The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  She angled Dick’s chair so that the spring sunshine warmed him and sat down on the cushioned bench opposite.

  ‘I’m going to tell you a story, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘I think you already know it but it might help me get it straight – and accept it – if I say it out loud. And if I get it wrong’ – she smiled at him – ‘you can put me right because you are the only person who knows the truth.’

  Dick smiled back at her, head slightly on one side as he waited. Serena had the strangest sense that he understood everything that she was saying to him, although it was impossible to tell.

  ‘The last few weeks,’ Serena said, ‘in between talking to the police’ – she pulled a face – ‘I’ve been finding out about our family history.’

  She saw Dick’s chin come up and his blue eyes seemed to focus on her even more intently.

  ‘I’d never really thought about it before,’ Serena said, ‘and I realised that it was odd, in a family where we all valued the stories of the past, that we never spoke about our own history.’ She traced a pattern on the smooth wooden armrest of the bench. ‘Polly was able to give me some information and I went online to look up birth certificates and other details. I found the record of your marriage to Gran in London in 1962 but there was nothing before that.’ She looked at him. ‘I knew that you had been adopted so I wondered whether Richard Warren wasn’t the name you were born with.’

  Dick shifted a little in his chair. ‘Richard,’ he said. ‘I was always Richard.’

  ‘Yes,’ Serena said. ‘You were always Richard, right from the beginning. There were lots of clues once I knew what I was looking for. There was the “rose en soleil” engraving on the necklaces that you gave to Caitlin and to me. There was the name Warren. There were your drawings – the one of the Gyrfalcon – one of the emblems of King Edward IV – and those yellow flowers, which were broom.’

  ‘Plantagenet,’ Richard said. ‘Planta genista. It grows here.’ He gestured to the garden.

  ‘Grandma grew it here,’ Serena agreed, ‘along with the Rosa Alba, the white rose of York. When I started to work all this out, I assumed we must be descended from Edward Plantagenet, Edward IV. But then I thought, if that were the case, why keep it a secret? It’s the sort of thing that we would all know, even if it was only talked about within the family. It seemed odd.’

  A little breeze rippled through the oak tree where the first new leaves were starting to unfurl.

  ‘In the end,’ Serena said, ‘it was understanding what had happened to Caitlin that helped me to work it out. How could Caitlin possibly have disappeared eleven years ago and yet be buried in the eighteenth century? It seemed impossible, yet not only was the archaeological evidence clear, there was even a witness account of it from 1708.’

  She saw Dick’s hands clench together and leaned forward to lay her own hand over them. ‘I’m sorry, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘I know it hurts to talk about what happened to Caitlin. It hurts you more than any of us, I think, because you blame yourself. You shouldn’t do – Caitlin died because of Eve. It was Eve who killed her, not the lodestar. We know that now.’

  Dick’s head was bent as he stared down at her hand resting over his. Then she felt the tension leave him and he nodded slowly.

  ‘I tried to keep it safe,’ he said.

  ‘I know you did,’ Serena said. ‘You kept it in a locked box on the highest shelf in the study. And then on the night Caitlin vanished you realised that the lodestar had gone too. You saw the flash of light and you knew what had happened.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘You knew because you had seen it happen before, hadn’t you? You were the only living person who had; in fact, I think you are probably the only living person who has experienced it.’

  Dick was gazing out across the garden as though he was seeing past the present to the Minster Lovell he had once known. ‘Anne sent us away,’ he said. ‘She sent us to safety.’

  Serena caught her breath. She remembered the story Polly had told her, the fairy tale about Lady Lovell and the lodestar. She wondered who Dick had meant by ‘us’.

  ‘So it is true,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘The lodestar possesses the power to move through time and space.’ She looked up to see that Jack was standing beside her seat. ‘You saw it do it with your own eyes,’ he said. Then, apologetically: ‘Sorry, but the others are coming. I thought I should warn you.’

  Serena nodded. She released Dick’s hand and sat back. Although she had talked to Jack and Polly and Lizzie about what had happened, no one else knew the truth. ‘I think we’re done,’ she said. ‘We both know.’ She smiled at Dick who nodded gently back. ‘We both understand.’

  Jack glanced across the lawn, where Nigel and Stuart were approaching with picnic tables and crockery. Behind them came Polly carrying a huge teapot, and Lizzie and Arthur with what looked like several plates of cake.

  ‘Before they get here,’ he said, ‘there’s one other thing you should both know.’ He paused. ‘You know that when Caitlin disappeared, they took DNA samples from all males in the local area as part of the investigation?’

  Serena nodded. ‘I remember. Dad was tested, and Grandpa as well.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Well, before Eve allegedly ran off and put herself in the frame, I was talking to Sergeant Ratcliffe and he let on that they were planning on retesting your grandfather and father. He shouldn’t have mentioned it, of course, but he’s a mate of Zoe’s and he knew I was interested in the forensic archaeology side. He said that there had evidently been some major flaw in the original DNA tests because when they put your family’s results into the national database, it came up as a match that was completely impossible. Inspector Litton was absolutely livid.’

  ‘Why on earth?’ Serena said.

  ‘Because it was a close match for King Richard III,’ Jack said, with a grin. ‘They had his DNA from the dig in Leicester in 2012 but I imagine they weren’t expecting to match it to anyone in 2021.’

  A breeze stirred the branches over their heads and ruffled the edge of the rug covering Dick’s lap. He was looking quite tranquil, as though he perhaps had not even heard, but Serena knew that he had.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘they won’t need to waste resources on a second test now, will they?’ She stood up. ‘There’s just one thing I’m wondering, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘When you said that Anne Lovell sent you away, you referred to “us”. Who were you with?’

  There was a long silence. Dick’s gaze was vague and distant and Serena wondered whether he had not understood her or remembered his original comment. His mind could have drifted away at any moment and she had probably tired him with her questions. But no. Just as she thought she would never know, Dick looked up. He wasn’t looking at her though. He held out a hand to Jack and he smiled, so suddenly and vividly that he looked exactly as she remembered him before his illness.

  ‘Francis,’ he said.

  They had all had tea and several cupcakes and slices of Victoria sponge cake, and Dick was dozing comfortably in his chair, when Serena opened her bag and took out a little wooden box. She put it on the table.

  ‘Is that it?’ Lizzie said. She looked slightly anxious, Serena thought, as well she might.

  She opened the lid. The Lovell lodestar sat neatly on a bed of blue velvet, looking for all the world like what it was – a small, shiny black arrowhead. Serena’s fingers shook slightly as she touched it. It felt smooth in her hand, and warm, and she thought she felt the tiniest vibration from it. She gave Lizzie a smile. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m getting good vibes from it. And anyway, you don’t need to worry. It entrusted itself to you that day when you gave it to Polly. You’re not going to disappear in a flash of light.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried for me,’ Lizzie said, with dignity. ‘I’m used to these things. I’d just rather not lose you somewhere in time.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Serena said. ‘But I have a sense we are all safe.’ She put the stone gently in its box. ‘It’s back where i
t belongs,’ she said. ‘Back for good.’

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?’ Polly asked.

  Serena slipped her hand into Jack’s. ‘We’ve talked about it a lot,’ she said, glancing at him, ‘because really it’s Jack’s decision. The lodestar was entrusted to the Lovells centuries ago. They were the custodians of the relic of St Kenelm, it was stolen from them and that was when it began its journey. Now it’s home.’

  ‘It also feels important that it should stay here because of Caitlin,’ Jack said, squeezing Serena’s hand. ‘It’s the right place.’

  ‘I agree,’ Lizzie said, staring at the lodestar as it sat innocently on its blue velvet bed, ‘but is that safe?’

  ‘Well,’ Serena said, ‘we could put it in a museum, because Eve was right when she said it’s an ancient artefact that is actually worth a lot of money. It would have twenty-four-hour security and everyone would know that it was the Lovell lodestar and it was reputed to have magical powers. Or’ – she looked around at the spring garden, the sun patterning the grass and the blue stars of the scilla flowers planted in a drift beneath the trees – ‘we could hide it here in plain sight. After all,’ she looked at Polly, ‘it was in the gardens unnoticed ever since you put it here, and we’re the only people who know what it is. Let’s keep it that way.’

  She stood and picked up the box. Polly stood too and went over to stand by Dick’s chair. ‘Dad’s dozing, I think,’ she said, touching his hand, ‘but I’m sure he’d agree with us.’

  They all walked over to the sundial, their feet sinking into the soft grass. It was a perfect late March day, the trees starting to show their new green and the birds chattering above them. Serena took the arrowhead from the box and slipped it onto the pin in the centre of the sundial. It fitted perfectly. Around the base of the pillar, on the lichen covered stone, she could see carved the words she remembered:

  ‘Shadows we are and like shadows depart…’

  She felt the tears sting her eyes. Caitlin, she was sure, would always be with them, but no longer as a shadow haunting, a lost memory. She could once again be the bright and vibrant spirit they remembered.

  She ran her hand over the bronze plate beneath the arrow. It felt warm from the sun. ‘Caitlin and I always loved the sundial,’ she said softly. ‘This is for her. To close the circle.’ The lodestar quivered. It spun for a few seconds and Serena held her breath, then it pointed north. Across the garden a blackbird called with its piercing note. Dick dozed on in his chair. Serena slipped her arm through Polly’s.

  ‘The last daughters of York,’ she said. ‘How does that feel, Aunt Pol?’

  ‘I’m damned proud of it,’ Polly said, ‘and I need another piece of cake.’

  Chapter 22

  Anne

  Bermondsey Abbey, 1495

  The abbey is thronged with pilgrims today come to honour the relic of the holy rood. They fill the church with their voices raised in worship. The guesthouse is bursting at the seams and the abbey coffers are filling with gold from the rich and groats from the poor. On such a day as this I keep to my cell. I have no wish to be either a figure of curiosity to the visitors nor a distraction from their prayers.

  I have lived here at Bermondsey Abbey for eight years, ever since I lost Francis and Richard after the Battle of Stoke Field. At first, I was here with the Queen Dowager, Elizabeth Woodville, neither of us suited to the contemplative life, both of us locked behind these walls by King Henry VII because we were dangerous women. She was the unwanted mother of the Yorkist Queen, I the penniless widow of a Yorkist traitor. We were like two cats in a barrel, each other’s torment and punishment, yet I missed her when she died.

  I think about Francis every day. Each day I wonder where he is and what has happened to him and to Richard. I never expected him to come back for me. Ginevra told me, all those years ago, that the power of the relic does not work in that way. It cannot be bent to man’s will. So I pray for them; and of course I hope, secretly, because hope is always the last thing to die.

  It is hot for September and I long to be out in the fresh air but only when I hear the bell for vespers and the monks’ voices raised in chant do I slip outside into the cool of the evening to catch the last light in the gardens.

  The grass in the orchard is cool beneath my feet. I walk slowly under the trees, the fruit heavy above my head, a tiny sliver of new moon captured in the branches. It reminds me of the day that Francis first brought Richard Plantagenet to me at Minster Lovell. Except that then the sun was bright and hot and there was still hope of restoration, no matter how battered and tarnished it was.

  I do not see the figure in the corner of the cloisters until I am almost upon him. It is a pilgrim in jerkin and hood, a tall man and well made, loitering it seems with no particular purpose. The skin on the back of my neck prickles because along with the holy, the pilgrimage will always bring criminals to prey on virtuous men. This could be one such. When he reaches out to me, I draw back in alarm.

  ‘Anne,’ he says. ‘At last. I have been waiting for you.’

  My heart leaps, for I recognise his voice. I am the one who has been waiting, it seems for ever. It is impossible and yet here he is.

  ‘Francis?’ My whisper is so faint I am surprised he can hear, but he does, and puts back his hood to reveal himself in the faint moonlight.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, stupidly. I feel confused, angry at the risk he is taking, disbelieving that he could be here at all. My mind is in utter turmoil. Is he real, or is he no more than a figment of my imagination, conjured up by longing? How can it be him?

  ‘I have come for you,’ he says, as though it is that simple. ‘Did you think I would not come back?’

  I stare at him in stupefaction, wondering if I had misunderstood all along, if he and Richard have only been in hiding, not far, far away in another time, another place.

  ‘How can this be?’ I say. ‘Do you have the pendant – the lodestar?’

  He shakes his head. ‘The lodestar is with Richard,’ he said. ‘He sent me back, just as you sent him and me away before.’

  ‘Then we cannot get back to him!’ I am babbling, confused. ‘Where is he? You should not have left him alone and unprotected—’ I stumble over my words, unable to understand.

  Francis laughs. ‘Richard is a grown man now,’ he says. ‘He is ready to make his own way.’ He stops and for a second, I see sadness slide across his face. ‘We shall not see him again,’ he says, ‘but I know all will be well with him. He will be safe. I wish you could have seen him again, Anne, just once. He is a fine man. You would be proud of him, as I am.’ He cups my cheek in his gloved hand. ‘I will tell you everything when I may, but for now I am in haste for us to be away…’ He puts his hands lightly on my waist. ‘Must I abduct my own wife from a monastery?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do believe you must.’ I recognise his touch. My body leans into his. He feels the same, smells the same, and suddenly I am dizzy with love for him, my heart soaring. ‘Take me away,’ I say recklessly. ‘I do not care where we go or what happens, Francis. I have so missed you.’

  He grabs my hand and we run to the stables. There is a horse there, very fine, tied up and waiting. One of the abbey servants, an ostler, looks at us curiously but I ignore him, heady with joy. Let him raise the alarm. They will not catch us. This I know.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, as Francis tosses me up into the saddle and settles behind me. ‘Do you have a plan?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he says. He sounds offended that I would doubt it. He urges the horse to a canter and we shoot out of the stables like an arrow, like a sword into the heart of light. Behind us the abbey bells ring out a peal, as though in celebration.

  ‘You may remember from long ago,’ Francis says in my ear as we gather speed, ‘that your family had a castle, a place granted by the King of Scots to your father when he was a fugitive from the Crown?’

  ‘I remember,’ I say. ‘The Red C
astel at Lunan.’

  ‘We go there,’ Francis says. ‘We go to Scotland.’ His arms tighten about my waist. ‘If God is willing,’ he says, his body hard and strong against mine, ‘then we will raise a family there. And if he does not so bless us, we will still have each other as we were always meant to do.’

  I lean back against him. For all the speed and the danger, it feels safe.

  ‘The one thing about the lodestar,’ Francis says, and I hear the warmth in his voice, ‘is that it was always intended to be a compass. It guides a man to his one true north. That was what I thought of, Anne, when I came back to find you.’

  The buildings of Bermondsey fall back, the hunched shadow of the abbey recedes against the night sky and the sound of the bells fade. The road is straight and empty and we ride for the North.

  Acknowledgements

  The death of the Princes in the Tower is one of the biggest mysteries in British history and it has fascinated me since I first read a copy of The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey, when I was a teenager. This lifelong interest in the Wars of the Roses was the inspiration for The Last Daughter, along with an equal fascination for the legends of the beautiful Minster Lovell Hall in Oxfordshire. As with all my books I have taken elements of history and myth and woven them together with a modern story, combining real people and places, and fictional events.

  Despite my lifelong Ricardian obsession, I had to do a lot of additional research for this particular book and I am particularly grateful to historian Michèle Schindler who is the leading authority on the life of Francis Lovell and whose book Lovell Our Dogge: The Life of Viscount Lovell, Closest Friend of Richard III and Failed Regicide sheds so much light on the lives of Francis and Anne.

  My grateful thanks go to the wonderful team at HQ, working so hard to edit, produce and sell books during difficult times. Especial gratitude goes to Emily Kitchin and Abby Parsons, and to Susan Swinwood at Graydon House, all of whom devoted much time, patience and thought to make this book the best it could be. Jon Appleton once again provided a meticulous and thoughtful copy-edit. My writing friends too, especially Sarah Morgan, Anna Campbell, Christina Courtenay and the Word Wenches, have all given me much-needed encouragement and support on this project.