Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘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.

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nbsp; 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 perus
ed 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.’