The Forgotten Sister

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘Amy’s death does feel like an accident,’ Lizzie said, ‘because surely even the most dimwitted of murderers would realise that for Amy to die at all would be a disaster for Robert Dudley’s reputation, and from what little I’ve read about him I’d say that Robert Dudley was many things but not a fool.’

  ‘You’re talking with the benefit of hindsight, Elizabeth,’ Avery pointed out. ‘We know now that Amy’s death forever ruined Robert Dudley’s chances of marrying the Queen but that might not have been apparent to him at the time. He was dazzled by ambition and drunk on the life he was living. Nothing and no one was going to get in the way of him achieving all that he wanted. He lived in a bubble far removed from reality, I think, and that sort of existence warps your reality.’

  ‘Just like being a celebrity,’ Lizzie agreed, with a grimace. ‘What happened after Amy’s death?’

  ‘She was buried at St Mary’s Church in Oxford,’ Avery said. ‘It was a lavish funeral but Robert Dudley didn’t attend.’

  ‘That looks bad,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘It wasn’t unusual in the Tudor period,’ Avery said, ‘and perhaps it was fortuitous because when the vicar gave his sermon, he referred to Amy being “so pitifully murdered” which he then tried to pass off as a slip of the tongue.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Lizzie said, ‘how awkward.’

  ‘Amy’s tomb is long gone,’ Avery said. Her blue eyes were distant. ‘It was dismantled in the late eighteenth century leaving only a plaque in the choir to commemorate her death.’

  ‘It feels as though they were trying to tidy her away,’ Lizzie said, ‘as though it had never happened.’

  ‘Certainly, I think Robert Dudley wished he could forget about it,’ Avery said drily. ‘It haunted him for ever after. When Amy’s half-brother John Appleyard expressed concerns that her death had never been properly explained and that he was sure it was murder he was imprisoned and questioned by the Privy Council. He very quickly changed his mind.’

  ‘That sounds like intimidation,’ Lizzie said. A thought occurred to her. ‘What did Arthur Robsart have to say about Amy’s death?’ she asked.

  ‘He never expressed any doubt over the legitimacy of the inquest’s findings,’ Avery said, ‘so one can only assume that he believed that it was an accident. Whether Arthur liked his brother-in-law or not was a different matter, I imagine, but Arthur Robsart always was,’ she paused, ‘discreet.’

  ‘So Johnny was the one who stirred up trouble then as now,’ Lizzie said thoughtfully. ‘The parallels seem endless.’

  ‘But the pattern is always different,’ Avery said. ‘Each time it happens it changes.’

  Despite the warmth of the early autumn sun, Lizzie shivered. ‘You mentioned before that there was a repeating pattern. Have other people died?’

  ‘Three times, to my knowledge, Elizabeth dear,’ Avery said. ‘There was an Amyas Latimer who was a clerk in holy orders in Oxford in the seventeenth century. The details are vague because it was a delicate case under the civil and ecclesiastical laws of the time but it seems he was involved in a love triangle with two of his fellow scholars – both male. He died in a fall down the tower stair in the Church of St Mary by Amy’s tomb. It was ruled to be an accident but there were questions raised of both suicide and murder. It was quite a scandal at the time despite the attempts of the authorities to hush it up.’

  ‘How horrible,’ Lizzie said. ‘And the other ones?’

  ‘Well, there was Amethyst Green,’ Avery said. ‘That was the case that first caught my attention because it happened at Oakhangar when I was a child. She was the scullery maid; she fell from the roof of the Hall. My family spun the story to look like a sad tale of a servant who had got herself into trouble and committed suicide in a fit of despair, but even as a child I guessed it was probably a lot more complicated than that. There were hints of a love triangle with two of my uncles.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s impossible to be sure what really happened, though, when the testimony at the time was heavily influenced by what people were paid – or persuaded – to say.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Lizzie said fiercely. ‘The injustice of it is awful, Amy and all the others whose voices weren’t heard because the rich and powerful were able to silence them.’

  ‘They even tried to silence Amy’s ghost,’ Avery agreed. ‘There are stories of her haunting Cumnor and other places. Have you read the tale of the clergymen from Oxford who tried to confine her spirit to the Citrine Pool?’

  ‘No.’ Lizzie shuddered. She drew her tablet towards her. ‘I must read about that.’

  ‘It feels as though it is time to end Amy’s unhappiness,’ Avery said. She put her hand over Lizzie’s. ‘I rely on you, Elizabeth. I have great hopes. You could have turned your back on Johnny Robsart and refused to help him but you did not. That was the first change to the pattern. Now it is up to you to break it completely and prevent this tragedy repeating again.’

  Lizzie stared at her. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  Avery nodded. ‘It’s been hard,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘to be no more than a witness all these years, hoping and praying that somehow, someone would be brave enough to break the curse.’

  ‘I don’t know how to do it,’ Lizzie confessed. ‘I feel completely out of my depth.’

  Suddenly Avery looked tired, Lizzie thought, older and frailer. Her energy and exuberance so often eclipsed the fact that she was very elderly indeed. Lizzie felt a pang of fear; she had only just found Avery again and she didn’t want to lose her.

  ‘We all feel that at times,’ Avery said quietly. ‘The only advice I can give you, Elizabeth, is to remember that truth is so often a matter of perception. It is very easy to be misdirected, especially if we want to be. I cannot tell you what will happen; there are always different futures. I can only hope you will choose the right one.’

  Avery picked up her gardening gloves. Lizzie handed her the secateurs and saw that her gaze was bright again, that sharp, blue glance that had seen so much and knew so much.

  ‘You should never be afraid of your gift, Elizabeth,’ Avery said gently. ‘You are strong. You always have been. When the time comes, you must use it to the full.’ She kissed Lizzie’s cheek and wandered away down the steps towards the gap in the Leylandii hedge, leaving Lizzie wondering exactly what gifts Avery possessed herself.

  The phone rang shrilly on the table beside Lizzie’s tablet. She blinked as it pulled her back to the moment. She didn’t really want to answer. She wanted to sit here and think, and enjoy the timeless peace of The High, which was starting to feel properly hers, her home, her place of belonging, her past but also her future.

  The phone rang, on and on. She picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Lizzie.’ It was Johnny’s voice. ‘Lizzie, I’m back at Oakhangar Hall. Please will you come over? I need to talk to you.’

  Chapter 24

  Amy: Cumnor Place, 8th September 1560

  We had laid our plans very carefully for the day of my death. Anthony, having made all the arrangements, had absented himself from Cumnor. It was vital that no suspicions should attach to him for later he would be the man who identified the body as mine. Richard Varney, the most thuggish of my husband’s entourage, was the man who was providing a fresh corpse. Backstreet alley murders were of no consequence to him. Robert had already bought him out of prison twice for stabbing a man to death. If I had the slightest qualm for the poor woman whose fate would enable me to fulfil mine, I repressed it. I asked no questions of how she might meet her end in a manner that would fool any inquest jury. I did not want to know.

  There was a fair in Abingdon that day. I gave the entire household permission to attend. More than that, I encouraged it, offering them some coin as an inducement. I thought that with money in their pockets, none would decline, but that was where I faced my first problem for two of Sir Anthony’s servants, Mrs Owen and Mrs Odingsells, refused to go. Mrs Owen was elderly and Mrs Odingsells pio
us and both were as awkward as two old women could be.

  ‘No Christian woman should attend the fair on a Sunday,’ Mrs Odingsells told me sharply. From the start she had resented my place in the household, usurping the authority and the status of her mistress, Sir Anthony’s wife. ‘Mrs Owen and I shall stay in the solar.’

  ‘You may do as you wish,’ I said with a shrug. I knew they would be playing at cards, which was as reprehensible as going to the fair. I would not argue though. There were more important matters to attend to.

  I went to my chamber and started to pack my travelling bag, one case only, for I needed to travel quick and light. That was why I did not see her when first she came; I was too preoccupied in choosing between two pairs of gloves, which to take, which to leave behind. It was such a quandary.

  She slid into the room like a snake, silent, a darker shadow against the darkness of the day. It was only when I turned to throw Robert’s letters on the fire, to remove all trace of our plan that the flames leaped up and it was their flare of light that illuminated my sister Anna’s figure against the white wall.

  I jumped and spun around.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  My greeting was not fond, but I was astonished to see her. After our mother’s death I had, to my shame, neglected Anna badly. Whilst my brothers had benefited from Robert’s influence, Antony, Anna and their papist household had been left to make shift as best they could. Sometimes I had imagined Anna in her new manor house in the country, the house that Antony had rebuilt in the ruins of Sawston Hall. I tried not to think of it, though, because Robert’s violence on that night when he had been thwarted in his capture of Queen Mary still sickened me. It was far easier to try to forget it and to pretend that Antony and Anna did not exist.

  ‘Amy.’ Anna came forward into the light. She looked old, worn, a ghost of our mother, or perhaps a diminished version of me. I had always been the prettier. I felt a sense of irritation. I could not see her now. I had too much to do.

  ‘Anna,’ I said. I tried to erase the annoyance from my voice. ‘You should have written—’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  She came close to me, reached for my hands. Her faded blue eyes searched my face. I tried not to shrink from her. There was something at the same time vacant and intense in her expression that scared me.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, all the while thinking how ill-timed this was and how I might be rid of her. ‘But—’

  ‘It’s about Robert,’ she said.

  This was sufficiently surprising that it silenced me. I stared at her, baffled, wondering if she was mad. Her jaw was set and there was a determined glint in her eye now, and as I watched her hand slid down protectively over her belly in a gesture that made me feel a lurch of fear and sickness. For one mad moment I thought that surely, surely Robert had not got her with child. The thought that my husband might have given my sister the child that he and I could not have repelled me utterly, more than any thought of him as the Queen’s lover. Yet even as the suspicion started to form in my mind, I knew that it was false. Robert had not been faithful to me over the years but he would never have looked twice at Anna. There was something else here, something more sinister and dangerous than a mere affair.

  The church clock, striking the hour, reminded me that I had no time to waste on Anna, no matter her grievance. Richard Varney would be here soon and I must vanish in the same moment. Any delay might spell disaster to my plan. Mrs Owen, deaf as a post and indifferent to everything about her, was no threat, but Mrs Odingsells was also downstairs and her sharp nose would twitch at any sign of trouble. I could only hope that Anna, like Richard, had entered by the back stair without being seen.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ I said. I gestured towards the trunk. ‘I am going on a journey.’

  It was as though she had not heard me. She sat down on the end of the bed. Her legs were so short that they did not touch the ground and she swung them back and forth like a child.

  ‘I never told you that I met Robert at Sawston,’ she said. ‘Do you remember that year? The year King Edward died and your husband tried to put the traitor Jane Grey on the throne?’ That myopic blue stare pinned me to the spot. ‘Antony gave Queen Mary shelter and for that Robert burned Sawston to the ground.’

  My throat was suddenly dry. ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for it, but…’ I hesitated. ‘Anna, we were on opposing sides. It is the fortunes of war. Your husband got Mary to safety and later he was rewarded for it.’ I waited but she said nothing. ‘It was a long time ago,’ I said lamely, ‘and no one died. Time has passed. We have a different queen now. Surely all can be forgotten?’

  ‘I have not forgotten,’ Anna said. ‘I never forgot.’

  I hesitated. I did not know what else to say. ‘I had not realised you were at Sawston at the time,’ I said weakly. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been very distressing for you.’

  A bitter smile touched Anna’s mouth, no warmth in it. ‘The whole of Antony’s family was at Sawston that night. We were celebrating because I was expecting another child after three miscarriages. The babe was healthy and I felt well. It was a miracle.’

  Horror and confusion made my brain run slow. ‘But you have no children,’ I said, stupidly. ‘You are childless like me.’

  Anna’s chin came up. ‘I am not like you, Amy,’ she said scornfully. ‘I conceived, more than once. And then I lost my child when we were forced to flee in the panic and confusion of the fire. We were all terrified. I was running and I fell.’ Once again, her hand rested protectively over her belly. ‘I hated Robert for that,’ she added. Her conversational tone made the chilling words all the more shocking. ‘Every day I would pray that Queen Mary would execute him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no idea.’ I felt helpless. How could I appease her? How could I get rid of her before it was too late? My mind was running feverishly along the two parallel paths; how to calm Anna and send her away and how to be ready, for any moment Richard Varney might come…

  ‘Mother said you were not to be told,’ Anna said. She was not looking at me now but gazing at a point far distant, a point in the past, I guessed, and yet still vivid and painful in the present. ‘She said that Robert would one day become a powerful man and that it was in the interests of us all, whatever our creed, to put personal feelings aside and ally ourselves to him for the good of the family. She said I would have more children, and not to fret.’

  I blinked. It was hard advice, pragmatic though, from a woman who was not only protective of her family but who had also experienced a number of miscarriages herself. I remembered the unsentimental way in which Mother had sent me recipes for herbal medicines to try to help me conceive and the unvarnished words that if I did not, I would be a woman with nothing: no place, no influence.

  ‘It happened again,’ Anna said, ‘over and over, I would conceive and lose the babe and now the physician has told me I must not try again for fear it will kill me. Antony tells me it does not matter, but it does.’ She lifted her gaze to mine. Her face was drained of all animation, all spirit, except for the startling hatred I saw beneath the surface. It was that which kept her alive.

  ‘You blame Robert,’ I said. ‘You think it is his fault that you have lost all your babes and your hope for the future.’

  She nodded. ‘I do. I do blame him. I always will. I lost the last child two weeks ago and I can bear it no more. I had to tell you. You had to know.’

  I went down on my knees beside the bed and took her cold hands in mine regardless of the shudder of revulsion that went through me. It was like grasping a corpse.

  ‘Anna,’ I said, ‘I am so very sorry. I know how hard it is to be childless—’

  Her gaze snapped. ‘You do not know what it is like to lose a child.’

  I swallowed the hurt and the words that bubbled up. It was a different sorrow to fail to conceive. That grief was mine.


  ‘No, I do not,’ I said carefully. ‘And I do understand why you feel Robert is to blame for your misfortunes. What can I do?’ I shook her hands gently. ‘How can I help you?’ I did not know what she wanted and I did not want to be so crass as to offer money for a loss that could never be compensated. ‘What do you want of me?’ I repeated.

  Her hands tightened cruelly on mine. ‘I want you to kill him,’ she said.

  For a moment I was frozen into shock and then I started to laugh. It was so unexpected that I could not help myself. The sound came bubbling up and I could not prevent it bursting out. Anna let go of me as though I had the plague and leaped to her feet, leaving me kneeling there on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I scrambled up, trying to stifle my mirth. ‘It’s the shock… I was so surprised—’

  She looked at me with loathing. ‘I might have known that you would not care,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, sobering. ‘But… To kill Robert? How could I possibly accomplish that? And why would I want to do so?’

  ‘Not just for me,’ she said, turning away so that her expression was in shadow, ‘but for both of us. Surely you cannot bear the way he humiliates you? You are a laughing stock, Amy. Your name is synonymous with cuckoldry throughout the entire land.’

  It was unkind but I had schooled myself to withstand far worse in the ten years that I had been Robert’s wife. All urge to laugh had flown now; I was acutely conscious that time was running out and that I must simply get rid of her.

  ‘You are crazed,’ I said coldly. ‘Your mind has been turned by grief and I am sorry for it. But I will not kill Robert. He may well prefer to spend his hours with the Queen than with me but he provides well for me. I lack for nothing. I am unlikely to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.’