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.
An hour later she was on her horse, her mourning gown reluctantly discarded for her more practical loose riding dress, but she knew her father would not mind. His silent blessing urged her on as she sped past the battlefield at Edgehill, foregoing her usual pause to pray for the cousins she had lost in that fight, the very first of the civil war.
She galloped across Nathan’s farmland, finding him outside a hay barn giving orders to his men. The violent thumping of the approaching horse made him look up. Seeing her determined face, he signalled to his labourers to move away.
‘Nathan,’ she cried, leaping to the ground. ‘You have to help me break into Halescott Manor.’
Chapter Four
The silver clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece showed five minutes to nine as she left her cottage that evening. A moisture in the air clung to her cheek as she moved quietly down the lane, a dog barking across a field to her left. A full moon illuminated her path, but no one would have recognised her in her thick hood, let alone in the rest of her dark outfit.
At the arranged meeting place she saw Nathan leaning against the solitary elm tree on the edge of the village green, but as she drew near he darted behind its broad trunk. She looked around, but nobody was nearby.
‘Why are you hiding?’ she asked as she reached the elm. ‘’Tis only me.’
Nathan emerged from behind the trunk, dressed completely in black. ‘By God’s truth, Mercia, I thought you were a man.’ He looked her up and down. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘Will’s clothes. I never threw them all away.’ She folded her arms, causing the musty shirt she was wearing under her cloak to rise up around her chest. ‘Come now. I thought they would be better for this sort of thing than a heavy mourning dress.’
Nathan stared, before stifling a laugh. ‘You are an amazing woman.’ He shook his head. ‘And somehow, I should not say this, but you look comely in those breeches.’
She hid her smile. ‘Be serious. I want to do this as quickly as we can.’
They stole through damp beech woods to the back of the manor grounds, mud squelching underfoot as they made their way to where she knew the surrounding stone wall was lowest. But it was still six feet high, and failed girlhood attempts had taught her it was not simple to climb. So it proved. At the first attempt she slid back down the wall, the uneven stone grazing her palm, and at the second she fell, but Nathan caught her, holding her for a second before he released her to try again. This time she managed to cling onto enough footholds to ease herself over the top, but her anxious grip pulled a loose stone away on the descent, and she lost her footing, tumbling painfully into the garden.
Nathan jumped down as she was wiping the damp grass from her cloak, his hood fallen back over his shoulders. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she answered, although her right hip was aching. ‘But these breeches will stain. And I have lost a button from the shirt.’
‘Never mind that. Come on.’
They pressed onwards through the long grass, creeping alongside a twiggy hedge that led into a more formal part of the gardens. Passing through a leafy archway, they stole round a lily-covered pool flanked by statues of the Greek goddesses Athena and Artemis, their divine arms outstretched to each other on either side of the still water. Nearer the house they paused behind a large urn, observing through the wide crack running down its centre.
‘There is a light in one of the upstairs windows,’ said Nathan, gripping the pedestal of the urn. ‘But the back parlour seems dark.’ He looked at her. ‘Your plan might work.’
‘Of course it will. As long as they still have no dogs.’
‘And the servants?’
‘Hopefully abed. They should be on my side in any case. Most of them have been here since I was a child.’ She paused. ‘I do hope they will be treated well. Anthony has already brought in one of his own men.’
After a moment of reflection she stooped down, motioning for Nathan to follow, but he held out a restraining arm and moved in front. Mildly irritated, she lost her calm focus; a bird screeching in the woods behind made her whirl around, only to be confronted by a man looming out of the darkness. She began to back off until she noticed his body was made of leaves, merely a well-cut topiary bush. Thankful Nathan had not noticed her foolishness, she turned to follow him.
They reached the house. Mercia held her hand against the rough stone, taking strength from its keen familiarity, but she did not linger, keeping close against the wall until they arrived outside the parlour. She pointed out the window she knew was loose and Nathan rattled it, pulling it open with a sharp tug. He squeezed through the gap, manipulating his broad torso to fit. When he was on the other side Mercia pulled up her legs to follow, glad she was not wearing a dress.
No candle was shining in the parlour, but her eyes, already accustomed to darkness, easily made out the black oblong of her parents’ fine dining table running the length of the room. Chests and cupboards surrounded it, full of decorative porcelain and plate. Mercia felt her anger rising again, anger that these things her family had earned were stolen from her, but she mastered herself, striding calmly from the room towards her goal, towards her hope.
They were heading for the Long Gallery on the top floor of the house. Through a small square hall they turned left past the bureau where she had written her very first letter under the proud eye of her father. She knew this house intimately. On their way up the grand mahogany staircase, she knew exactly which steps to jump to avoid creaks.
At the top of the first flight of stairs they passed by a landing which gave onto a suite of bedrooms, but the doors were shut and if anyone was within, nobody heard them. She ran her hand over the warmth of the balustrade as she ascended the second flight, feeling the pulse of her house, before passing through an undecorated room full of clutter and so into a huge vaulted spa
ce that stretched the whole breadth of the manor. Moonlight shone through three massive iron-framed windows onto the opposite wall.
Nathan whispered in her ear. ‘Where now?’
‘It should be towards the end.’ She crept down the wainscoted gallery past a succession of portraits, but halfway down she stopped. ‘Some of these portraits have come down. There are gaps.’ She looked into the darkness. ‘Where are they?’
‘They must be somewhere. You said your uncle wanted everything to stay in the house.’
She nodded. ‘Why don’t you stand by the door in case anyone comes up?’
He moved off and she continued down the gallery. At the end of the long space she breathed out in relief as she saw a small picture still in the spot where her portrait was meant to be hanging. Encouraged, she removed it from the wall to examine it at the nearest window. Then she gasped. Expecting to see her childhood self on a white horse, she found herself looking on the image of her dead husband instead. Her parents-in-law must already have replaced her picture with one of their son.
Looking at the portrait of William, Mercia felt a moment of sadness and regret. He was depicted in his soldier’s uniform, his horse to one side, the fields of Oxfordshire stretching out behind him. His long black hair trailed across his forehead, his keen eyes looking directly outward at her. It was the painting Isabel had commissioned before he went on campaign – the year Mercia lost him. A similar picture hung in the bedroom of her cottage. But there was no time for sentimentality tonight. She put the portrait back and moved on, studying the other paintings nearby in case hers had merely been moved.
She was peering through the darkness at a fading representation of a youthful Lady Markstone when her husband’s portrait fell to the oak-panelled floor with a crash. Cursing herself, she replaced the poorly rehung picture on the wall and stood still, listening. For a few seconds there was silence. But then a door creaking open downstairs resounded loud around the gallery. Her heart beat faster. Moments later, another creak, this time deeper, like a groan. Someone was coming up the stairs.
Nathan appeared beside her, making her jump.
‘We have to get out,’ he whispered. ‘That picture made quite a noise.’
‘We can’t,’ she hissed. ‘I haven’t found the portrait yet. It has been moved.’
A footstep echoed outside the gallery, a faint candlelight spilling through the open doorway, but no person as yet appeared, clearly deciding what to do. Thinking quickly, Mercia crept to William’s portrait, removing it from the wall and setting it on the floor. She tapped Nathan’s shoulder, motioning to him to back with her into a small storage room just behind them.
‘Hopefully they will think it fell down by itself,’ she whispered, daring a glimpse back from the store. A silhouetted figure had now entered the gallery, his teenage face just discernible in the weak light of his candle. ‘It is Edward. My, he becomes more like William each year.’
Nathan put his finger over her lips. She frowned but kept silent, continuing to look out as Edward inched down the gallery until he paused beside the fallen portrait. He knelt to pick it up, but instead of repositioning it he slowly stroked his brother’s face, his sad expression deepened by the inconsistent candlelight. Involuntarily Mercia cupped her hand to her mouth, sharing his pain. But the action caused her to stumble backwards and she scraped a boot against the smooth floor. Edward jerked his head in the direction of the noise. He set down the painting and approached.
There was no exit from the store other than the door they had entered by. Mercia crouched behind a wooden box to hide herself, but Nathan moved to the side of the door, pulling his hood over his head. As Edward entered, Nathan grabbed him across the chest with his right arm, clamping his other hand over the surprised boy’s mouth. He dragged him into the middle of the room, kicking the dropped candle out with one swift movement.
‘Quiet lad, or I’ll break your neck. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it.’ Nathan spoke in a gruff drawl, disguising his voice. Mercia was surprised: he must have learnt the accent during his army days.
Edward began to struggle, but Nathan moved his arm upwards towards the boy’s throat and he became still.
‘Good.’ Nathan kept his voice low. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. Do you know who I am?’
Edward made a slight shake of his head.
‘Better. Now I’m going to move my hand from your mouth. But if you cry out I can put just the right pressure on your throat to stop you for good and all.’ He edged his other arm closer to Edward’s neck. ‘Do you understand?’ Edward nodded and Nathan removed his hand.
‘There is no one else here,’ Edward stammered. ‘No one to call to.’
‘I know that’s not true, boy, so don’t lie again.’ Nathan squeezed Edward’s chest more tightly. ‘But you needn’t worry for your family. I just want something of value to sell. You’ll have lots in this fine house.’ He paused. ‘I thought, perhaps, the picture of that young man I saw you fondling just now.’
Mercia could feel Edward’s despair. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that. It is precious to my mother and me.’ His voice shook. ‘Please. Nobody else could want it.’
‘Very well.’ Nathan relaxed his grip slightly. ‘But listen. I’ve been in this house before, back in the war. There were some different pictures on the walls then. Where are they now?’ Even through the darkness, Mercia could swear she saw him wink at her.
‘In the room opposite this,’ managed Edward. ‘Mother removed what she did not like. Yes, take one of those.’
Hood up to hide her face, Mercia leapt from behind the box. Nathan replaced his hand around Edward’s mouth before he could cry out. She dashed across the gallery into the opposite room, a void space that led to the western staircase, with a small window onto the gardens below. It took a few moments of feeling around before she found the missing pictures stacked haphazardly in a corner. Stifling the urge to clap, she flicked through them – her father in his military breastplate; her grandfather, standing in front of the manor house he himself had built; another of her father, this one with Lord Protector Cromwell and a group of unsmiling men; herself, the child Mercia, dressed as a lady.
Her heart pounding, she turned over the small picture but there was nothing on the back. She felt along the edges for any trace of a lump or imperfection, stopping when she came to a slight distinction in the texture of the canvas, a rough tear at its base. Was this it, what her father wanted her to find?
She was about to see if she could prise open the tear when she heard footsteps running down the gallery. Uncertain what was happening, she hurried back to the long room with the painting, meeting Nathan as he emerged from the store.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wincing as he rubbed at his stomach. ‘My attention slipped. He will come back with help.’ He lowered his hand and pointed at the painting. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ She opened the adjacent window. ‘But we had best leave before we investigate.’
‘Mercia, we cannot jump from here. ’Tis three storeys high!’
She looked at him, then threw the painting from the window. It made no sound as it landed on the rose bush she knew was directly below.
‘In case we are caught. Now this way.’ She ran through the room where she had found the painting, ducking beneath a low-hanging beam to access the plain west staircase. They hurtled down to the first floor, swerving right into a bedroom she knew was unlikely to be in use – her own before she married – feeling past the bed for the hidden door the maidservants used to access the private chambers from their part of the house.
‘Quickly,’ she said, thrusting open the door to pass into an undecorated corridor beyond. She led Nathan along the narrow space to a workaday staircase, jumping two steps at a time to reach a dark passageway that came out into an exposed inner courtyard. Skidding across smooth stone slabs she tumbled into a damp cellar where she pushed off the thick columns that supported the ceiling to race through an open doorway a
nd out of the house.
She emerged into fresh air, nobody in pursuit, hurrying to the rose bush where her portrait lay thankfully unpierced atop its bed of thorns. Then she and Nathan were gone, running round the pond, past Artemis and Athena, along the twiggy hedge, almost hurdling the stone wall in their eagerness to escape. Through the woods, past the elm, across the green, they didn’t stop until they reached her cottage, throwing themselves against the garden wall, hands on their thighs, struggling to recover their breath.
Mercia gazed on her childhood image, a splendidly dressed girl riding a white unicorn through a sun-dappled forest glade, her bangle-covered wrists golden against the bustling sleeves of a flowing green cloak.
‘No wonder Isabel took it down,’ joked Nathan, warming himself at the sitting room fire. ‘She would not want to look at that every time she walked past.’
‘My father made it to look like a Saxon princess.’ She smiled. ‘He was obsessed with the Saxons. You know I am named Mercia after the old Saxon kingdom.’ She paused, lost in thought. ‘He said it was too beautiful a word to be a place alone.’
She fell silent, taking in the portrait of her infant self, the orange glow of the fire casting shadows over its bucolic scene. Rousing herself, she turned the painting over to show Nathan the imperfection in its back.
‘I think there are two canvasses here,’ he said, taking it. ‘See? The actual painting at the front, and a blank one inserted at the back. And there, at that tear, is a gap.’ He squeezed a finger inside it. ‘Mercia, there’s something inside.’
Holding her breath she leant closer, watching him reach into the tear to pull the back canvas away.
A hidden piece of paper slipped out, drifting straight for the blazing fire.
Birthright Page 4
