Chapter Five
For an instant Mercia stood paralysed as she watched her hopes fluttering towards the flames. Then both she and Nathan grasped for the wayward paper, knocking their forearms together but missing it entirely. She swooped again and this time the air was disturbed, altering the paper’s descent. It came to rest just in front of the hearth.
‘God’s truth! We nearly lost it.’ She picked up the paper, unfolding it against the light of a candle. Nathan cleared his throat and she stepped back from the flame.
‘’Tis a sort of letter,’ she said. ‘Written in Father’s hand.’ As she progressed through the contents the initial saddened creases of her face changed to an incredulous frown. When she had finished she fell into a chair, staring at the note.
‘What is it?’ Nathan looked at her but she stayed silent. ‘Come, what?’
She looked up. ‘What do you know of the King’s art collection? The late King, I mean.’
Nathan shrugged. ‘He bought a great number of paintings over the years, spending a lot of money in the process. Then after he was …’ he hesitated.
‘After he was executed. You can say it.’
‘Well, after then, Cromwell sold them off to finance his own regime. Now the new King is restored he is trying to recover his father’s collection.’
‘The paintings went all over the country,’ said Mercia. ‘All over Europe, in fact. Even the King’s old servants were given some in place of unpaid salary. It always amused me to think that a fine painting of the King could be hanging in someone’s privy.’
‘King Charles resplendent on his mighty throne. So what is in the note?’
She sucked in her lips. ‘Do you recall the stories about the Oxford Section?’
‘Of course. Everyone round here does.’ He lapsed into a monotone, revisiting a well-known tale. ‘When London declared for Parliament at the start of the war, the King moved his capital to Oxford. He brought his favourite paintings with him. They became known as the Oxford Section. After the war, Cromwell ordered the Section back to London to be sold with the rest. But they were burnt in a failed robbery on the way. Hell, Mercia, is this what the note is about?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Father writes the Oxford Section may still exist.’
Nathan stared. ‘How? Your father was in charge of investigating the robbery himself. I thought they found fragments of the paintings in the remains?’
‘What we have been told is rather different to what father writes here.’ She looked down at the note and read out loud.
January 1664
My dearest daughter,
I write this letter with a sad heart while you are absent with your cousin, uncertain if we will meet again. If you ever read it, I am sorry for anything that has happened since that has caused you pain. Your happiness was ever foremost in my heart.
But time is short. I am informed by a knowledgeable friend that on a whim the King wishes me away to the Tower on charge of high treason. Why this sudden reversal of my fortune afflicts me now I cannot explain. It appears the King’s amnesty has been stolen from me by my enemies, diverting me from the hope I had nurtured of restoring my standing through the use of some ancient knowledge of mine. In the event I am now unable to act on this opportunity, I shall hide this note so you may find it and act yourself.
The Oxford Section of the late King’s great collection of art was not lost as all believe. It is said that when the soldiers escorting the Section to London to join in the Great Sale of Goods passed through our Shire, they were attacked by Villains, and in the fight that followed, the soldiers in their negligence did set the Section ablaze with their own unhappy muskets. This is not the truth, so I swear by Almighty God. The real misfortune was that one of those guards turned on his fellow men and slaughtered them as they marched, robbing the Section himself, and fleeing into the Greenwood with his gains.
As you know, Sir Edward Markstone and I were appointed to examine the tragic event, but finding no trace of the Villain nor any word of the Section itself, Cromwell ordered that the Incident be forgotten, indeed that a lie of highway robbery be devised, not wanting a Disastrous abuse by one of his own soldiers to come to light with our great victory at Worcester so near in memory. We never heard of the Section again, save a faraway rumour when Cromwell died, but we had no occasion to investigate. The King was returning.
Knowing the Section had not been destroyed, but instead hidden or treacherously sold to Buyers without scruple, I decided to discover it myself if I could, having recently come into some information relating to the theft these many years since it occurred. I cannot say what information this is, as should anyone else discover this note, it may be dangerous to the source of it. I also could not count on Edward Markstone to assist: as you know, he is recently dead, poisoned they say by his wife, although I am doubtful of that. There were difficulties. But I deviate from my purpose.
I made brief enquiries in London before receiving the unwelcome news of my arrest. I am hopeful I can convince them I am not their enemy, but if this ends badly, I know full well what your uncle is capable of. News of the Section may be a road to the King’s favour. You will think I have left you scant information, and you will be right, but your mind is sharp and your spirit is tenacious. Discover what you can, but have a care. Life is precious, and you most precious of all.
‘God’s death,’ said Nathan. ‘If those paintings do exist, think what it would mean.’ He began to pace the room. ‘We should tell Sir Jeremy.’
‘No,’ said Mercia. ‘Don’t you see? This could be the key to winning the King’s support against my uncle.’ She rose from her chair, a steadfast resolve animating her face. ‘Father knew all this would happen. I am going to find those paintings myself.’
Drizzle spattered Mercia’s black hat as she rode her horse Maggie to Warwick the next morning, intending to visit her mother. The rain suited her low mood, all the enthusiasm of last night washed away as she was forced to confront reality. Her father’s death had left a gap inside her that she knew would take time to close. But as the grey horse trotted north, the steady clopping of its hooves drilled into her a keener determination to take up her father’s mission, not only for Daniel and herself, but for her mother too, unjustly evicted from her home.
As she rode past Banbury Cross, Isabel’s words came through the chill air with a vindictive spirit. In truth her mother-in-law had frightened her. She had many friends in the county, and she was a practiced manipulator. She could mount a powerful case to gain custody of Daniel if she wished. Mercia briefly thought how easily she could secure a protective influence by becoming mistress to Sir William Calde, but she dismissed the notion immediately. While there was another option, however uncertain, she would take that chance.
Pushing Maggie hard, she arrived in Warwick just as the two churches of St Mary and St Nicholas were competing to ring out their bells for noon. Crossing the River Avon she turned right into Mill Street, heading for the only place she thought her mother could be, her dead spinster aunt’s town house on the south side of town, also part of Sir Francis’s estate since he had acquired it two years before. Mercia had always believed the inheritance was legitimate. Now, who could be sure?
When she knocked on the door of the black and white timber-framed house she was relieved to find she was right. After a brief word with Agnes, her mother’s maidservant, she climbed the stairs to find Lady Goodridge in a small second-floor bedroom. She was staring out onto the courtyard garden, the turrets of the famous castle where her distant Beauchamp forebears had helped shape the long-gone age of the Plantagenet kings visible on the hill beyond. Today, weak rays of sunlight splashed through the patterned window of this modest home, disappearing into the faded brown dress that wrapped her gaunt physique.
‘Hello, Mother.’ Mercia entered the bedroom not knowing how much Lady Goodridge would recall of recent events. She had suffered in the civil wars, more than most, retreating when all was done into a life of delus
ions. When Sir Rowland had been taken away two months before she had simply refused to believe it. Mercia worried that the loss of the manor house would be the final assault her affected mind could withstand.
Lady Goodridge turned on hearing her daughter come in. ‘Mercia!’ Her dull eyes brightened. ‘Wait, let me find Elizabeth for you.’
‘You need not look for my doll, Mother. She is safe in her house.’ Mercia sat on the small bed, patting the bright embroidered cover to signal her mother to join her. When she did she took her hand. ‘Mother. Do you know what has happened?’
Lady Goodridge looked away. ‘He will come back. I know what you said before, but he will.’
‘I am sorry, Mother. But he will not.’ Mercia looked at her mother’s sunken cheek, stroking her hand, not knowing what to say for the best.
‘Agnes says he is coming to see me,’ said Lady Goodridge, after a pause.
‘She said Francis is coming to see you. Your brother. He has taken Halescott for himself. He expects you to live here now.’ She spoke slowly, as though to a child, hating herself for it. ‘Do you understand?’
Lady Goodridge looked back at her, a faint smile deepening the creases of her face. ‘Yes. Francis is coming soon.’
Mercia closed her eyes. Why could her mother not see what was happening? For that instant she felt crushed, as if the whole world were against her. But then she opened her eyes and saw her mother looking at her with a deep concern. She forced herself to focus.
‘Mother, you are right. Sir Francis is coming here.’ She gripped her hands. ‘He will say you are to stay in this house now, but I am going to fight it.’
Fear briefly dilated Lady Goodridge’s eyes. ‘Don’t fight, Mercia, don’t fight.’ She shook her head vigorously, loose white strands of hair falling from under her cap.
‘I am sorry.’ Mercia bit her lip, scared at her mother’s reaction. She changed the subject, wondering if her mother would know anything about the contents of her father’s letter. ‘Mother, do you recall the Oxford Section? When the King’s paintings were thought burnt in the wood?’
Lady Goodridge frowned. ‘Which King? There have been so many.’
‘Charles, Mother. The first. The one who raised his standard at Nottingham when I was little, with the Catholic wife nobody liked.’
‘But he was killed, Mercia. Do you not remember when your father came to tell us the news? We were feeding those birds.’
‘Yes I do.’ She smiled in reassurance. ‘But the Oxford Section – did father ever say anything to you about that? Did Sir Edward Markstone?’
‘Edward Markstone was—but never mind that.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Mind what?’
‘Oh, he was brutal.’ She pursed her lips. ‘They say he beat his wife. But then she could be a sly creature. He was never other than a gentleman with me.’
Mercia sighed. ‘Mother, please try to remember.’
Lady Goodridge thought awhile. ‘Those paintings that were burnt, you say? Your father said Cromwell was livid. Why don’t you ask him?’
Mercia hung her head, loosening her grip on her mother’s hands. ‘Perhaps this is hopeless,’ she muttered. ‘Perhaps I should just settle for what life has given me.’
‘No!’ Lady Goodridge looked sharply at her daughter, speaking with a sudden lucidity Mercia had not heard for months. ‘Child, you are in your own hand. Your father and I, we disagreed about your books, but he was right. You are a beautiful woman, you have a mind the equal of any of those Oxford scholars. Do not give in, not like I did. I have always been proud of you. Always.’
The unexpected praise penetrated to Mercia’s soul. She forgot about the Oxford Section, seizing the chance to talk about all those things her mother never seemed to remember, about her achievements, her disappointments, about Daniel’s schooling, about how she had helped Nathan through his time of grief. But when she ventured again to talk of her father, Lady Goodridge’s eyes dulled, and when Mercia spoke of her feelings, she did not reply, instead walking to the window to look out on the garden, choosing to forget Mercia was there.
From long experience Mercia knew the sign, that there was nothing more she could say. For a moment she sat on the bed, alone. But she too had a choice, and it was to fight, whatever her mother said, lest the sadness overwhelm her. Kissing her mother farewell she walked from the room, vowing she would see her back in Halescott where she belonged.
Dark clouds were obscuring the setting sun when she arrived back at the cottage. She was unsurprised to see Nathan’s blood bay horse tied up outside, its nose in a bag of oats. In the sitting room Nathan himself was flicking through the Anglo-Saxon history she had taken from the manor house, waiting for her return. She told him what she had decided to do, how seeing her mother had convinced her. Now she had a favour to ask. He questioned. She explained. He argued. He agreed.
In the street she found Daniel playing at ball with one of the village boys. She called him over and slowly stroked his hair.
‘I shall have to go to London again, Danny, just for a few days.’ She knelt down to look at him. ‘Would you like to stay on Nathan’s farm while I am away? He asked if you could help him with the cows and the sheep, you were so good and strong at it the last time.’
Daniel’s face shone with excitement. ‘When?’
‘That depends on the coach. And – once I am ready.’ She stood, letting her hand run across his shoulders. ‘Go and play now. But not too long, it will be dark soon.’
He ran back to his game. Mercia watched him, and she could tell he was thinking of all the things he would do on the farm. She smiled inwardly that he was so keen to leave the cottage to stay with Nathan, but she remembered how much she had loved staying away from home with her cousins, before the war.
Nathan came out to join her. ‘What did he say?’
‘He is looking forward to it.’
‘Good.’ He sighed. ‘But I still say I could be of help to you in London. How your father described it, looking for those paintings could be dangerous. Especially you being a—’
‘A woman?’ Mercia laughed. ‘I should think that gives me perfect licence to meddle in others’ affairs, is that not how some of your kind view our weaker sex?’ She softened her tone. ‘Do not worry, Nat. Bethany will come with me. And I need someone here who can stand up to Anthony and Isabel if they come looking. You know they will accuse me of neglecting Daniel, even though he wants to spend his time with you.’
‘I fear that may be part of their problem.’ He ran a hand through his long hair. ‘But very well. And good luck.’
Three days later she buried her father. She did not see the body; she did not want to look on the headless corpse. He was buried in a simple tomb alongside his father and grandfather in the village churchyard. Sir Jeremy and three other of Sir Rowland’s friends carried his black oak coffin through the ivy-covered lychgate, the smaller, head-sized casket on top joining his bodily remains in their eternal rest.
Mercia stood with Daniel by the grave, a steady rain falling on them as relentless as his tears when she had finally told him his grandfather was gone, but he did not cry today. Nathan stood behind at a distance, head bowed in prayer. Lady Goodridge was still in Warwick, her fragile mind unable to attend.
When the mourners had gone, and Daniel was back with Bethany in the warmth, Mercia knelt alone at her father’s grave.
‘I promise you, Father. I will put all this right. I will make you proud of me. I swear it.’
And then she left him in the ground, though she carried his soul forever in her heart.
Part Two
Chapter Six
Songbirds chirruped a welcoming greeting as Mercia’s coach juddered into London under glorious evening sunshine. The packed coach halted at the now familiar terminus of the Saracen’s Head, but this time she was not staying at the inn. A few days after the funeral she had ridden to thank Sir Jeremy for his efforts in bringing her father home, and over a cordial glass of win
e he had offered her his London town house for the upcoming days, although he had known nothing useful about the Oxford Section when she had asked. Alighting from the coach in the shadows of the inn’s stable yard, she paid a boy a silver penny to find her a hackney carriage for the final leg of the journey, and a penny more for the feat of carrying her heavy luggage from coach to carriage under such a sparse physique.
Bethany had never visited the capital before, and the amazement on her face as she leant through the carriage window to take in the dirt and the noise added to the infectious energy Mercia herself was absorbing from the vast numbers of people in the streets. The new Holborn roadworks were aggravating the usual London traffic jams, but the driver pulled out past the queue of drays ahead of them to cut into Drury Lane across an oncoming cart, bringing them to the Queen Street town house before sunset. Bethany went straight to the kitchen, professing an affinity with the pans and the pots.
For her part, Mercia slouched in a comfortable leather-padded armchair in the first-floor parlour room, thinking through her next steps. Although he had renewed his enquires into the Oxford Section before his arrest, her father had left her with scant helpful information, presumably in deference to his mysterious source. But his letter had mentioned one person by name: Sir Edward Markstone, his fellow investigator from the time of the Section’s loss.
The slight problem of Sir Edward’s death did not deter her. She reasoned he might have revealed something to his wife, or perhaps her own father had, the Markstones being friends of the family. She remembered visiting their grand house when she was a girl, peeking out from behind her father just as the Markstones’ elder son Robert was descending their mahogany staircase, his jawline firm, his hair an intense black, his fashionable clothes tight on his slender frame. Open-mouthed, she had fallen in love, no matter that he was seventeen and she was eleven, she could wait. Except he died the year after, fighting for the King at the battle of Marston Moor. Amongst the thousands of massacred troops, his parents never found his body.
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