great ache within her soul.
But no tears. She pulled herself from bed and went to the window, taking in her favourite view as she removed the curl-papers from her hair. The first tiny buds were coming through on the trees, but the village green was still just visible through the gaps in the branches. Daffodils were starting to unfurl their golden promise of warmer weather underneath.
She splashed her face in the pitcher of water that had appeared at the foot of her bed before dressing in her mourning clothes and descending the stairs. Daniel was in the kitchen, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth. She reached down to kiss his cheek.
He looked up and smiled. ‘Mamma! Are you not eating?’
‘Not yet. I will have something later.’
He mumbled through his bread. ‘Can we go sledging today?’
‘Danny, you need snow for sledging. The snow has gone.’
‘When then?’
She stroked his hair. ‘Soon, Danny, soon.’
‘Why are you in black?’
Her heart burst, right there in the kitchen. She hadn’t yet mustered the courage to tell him about his grandfather. She turned away, not knowing what to say.
‘Listen, Danny. I have to go out again, but I will be back soon.’ Mastering herself, she bent down to hug him close. ‘I need to talk to you about … something.’ He squirmed and she released him, managing a smile. ‘Behave for Bethany?’
He nodded, returning to his food. Mercia went into the hall, rubbing at her temples, instinctively stepping around the large green vase she had decided would fit well in the narrow space. Somehow Bethany was there with her cloak and hood. As she walked outside she looked back at the cottage, eyes roving over the warm orange stone all the village buildings enjoyed. It had been a comfortable home for her and Daniel. But it wasn’t the manor house, and it wasn’t where she needed to be.
A swift walk later, she was standing outside Halescott Manor, a chill air drying her lips. Before her the long wall that encircled the grounds ended in two tall columns of stone, framing the iron entrance gates familiar to her from clambering atop the sturdy metalwork during the more mischievous days of her childhood. A stray pigeon, presumably from the dovecote around the back, was roosting up there today.
She pushed open the gates, the left one sticking halfway with its usual loud clang, scaring the pigeon into hurried flight. As she strode towards the towering house, its symmetrically gabled facade beckoning her on, the crunching of her feet on the pebbled drive released a sorry memory, and she saw herself as a girl, playing with her doll on this drive, shouting with infant joy the day her father came home unexpectedly, but he, ignoring her, rushing past, crunching the pebbles as she did today; and she remembered the door wide open, a scream from upstairs – her mother! – and a maid running out, steering her away, but Mercia, unknowing, asking if the baby is born, she wants to show off her doll, but the maid, tears falling, shaking her head, shaking her head.
At the front door she paused. There were no other children to fight this battle. She inhaled deeply, taking in a strong scent of honeysuckle and lavender. Very well, she thought, be brave. She pulled the doorbell rope, sounding a confident ring within the house. Moments later a tall, formal-looking servant opened the door, his suspicious eyes questioning her presence.
‘You know who I am,’ she sighed, recognising one of her father-in-law’s men. ‘I would speak with your master.’
The servant hesitated a moment before standing aside to let her enter. He led her through the great hall – her hall – its wainscoted walls intensifying the grandeur of the imposing space. Passing the foot of the mahogany east staircase he left her in a large library covered in panels of lighter oak.
As she waited she roved her eyes across all her father’s books, and there, in the corner where it should be, was a copy of The Fairie Queene. She hoped to God her parents-in-law would value these books and keep them in place. She could not bear the thought of them being dispersed, or worse, destroyed.
She took another of her favourites from one of the shelves, a well-worn volume bound in musty leather, a history of the kings and queens of the old Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. It fell open on the most perused section, the chapter on the kingdom of Mercia, and she smiled sadly, recalling her childhood fantasies that the kingdom was named for her and not the other way around, when she had played at being the Queen of all the Mercians. She slipped the book into the pocket under her dress, intending to retain the memento as a symbol of her temporary eviction.
She had just straightened her dress when her father-in-law appeared, his expression defiant, and yet with a trace of anxiety in his eyes. Anthony Blakewood was a skinny gentleman in his late fifties, plenty of grey dominating the same jet-black hair Mercia had so loved in his son. The plush green robe he was wearing taunted her, a deliberate statement that he was already comfortably at home.
‘Mercia,’ he said, ‘I am sorry for your father,’ and she thought yes, so sorry you moved into his house no sooner than he died. He rested his hands on his hips, the loose sleeves of his robe billowing. ‘But you are aware, I think, that your uncle has leased the manor to us?’
She pursed her lips. ‘He has no right to do so.’
‘That is not what Sir Francis says.’ He bit his fingernails. ‘You have seen the settlement?’
‘I do not recognise his interpretation of it. You realise, of course, he is using you?’
Before he could reply, his wife Isabel strode into the room, her overlong skirt brushing the black and white tiles in her haste, her pointed bodice not quite properly fastened around her waist. Silk too, Mercia noticed. Had Isabel seen her on the driveway and changed to intimidate? As was the fashion, her skirt was open at the front to allow her petticoat to show; it was adorned with a fine gold braid.
‘Why are you here?’ Isabel seethed, talking over her husband. ‘Did you lose your way in the village, or is your mind deserting you already, like your mother’s?’
Mercia narrowed her eyes. ‘It is I who should question your motive. This house should be Daniel’s. Would you see him lose his inheritance?’
‘Our reasons for being here are our own.’ Isabel folded her arms; the bodice slipped slightly and she tugged it back into place. ‘Return to your cottage. Your father is no longer here to protect you.’
Mercia breathed in deeply, composing herself. Even from these people, she had not expected such recalcitrance.
‘Be under no illusion,’ she said. ‘This house belongs in my care and I will not easily give it up.’ She held her mother-in-law’s gaze. ‘I will leave for today, but I would retrieve an item of mine from upstairs.’ She forced a difficult smile. ‘If you will let me.’
Anthony shook his head. ‘The house and its contents belong to Sir Francis. He wants everything to stay where it is.’
‘Come now, just one small thing.’ She thought how she might best appeal to them. ‘’Tis for Daniel. For your grandson, if he still means anything to you.’
‘Our grandson!’ Isabel paced the room like a spinning top. ‘Our grandson, who is being raised by the offspring of a traitor! God’s death, my girl, if we had known what your family was we would never have allowed you to marry William.’
Mercia’s restraint vanished. ‘My father was no traitor.’ She glowered at Isabel. ‘We used to talk, you and I. We were both so excited when Daniel was born. Do you even remember? But now you blame me for everything, for the lost esteem you hoped to gain from marrying your son to my family, to me. I am surprised you even want to live in this house. But I suppose the temptation of occupying the grandest manor in the district was too strong for you, Isabel, all the same?’
Isabel came right up to her. ‘You have no place in my family. None. And one day soon I will see my grandson taken from your care and placed into mine.’
Mercia went cold. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Get out of this house.’
‘What do you mean about Daniel?’
‘You will find out soon enough.’
Mercia looked at Anthony, but he was staring at the floor. She opened her mouth to retaliate but there was nothing more to gain. Instead she walked from the room, from the house, did not stop walking until she passed the iron gates and re-emerged onto the road. She looked back at her old home, fury and sadness competing in her mind. Damn Isabel, she thought. Damn her stubbornness. I will get what I want in any case. But she was troubled by her threats about Daniel.
