The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘Is he?’ Serena toyed with her spoon. ‘I met him this morning snooping around the ruins of the hall. I gathered,’ she added, ‘that his sister was showing him an archaeological investigation where they had also found some more recent remains – Caitlin’s.’

  Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wait, what? Sorry, am I missing something here? You didn’t tell me that Caitlin had been found here at Minster.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know,’ Serena said. ‘As far as I can gather, the police haven’t told anyone yet. Jack, it seems, has inside knowledge.’

  Lizzie’s frown cleared. ‘Zoe. Yes, of course. She’s a forensic archaeologist. She’s been working on the dig at the church here with Minster Archaeology.’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘Oh dear. That’s a pretty serious breach of confidentiality. She could lose her job for that if you make a complaint.’

  ‘I realise that.’ Serena finished the last of the scone and sat back with a sigh. ‘I haven’t decided what to do about it yet. And why is Jack Lovell interested in Caitlin’s death anyway?’ She reached for the empty tray. ‘I wish I’d asked him now but I was too upset and angry to think straight.’

  ‘Understandably,’ Lizzie said. She studied Serena for a moment. ‘We were all close friends,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Perhaps he feels like you do, that he wants to learn the truth.’

  ‘Has he told you that?’ Serena asked. She realised she sounded sharp and immediately regretted it. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I feel… possessive of Caitlin. It isn’t particularly admirable of me,’ she raised her eyes to Lizzie’s, ‘but I do.’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. She was your sister and you were the closest to her. Besides, you have a desperate need to regain your memories. I get that.’ She sighed. ‘Just don’t discount the fact that other people have their own memories and experiences of Caitlin too. And of course Jack didn’t speak to me about it.’ She sounded faintly offended. ‘I’d have told him to talk to you if he had.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Serena said again, chastened. ‘I know you would. I’m a bit on edge.’

  Lizzie smiled and patted her hand. ‘No problem. But I am a bit worried about you. If you start recovering any memories, give me a call straight away.’

  ‘You sound like Polly,’ Serena said. ‘She said if that happened, I should get out of here and call a therapist.’

  ‘I have one on speed dial,’ Lizzie said. She checked her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to get back to work in a minute. Why don’t you come over to The High for a meal and we can catch up properly?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ Serena said. ‘Thanks.’

  Lizzie started to stack the crockery, reaching for Serena’s mug and plate. There was a clink as the teaspoon rattled against the china and she made a grab to stop it tumbling to the floor. Lizzie gave a gasp, recoiling, all the colour draining from her face. It was so sudden and unexpected that Serena felt a lurch of fear.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she said. She got up quickly, coming around the table to Lizzie’s side. ‘What happened? Is it the baby?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘I think she must have kicked. Sorry about that.’ She sat still for a couple more seconds, head bent, then looked up to give Serena a bright smile that somehow did not convince. Suddenly Serena had a different memory, a teenage Lizzie whom everyone in their friendship group whispered had the uncanny ability to touch an object and read the memories associated with it.

  It was odd, now she stopped to consider it, just how natural a part of Lizzie’s personality that had seemed and therefore a part of her own life. She had shied away from anything paranormal in the wake of Caitlin’s disappearance, but stories of ghosts, witches and magic had underpinned her childhood reading and somehow Lizzie’s gift seemed a part of that.

  ‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me. You’ve just had one of your psychometry experiences, haven’t you?’

  Lizzie looked up sharply. Her face was still paper white but her blue gaze was sharp. ‘You know about that?’ she said.

  Serena sat back down again. ‘Of course I do. Remember that day Caitlin showed us her bead bracelet? She was showing off, going on about how beautiful it was. You picked it up and said it was strange she was so pleased about it because actually what she’d really wanted was a purple one rather than a blue one.’

  ‘Oh God, yeah, I do remember that,’ Lizzie said slowly. A little bit of colour had come back into Lizzie’s cheeks now and some of the tension has drained away from her body. ‘It was really unkind of me to spoil her fun like that.’ She looked rueful. ‘Caitlin had annoyed me for some reason, probably by being Little Miss Perfect as usual.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But how did you know that was psychometry? It could just have been a lucky guess.’

  ‘I was there when Caitlin opened the present,’ Serena said. ‘It was a gift from our grandmother. I got the purple one and Caitlin got blue. She wanted mine and was so cross about it.’

  Lizzie blew out a breath. ‘Wow. You never said.’

  ‘I sort of guessed you didn’t want to talk about the fact that you could read objects because you didn’t want people to think you were weird,’ Serena said, smiling, ‘so I didn’t push you. But some of us knew – or guessed. There were other occasions, too, when you would touch things and seem to be absent for a moment… I went away and looked it up, and came up with psychometry, the ability to read memories or experiences associated with certain objects.’

  ‘Right,’ Lizzie said. She sounded herself again. ‘I should have guessed I couldn’t fool you,’ she said wryly. ‘You always were very observant.’

  Serena laughed. ‘I don’t know about that, but I did notice that about twenty minutes ago I mentioned to you that I thought I’d seen Caitlin’s ghost and you took it without turning a hair, from which I assumed that the paranormal is an everyday occurrence for you.’

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve got me there.’

  Serena touched the Shrewsbury teaspoon lightly with her fingertips. In her case there was no supernatural revelation when she did so, only a sense of nostalgia for those days sitting in the warmth of her grandparents’ kitchen, the sense of belonging, of peace and comfort, the happiness that her time at Minster Lovell Hall had brought before it had all come crashing to an end.

  Raising her gaze to Lizzie’s, she said cautiously, ‘What did you see when you touched the spoon? Can you tell me?’

  Lizzie’s expression fell. ‘I could…’ she began slowly. ‘It didn’t make much sense to me, though it might to you.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘It was pretty horrible.’

  ‘Then don’t talk about it,’ Serena said quickly. ‘Just forget it.’

  ‘No,’ Lizzie said. She sat up a bit straighter. ‘It might be important.’ She looked at Serena. ‘I mean, you said all the china and stuff came from your grandparents’ house so there could be some connection to Caitlin.’

  ‘OK,’ Serena said uncertainly. ‘If you’re sure.’

  Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘When I touched the spoon, I sensed that someone was dying.’ Then, as Serena caught her breath, she added hastily: ‘Oh God, no, it wasn’t Caitlin. Sorry, that was so stupid of me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Serena said shakily, as her heartbeat settled again. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Lizzie touched the back of her hand. ‘I should have explained better.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘When I “read” objects, sometimes I see a vision and at other times I’ll just get a sensation – an emotion, if you like – associated with the person who owned them. So, for example, there’s a gown that belonged to my grandmother. It’s really glamorous and when I touch it, I can feel the excitement that she felt when she wore it to dances and parties. It fills me with her sense of anticipation and wonder.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Serena said. ‘I had no idea that was how it works.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s a nice example,’
Lizzie said, ‘but it’s not always like that. With that spoon’ – she looked at it again but didn’t touch it – ‘I think I shared an emotion felt by whoever once owned it.’

  ‘That would have been one of my grandparents,’ Serena said, frowning. ‘They used to collect loads of commemorative spoons. This one hung on the wall in the kitchen.’

  ‘OK,’ Lizzie said. ‘Well, judging by the emotions I experienced, one of them was once at the bedside of someone they loved – a child, a boy, I think, and he was dying. I felt their grief and their desperation and loneliness. It was as though…’ She hesitated. ‘I think they were very young and felt very alone.’ She shivered, as though trying to shake off the memory. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘As I say, it was fairly intense and horrible.’

  ‘It sounds it,’ Serena said. ‘I’m so sorry you had to experience that.’

  ‘Luckily psychometry doesn’t often happen randomly like that,’ Lizzie said, ‘or it would probably have driven me insane by now.’ She was starting to sound far more like her usual self. ‘Perhaps you could stack everything up,’ she added with a smile, ‘just in case I trigger another insight.’

  Serena piled up the used plates, mugs and cutlery on the tray, all the while thinking about what Lizzie had said.

  ‘I’m guessing that nothing I said rings any bells with you,’ Lizzie observed after a moment. ‘No one in the family history who died young as a boy?’

  ‘I know next to nothing about my family history,’ Serena said, ‘which is ironic,’ she added, ‘since I make a living selling history to people who more often than not are looking for their roots. I’ll have to see what I can find out.’

  She carried the tray across to Stuart’s counter whilst Lizzie stood up and gathered up her jacket and gardening gloves. They hugged each other. ‘Do come for supper at The High soon,’ Lizzie said. ‘I promise not to serve a side order of psychometric readings.’

  ‘I will,’ Serena said.

  Lizzie released her, standing back. ‘If you’re really going to try to find out the story behind the spoon,’ she said, ‘there’s something else I should tell you.’ She paused. There was silence in the café apart from the gentle hissing of the tea urn.

  ‘It felt as though it all happened a very long time ago,’ Lizzie said slowly. ‘I don’t mean decades, I mean… centuries. And’ – she met Serena’s eyes and her own were full of puzzlement – ‘I know where it was,’ she said. ‘Like I say, sometimes I see a vision as well as sense the emotion. I saw the room, and the boy in the bed. It was high up, in a tower overlooking a river. It was the Tower of London.’

  Chapter 8

  Anne

  Ravensworth Castle, 1470

  My father did not fight, nor was Ravensworth besieged. As soon as the King arrived in Ripon the rebels melted away to their homes and firesides. Father ran away to Scotland and although I guessed that he had never intended to meet the King in pitched battle, I did not know whether I should feel glad that he was safe or ashamed that he was a coward.

  King Edward summoned us to Richmond, the tumbledown castle that mother had so disparaged on my wedding journey five years earlier. It was phrased as a polite invitation but we all knew that it was not; we were traitors by association. Mother did not see it that way, however, and she was not minded to go.

  ‘Who does he think he is, to send for me like a servant or a whore?’ she stormed. ‘I shall not obey.’

  I caught the exchange of glances between Grimshaw and Barker, the captain of the guard. Normally it was my father who bore the brunt of my mother’s Neville rages. In his absence everyone else was feeling the strain.

  ‘Madam,’ Grimshaw said, forcing respect into his tone, ‘he is the King.’

  ‘And he holds the field,’ Barker added helpfully. ‘It would be wiser to comply.’

  My mother gave them both a look of utter contempt to be lectured on strategy by two men whom she felt knew a great deal less than she.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said with poisonous sweetness, ‘I am not sure how I would manage without your advice. Now I suggest that you return to your duties before the castle falls down without you.’ She swept out of the solar, leaving me looking at Joan, Alice and Francis in bewilderment.

  ‘Do we go to Richmond or not?’ I demanded. The idea excited me and I had been disappointed when mother had rejected it.

  Francis unfolded himself from the window embrasure where he had been leaning, a silent observer of mother’s rage. ‘Oh, we shall go,’ he said cynically. ‘They still play the game of war, Anne, even if there is a truce. What would happen if your mother refused?’ He strolled across to my side and sat down.

  ‘The King would either ignore her or he would be obliged to come to her instead,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Francis smiled at me as though I was an apt pupil. ‘Your mother would be even more furious to be ignored. It would be a terrible slight. She cannot risk that. Nor can she be certain that Edward would come to Ravensworth in person – he might send Gloucester or someone else in his place.’

  ‘She would not like that,’ I said. I felt my lips twitch into a smile at how it would offend my mother’s pride.

  ‘Therefore, she has no option but to go to Richmond,’ Francis said, stretching. ‘That way she will control the meeting to her own advantage.’

  ‘It seems stupid and pointless,’ I said, crossly. I glanced out of the window. It was a beautiful autumn day; the hot dry summer had given way to a cooler and fresher season. Golden leaves edged the trees beside the lake and I could see the smoke from the village chimneys rising dreamily into the still washed-blue of the skies. Suddenly I wanted to be outside, riding over the hills or walking by the river. The power games of princes and nobles seemed foolish to me.

  Elizabeth stuck her head around the solar door. ‘There you are!’ she said when she saw us. ‘Mother wants us to prepare for the journey to Richmond. We are all to go, you, me, Alice, Margery, every last one of us.’

  I caught Francis’ wry smile and wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘You too, Francis Lovell,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And your sisters.’

  ‘Are we taking all the village children as well?’ I asked tartly. ‘Does mother intend to turn this into a nursery outing?’

  ‘I think that is exactly what she intends,’ Francis said. He caught my hand and pulled me to my feet. ‘Come along, Anne – we stand as your mother’s armour in this battle.’

  I understood what he meant when, two hours later, our little cavalcade was assembled in the courtyard and ready to leave. Mother was dressed demurely all in blue and resembled nothing so much as the Virgin Mary in the stained-glass windows of the chapel. The fact that she was also pregnant only served to emphasise her soft and womanly appearance. She had elected to travel in a litter when normally I knew she would have ridden, pregnant or not. A small dispute arose when I insisted that I wanted to ride alongside Francis. Elizabeth and Alice had already scrambled up into one of the covered carts along with Frideswide and Joan. They looked particularly annoyed when a small white palfrey was led out for me. This, too, was one of mother’s designs, I knew. I was the best rider amongst her daughters and knew, without vanity, that I looked both pretty and skilful in the saddle.

  Francis knew it too. ‘I’ll give you half a shilling if you gallop off and get covered in mud,’ he whispered in my ear as he lifted me up into the saddle.

  ‘I might do it for a whole shilling,’ I whispered back, ‘but nothing less.’

  This time the roads were dry and the old leaves and oak apples crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The wind from the hills was soft and the sun shone palely on our little party. Only a handful of men at arms accompanied us and those only for safety, not show. My palfrey was a timid little beast and would not have galloped anywhere even had I wished her to, but it was pleasant to be outside rather than thrown around in the cart with the others.

  The huge battlements of Richmond dominated the view as soon as
we topped Kirby Hill and looked down into the valley of the River Swale. Glancing across at my mother I saw that her gaze too was fixed on the castle and there was a steely light in her eyes. Then she settled herself more firmly in the litter and we started the descent into the town to the postern at Friars Wynd.

  There were men in royal livery here; I felt a little shiver down my spine to see the soldiers guarding the gate, and the sun picking out the badges of the white rose en soleil and the sunburst that was King Edward’s own device. A shout went up as we were sighted and the gate was barred as a soldier spurred forward to meet us.

  ‘The Lady Alice FitzHugh to see her cousin the King,’ I heard mother say, with just the right mixture of authority and deference and the young captain, blushing as he saw her pregnant state and the young children peeping from the cart, made haste to escort us through.

  The town seethed with people and with the febrile air that always came with a royal progress. This time though there was no feeling of excitement or celebration, no garlands in the streets or wells running with wine. Even though the rebels had backed down, this was a town at war. Looking across at Francis I could see that he felt it too. He sat all the straighter in the saddle, grim-faced, tension emanating from him in waves. Yet he rode with the lightest hands and looked every inch the young lord. I felt proud of him.

  By the time we reached the castle we had gained quite a retinue of people who had ascertained that here was a personage of some importance who might be their means of entering the castle and approaching the King. The captain cleared a path through the mêlée for us as though he were mother’s personal herald. The result was that by the time we were ushered into the great hall, it felt as though mother were honouring Edward with a visit rather than responding to a summons issued to a traitor’s wife. No doubt this was precisely what she had planned. I admired her strategy.

  Edward was finishing dinner as we came in. The hall was dimly lit, showing a bare wooden table strewn with platters of cooked meats and poultry that looked as though it had been fallen upon by the dogs who were now squabbling over bones amongst the none-too-fresh rushes of the floor. There was no finesse here and no fire in the grate to offset the chill of the towering walls. This was a campaign headquarters; the fact that the King and all his captains were in armour only served to emphasise the fact.