Oxfordshire, 1478
The winter of fourteen seventy-eight was a harsh one. We had travelled to London for the Christmas festivities at court and made our way slowly home to Minster Lovell through the winter snows. It had felt a less than festive season, for the King’s second brother, the Duke of Clarence, had been arrested for treason and Edward, it seemed, was less inclined to tolerate Clarence’s disloyalty than he had in the past. The Duke’s imprisonment had hung over the court like a pall of smoke whilst Edward tried to decide what to do with his glory-seeking brother. Francis, as Richard of Gloucester’s close friend, had been party to some discussion on the matter and I sensed the distraction and disquiet in him as we rode.
‘Gloucester seeks to intercede for Clarence with the King,’ Francis confided in me in the privacy of our chamber that night. We were staying with our neighbours, Sir William and Lady Stonor, near the little village of Henley on the Thames and were only a night away from home. I was looking forward to being back in my own bed.
‘The King has been remarkably tolerant of his brother until now,’ I commented, as I warmed myself before the fire, thawing out my frozen limbs. ‘What can have changed?’ I was allowing myself to think pleasantly of dinner. The Stonors had been anxious to court our friendship, being nakedly ambitious, so they were likely to provide a splendid meal, perhaps even roast swan, as the Christmas season was not quite over yet.
Francis shook his head. ‘I do not know why the King has moved against Clarence now. Not even Gloucester knows. Perhaps the King’s patience has simply run out, or perhaps…’ He remained silent for a moment, staring into the fire.
‘Perhaps?’ I prompted. I glanced towards the door for I suspected that Elizabeth Stonor might have her ear pressed to the outside of it. One of the things I abhorred about the society in which we moved now was the endless rumour and factionalism that swirled about it like a fetid miasma from the Thames. It choked all that was fresh and clean and free. No one spoke openly; men tested their power against one another and everyone courted favour. I hated it. The Stonors sought our company now because we were so close to the Duke of Gloucester. Without his friendship we would be as nothing to them.
‘Perhaps Clarence has finally gone too far,’ Francis said. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Gloucester thinks that he might have threatened the King.’
‘Threatened him?’ My brows shot up and my voice with them. One did not threaten Edward; it was supreme folly.
‘With blackmail,’ Francis added.
I went across and knelt beside his chair. ‘About what?’ I whispered.
‘A marriage,’ Francis said reluctantly. ‘Made long ago, before he was wed to the Queen.’
I sat back on my heels and let out my breath in a long sigh. The King had a way of wooing beautiful but virtuous women. It was the way in which Elizabeth Woodville had become Queen, withholding herself from him until he agreed to marry her. But what would happen if Edward had already promised the same to another woman and had already been married when he wed Elizabeth?
My eyes met Francis’. It was a measure of our opinion of the King that neither of us denied the possibility.
‘Who is the woman?’ I asked. ‘Who do they say is the King’s true wife?’
Francis shook his head. ‘That I do not know. Nor where and when the marriage is alleged to have taken place. Gloucester is working to discover if there is any truth in the story and I have pledged him my aid should he need it.’
I did not move; did not speak. It was easy to see how such tittle-tattle might take root, and how dangerous it could be. I thought of the King’s young family, of Edward his eldest son and heir, the younger boy, Richard, a chubby child of three now, and the little golden-haired princesses of York. The Queen was almost perpetually pregnant. King Edward would not risk any threat to their future. He would stamp out anyone who tried to blackmail him, even his own brother.
There was a knock at the door, Francis’ man Franke stuck his head around. ‘A messenger, my lord. Gloucester’s livery.’
Francis saw the man alone in the hall whilst I endured an awkward wait with Sir William and Lady Stonor in the parlour. When Francis returned, his face was pale and set.
‘We leave at once,’ he said to me, and although we had only just arrived and I was aching from travelling and longing for hot food and a comfortable bed, I was glad he made no mention of my staying behind. So often it seemed that women missed out on all that was of interest.
‘Cousin Stonor’ – he turned to William – ‘I must apologise for my abruptness. A most urgent commission…’
Lady Stonor was, of course, quite frenzied in her desire to know what was happening. ‘What in God’s name could prompt such haste?’ she demanded. ‘Surely one night’s delay can be of no consequence? It is but a few hours to nightfall and the weather is bad and the roads are worse! You will be set upon and robbed, or fall in a ditch—’
‘Dear Elizabeth,’ I said, seeing Francis’ deep discomfort and having fewer qualms about lying than he had, ‘I am so sorry that we must leave your hospitality so soon. No footpad in their right minds would be out on a day like this. I am sure all will be well and we shall reach home in safety.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Francis make a slight, instinctive movement and knew at once that we were not to return to Minster Lovell that night. The Duke of Gloucester’s commission would take us elsewhere.
‘Thank you, Anne,’ Francis whispered in my ear, as I went up to our chamber to oversee the packing of trunks so recently unpacked whilst he went to the stables. ‘We travel light,’ he added, ‘and the servants will not accompany us. Only Franke comes too.’
I felt the tiniest shiver of premonition. ‘Francis,’ I said. ‘What is it? What has happened? Is it to do with the Duke of Clarence?’
He shook his head quickly for we were easily overheard. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now we must make all speed if we are to catch up with our quarry.’
As I had guessed, we did not take direction for Minster Lovell but cut south-westward on paths and tracks almost blocked with snow. This was downland country, high, fierce and wild. It was the closest to Yorkshire that you could find in the soft southern counties and for all the cold and the hard riding I relished it. The skies had cleared now and were bright with the last light of a winter afternoon. Far above us the buzzards wheeled and called on the wind, a keening sound of plaintive isolation. The snow-shrouded hills stretched for miles with nothing to break the emptiness.
‘A man could die out here and no one would find him for days,’ I remarked cheerfully, ‘and by then he would have been picked clean by the birds and the beasts.’
Francis and Edward Franke both looked at me as though I were the least congenial travelling companion and I laughed at their expressions. I liked Franke, who was as sound a man as one could ask for as well as very handy in a fight.
‘Whither do we ride?’ I asked.
‘Along the old Ridgeway,’ Francis said, drawing his cloak closer against the bite of the wind. He had snowflakes on his eyelashes, ‘and down into Ashbury.’
I had no notion of where Ashbury might be or why the Duke of Gloucester might send us there, but I knew that the Ridgeway was an ancient track, built centuries ago across the high hills. It would not be a comfortable ride.
Even I had lost my eagerness by the time we reached the scarp of the Downs above the Vale of the White Horse. The snow had returned with nightfall, more lightly, punctured by moonlight, and we were picking our way along the track at what felt slower than a snail’s pace. There was something primeval about this land, especially at night and alone, something unfriendly, supernatural even.
‘We should have crossed the hills earlier and made our way along the vale,’ Franke grumbled. ‘The land is gentler though the road is longer.’ He sighed. ‘No matter. At least we are almost arrived.’
He led us down a steep hillside, the horses picking their way with care. They were tired now too and reluctant whilst I could scarce feel my legs for the cold and stiffness of the ride. Within a few minutes, though, a squat church appeared on our left, encircled by shrouded white standing stones which only added to the ghostly air. Dimly through the snow we saw a sullen fire burning; there was a brushwood barrier across the path. A man stepped out to challenge us.
‘We are travellers seeking refuge at the monastery guesthouse.’ It was Franke who spoke up whilst Francis, I was interested to see, hung back, even whilst he had his hand on his sword hilt beneath his cloak. ‘Don’t keep us standing out here, man – the horses are exhausted and we scarcely less so.’
With some muttering the man dragged the makeshift barrier aside and let us through. The village was wrapped up tight against the night, a meagre place, no more than one muddy street with poor cottages and above it the solid church. How could there possibly be a monastery here, I wondered, and what urgent business could the Duke of Gloucester have with anyone in this place?
We picked our way along the street between the blank-faced cottages and turned right down the hill. Franke seemed to know where he was going. I remembered that he had a brother who served the Duke of Gloucester. No doubt both of them were as deep in his confidence as Francis was. I felt a chill then that was nothing to do with the cold of the night. All my life I had been an observer, watching the games of the men and women who brokered power. Now I realised properly for the first time how deep Francis was in those games and how much that was shaping our lives.
At the base of the hill a high wall reared up out of the dark. ‘We are here,’ Francis said, and he held my arm lightly for a moment in a reassuring grip.
‘I wish I knew what was going on,’ I grumbled. ‘Supposing there is trouble? What am I to do?’
Francis laughed. There was an air of contained tension about him, like a soldier on the edge of battle. I realised this was the first time that I had seen him thus, ready for the fight.
‘You need have no fear of violence,’ he said. ‘This is a house of God.’
Franke rapped sharply on the wooden door in the wall and we waited whilst the horses blew and the snow still fell.
‘I could climb the wall,’ Franke suggested, measuring it with an experienced eye, but then the hatch slid back abruptly and a face peered out, tonsured, wrinkled, with deep-set eyes.
‘We seek accommodation for the night,’ Francis said crisply. ‘Let us in.’
The gatekeeper gaped at us. ‘Open the door, man,’ Franke said impatiently. ‘You heard Lord Lovell.’
The door creaked open and we stepped through into a small, torchlit courtyard. There was no monastery here but I could see now that the place was a manor grange, with a small but elegant little house surrounded by more practical farm buildings. From one of the sheds came the scrape and cluck of sleepy chickens who had no wish to be disturbed. There was the scent of warm manure in the air. A working farm, then, and again I wondered at Francis’ business here, in the middle of nowhere.
‘Your pardon, my lord. We are ill-prepared for guests.’ The brother who had let us in was already regretting it, judging by the way in which he was wringing his hands together nervously.
‘We are easy to please,’ Francis said pleasantly. ‘All we require is a warm bed for the night and some food for we are sharp-set from the journey.’
I slid from my horse rather than dismounted, I was so cold and stiff. Franke led them away to the stables whilst the anxious monk ushered us under a porch, through the enormous oaken doorway, and into the house.
‘There are only four of us here,’ he said, as though to excuse the lack of fuss on our arrival. ‘We have few visitors in the winter.’
The house was a haven. A stone-flagged corridor led almost immediately into a chamber on the left with a roaring fire in the hearth. There was no monastic austerity here. The cushions were soft, the wood highly polished and the silver very fine. An inner door was closed; behind it I could hear the clink of crockery and the low hum of voices. A tantalising scent of roasted meat was in the air. My stomach rumbled.
‘This place belongs to Glastonbury Abbey,’ Francis said in answer to my unspoken question. ‘It is a guesthouse for pilgrims and scholars travelling between the West Country and Oxford, a useful staging post on the journey east to London and beyond.’
‘I have never heard of it,’ I said, stripping off my gloves and holding out my hands to the fire.
‘Not many people have,’ Francis said. ‘That is what makes it such a useful place for clandestine business.’
I glanced towards the closed doorway. ‘Is that what is happening now?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ Francis helped me remove my cloak and placed it over the back of a chair by the fire to dry. ‘All I expect to find here is the Bishop of Bath and Wells, travelling home from London and pausing to collect some important papers from the church coffers on the way. This was once his parish in the days before preferment took him to higher things. He knows the village well.’
I looked at him. His gaze was sharp and bright, fixed on the panels of the closed door.
‘And Gloucester needed you to catch up with him,’ I said. ‘For what purpose?’
‘To ask him about a secret marriage he performed here years ago,’ Francis said, with the ghost of a smile, ‘and to retrieve those self-same documents he guards so carefully.’
‘You seek a marriage record,’ I said.
Here was the answer to one, at least, of the questions that I had asked at Stonor Hall. The King’s first secret marriage had apparently taken place here, in a tiny, remote village that was perfect for clandestine business. I shivered a little to think of it and the consequences it might have now.
The door reopened and Franke strode in carrying a bowl of steaming water and a towel which he offered to me first. The water was deliciously hot and though I was certain to have chilblains I plunged my hands in with a pleasure that made him laugh.
‘The servant tells me there is a garderobe up the stair should you require it,’ he murmured, ‘and a comfortable chamber where you might take supper whilst we’ – he inclined his head towards Francis – ‘speak with His Grace the Bishop.’
I was about to object to being excluded but Francis came across to take the towel from me and to wash.
‘I think Anne should stay,’ he said. He splashed water on his face and over the fresh rushes on the floor in the process, shaking his head like a dog so that the droplets flew wide. ‘Her presence may induce the bishop to behave… differently,’ he continued, ‘and the meeting to progress more calmly than it might if only men were present.’
I took this to mean that Francis wished to avoid a violent confrontation. Franke realised it too. His face fell.
‘The bishop rides with an escort of five men only,’ he said. ‘Two in the stables, two in the kitchens, both as drunk as lords, and one’ – he jerked his head towards the door of the dining parlour – ‘in there with His Grace. I do not know if there are any other guests, but five to two is good odds,’ he went on. ‘The holy brothers will not intervene if there is any trouble.’
Francis laughed. ‘You are spoiling for a fight,’ he said, ‘but Gloucester felt that would be unnecessary. All he wishes us to do is… ask nicely.’
‘He also demanded the strictest secrecy,’ Franke grumbled.
‘Anne can keep a secret,’ my husband said.
‘I can,’ I averred.
Franke’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I do not doubt it, my lady,’ he said, ‘but this is a murky business.’
The nervous monk appeared at that moment with a platter piled high with slices of beef and nothing would have induced me to leave the room, not even Francis’ direct instruction. I would have fallen on the meat there and then had the door from the inner room not swung wide in that moment as well. A tall, thin man stood there, a man with a querulous expression and a grease stain on the front of his robe which spoke of a dinner too greedily and carelessly consumed.
I had never met Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, before, though I had heard much about him. He was a churchman who also enjoyed more earthly pleasures – it was common knowledge that he had a son – and was a politician who had hitched his fortunes to those of King Edward from the very start. He had risen high in royal service and favour. I wondered what on earth could have induced him to turn against the King when he had benefitted so much from his favour.
‘What the deuce is all this commotion?’ the bishop demanded. His gaze fixed on Francis and a curious expression crossed his face, furtive and truculent at the same time.
‘Lovell?’ he said. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘What do you do here?’
‘How do you do, bishop?’ Francis was smiling but there was an edge to it. ‘My wife and I’ – he drew me forward – ‘are travelling back to Minster Lovell from Stonor, and sought refuge for the night. The weather is appalling. It is our good fortune that this guesthouse is so handily placed. May we join you?’
Stillington stared suspiciously at me before grunting a greeting and standing back to allow us to enter the dining parlour. The room was in a state of some disarray. The table was littered with the remnants of a meal already consumed. A mastiff lounged before the fire and a young man in Stillington’s livery was sitting with his feet up on the table, picking his teeth. He straightened as he saw us and his chair returned all four feet to the ground with a crash that roused the dog to open half an eye before it lay back down with a sigh. None of them looked particularly pleased that we had disturbed their privacy here.
The monk placed the platter of beef on the table and hurried to fetch more chairs. The youth in livery slopped more wine into his own cup and viewed us insolently over the rim. Franke looked as though he would punch him given the first opportunity.
More brothers came rushing in with food and wine: soup that smelled fragrantly of mutton and herbs, fresh fish and capon. Francis held a chair for me and filled my cup with wine. Stillington’s man, who had not been introduced to us, looked at me with an appreciative gleam in his eye. I smiled back and saw Francis raise his brows. If it was his intention to lull the bishop and his man into a state of intoxication they were already well on the way and I could play my part.
The food was delicious.
‘I like a woman with a hearty appetite.’ Stillington’s man leered at me. I saw Francis make an involuntary movement and flashed him a look to tell him to keep quiet.
‘Are there any other guests staying tonight?’ I enquired, refilling the fellow’s cup. ‘Any other poor, benighted travellers here?’
‘There is no one,’ the man said, tossing a bone over his shoulder to the dog and taking a great gulp of the wine. ‘Our company must suffice.’
‘You have the choice of whichever bedchamber is the most comfortable, my lady.’ The bishop bared his yellowing teeth in a smile. ‘We are all entirely at your service.’
‘That is most generous,’ I said. ‘The weather was foul and the journey hard. It is a pleasure to find a good meal and pleasant company at the end of it.’
‘Your husband is a brute to make you travel in such conditions, madam,’ Stillington’s man gave Francis a scornful glance. He took my hand, pressing a wine-stained kiss to it. ‘If you were mine, I would treasure you like the jewel you are.’
‘How pretty, sir,’ I removed my hand from his and wiped it on my skirt. ‘However, I assure you that my husband sees very well to my comfort.’
Conversation dwindled. The bishop sat hunched like a heron over his food and showed no wish to talk at all. His man was fast slumping into a state of torpor. A half-hour and plenty of good food later I was feeling in a similar frame of mind but aware of the look exchanged between Francis and Franke, I knew the moment of confrontation was approaching and I pinched myself to stay awake.
‘So, bishop,’ Francis said genially, pushing away his empty plate and sitting back in his chair with every indication of being entirely relaxed, ‘I hear you have been very busy of late. Tell us, what manner of business have you been indulging in?’
The bishop’s head came up, his eyes darting from Francis’ face to Franke and back again. He looked as though he had suddenly lost his appetite.
‘I have been travelling,’ he said. ‘Church business, my lord…’
‘I heard it was the Duke of Clarence with whom you had business,’ Francis said, suddenly deadly quiet. ‘What say you to that, bishop?’
Stillington took a mouthful of wine, slopping some down his robe as his hands were shaking. ‘Your informant is mistaken, my lord,’ he said. ‘I have not seen the Duke for many a year.’
‘Clarence himself says that you have,’ Francis said. ‘He told his brother the Duke of Gloucester, and Gloucester told me.’ He shifted slightly. ‘The Duke of Gloucester is curious, Stillington. Clarence told him that you possess a secret that threatens the kingdom itself.’ He fixed Stillington with a very straight look. ‘What could he mean by that, lord bishop?’
Stillington shrank in his chair, folding in on himself. ‘Clarence is a drunkard,’ he quavered. ‘He talks from out of a butt of malmsey. It means nothing.’
Beside me, the bishop’s man shifted a little and blinked blearily, sensing the atmosphere. His hand moved uncertainly towards his sword hilt. I cocked my head in his direction and Franke nodded at me.
‘There was a wedding, was there not, Stillington?’ Francis continued, as though the bishop had not denied everything. ‘Years ago, here in the middle of nowhere, secret and intended always to remain so? A young man, hot-headed and eager to bed a beautiful but virtuous woman… He promised her marriage to win her consent to lie with him, and you performed the ceremony.’
We were all watching Francis now. I could see now how the King’s brother might grasp after this as his way to the throne. Declare his brother a bigamist, denounce his children as illegitimate, and Clarence would be within touching distance of what he had most desired for all his life.
Stillington was also watching Francis as a mouse watches a cat. ‘I do not understand you, my lord,’ he quavered, his Adam’s apple wobbling. There was a bright spot of red high on his cheekbones now.
Francis toyed with his wine cup. ‘Come, bishop,’ he said, ‘you need not pretend to me. I am the King’s man through and through, but are you? Both His Majesty and His Grace of Gloucester asked me to impress upon you how imperative it is that you should remember where your true loyalty lies.’ He fixed Stillington with a very direct gaze. ‘Furthermore, they want the papers you have come here to collect. You are to hand them over to me.’
This seemed finally to spur Stillington to action. He jumped to his feet, gesturing impatiently to the manservant, who stumbled up, grasping for his sword. Franke leaped up in response; I stuck out a foot and tripped the manservant who fell forwards, connecting with Franke’s fist in the process and tumbling face down in the rushes on the floor. It was all over in a moment. The dog, clearly too old for combat, watched with incurious eyes from his place by the hearth.
‘You need to choose your servants better, Stillington,’ Francis said, dispassionately, viewing the man’s prone body. ‘Now, where do I find those papers?’
‘My lord…’ Stillington was as pale as he had been flushed a moment before. ‘His Majesty… and His Grace of Gloucester… They misunderstand! I never had the slightest intention—’
Franke took a step towards him.
‘The papers,’ Francis said again.
‘In the church!’ Stillington babbled. ‘They are stored in the chest there.’
‘Hidden in plain sight,’ Francis said. ‘Very clever, bishop.’
Franke grabbed Stillington’s arm. ‘Come along then, bishop, we will go and fetch them together.’
They went out. I heard one of the holy brothers asking questions in a high, anxious tone and then I heard a babble of noise and shouting explode into the clash of swords. On the floor the servant was snoring in his unconsciousness and the dog, magnificently uncaring, was fast asleep.
Well, Franke had got his wish of a fight. I paused, trying to decide what I could most usefully do. I knew better than to try to intervene in a sword fight and I judged that whilst Stillington’s men delayed Francis and Franke, the bishop might get clean away with the marriage documents. I should try to stop him.
I wondered if there might be another way to get to the church. I crossed to the door behind the arras. It was well concealed by the rich tapestry, a little archway that led directly to a spiral stone stair curving both upward to the next floor and down into darkness. I chose to go up first. It was cold out here after the comfort of the parlour; the icy wind found every crack in the wall and whistled down the stair making me shiver. On the first floor a doorway opened directly into a grand bedchamber that was lit by the embers of the fire and one candle. In the shadowy dark I could make out a little oratory with altar and prayer stool. A Bible lay closed on the stand. There was no one there, no movement but the mice that scattered at my approach.
I took the candle and retraced my steps down the stone stair. In the dining parlour the lay brothers were standing around looking lost and perplexed. I carried on down the steps into darkness. No one tried to stop me. I thought the stair would lead to the buttery or perhaps storage cellars, but at the bottom was a stout wooden door that stood ajar. Pushing it open, I entered a narrow passageway that sloped downhill.
Just as at Minster Lovell where there was an old tunnel connecting the manor and the site of the old Minster church, so here, it seemed, there was also a passage linking the two. The ceiling of the passage was low and the walls were smooth and chalky white in the candlelight. The floor bore the print of many feet. The sense of being trapped in an enclosed space made me catch my breath but I calmed myself. It was a warm and sheltered place. There was nothing to fear here. My little candle flame burned steadily. Eventually I reached a place where the path started to incline again with steps cut into the chalk rock.
The corridor opened out into a room and there was a change in the air, fresher and colder. I stumbled over the corner of something hard and almost fell. The wavering candlelight revealed it to be a stone coffin, covered in cobwebs, its carvings worn and battered. Rank upon rank of them stretched into the dark. I was in the crypt of the church.
A sharp sound echoed above my head, the noise of a heavy lid falling. I froze. Had the bishop escaped the mêlée at the monastery guesthouse to race up here and retrieve the marriage lines or was there another of his men guarding the church? I crept up the steps from the crypt into the church and eased open the door a tiny crack. The church was empty and pitch-black but for one lantern lighting the chancel. I waited. Nothing moved. I tiptoed forward. I could see the huge chest where the vestments and silver were kept. The chain that would normally have held the lid fast was hanging loose. I tiptoed closer. There was a sudden movement to my left and from the corner of my eye I saw the fall of a flashing blade. I leaped back just in time, feeling the sword slice through my sleeve, and darted away down the nave.
Stillington’s man followed me. I could hear his panting breath behind me. He was so close. He made a grab for my arm and I slipped on the floor and saw the sword come down again, aiming for my throat.
It hit the chain around my neck where I was wearing the lodestar, the misshapen arrowhead that had become my talisman. The ring of steel on stone was musical, like the sounding of a bell. I saw sparks fly from the tip of the sword and in their light the man’s face, his eyes narrowed in shock and sudden horror. The light grew and spread like a great explosion. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the glare.
Then there was nothing. A silence so loud it hurt my ears. Darkness, impenetrable. I wondered whether I was dead. Then I thought perhaps I was not. I sat up, looked around and saw that I was alone. I touched my throat. There was no wound at all. The lodestar nestled against my skin, smooth and warm. My assailant had vanished without trace.
The church door crashed open in a welter of snow and noise. Francis and Franke burst in, torches in hand.
‘That whoreson bishop!’ Franke was swearing, blood dripping from a long slash on his forehead. ‘He meant to double cross us all along. The coward, to run like that! Surely he knows that the King will not let this matter go?’
‘No matter,’ Francis said. ‘If we get the papers—’ He stopped as he saw me, staggering to my feet. ‘What the devil?’
‘I came to get the marriage lines,’ I said. ‘They are in the chest.’ I pointed to the chancel where the one lantern flared.
‘That’s a sword cut,’ Franke said, pointing to my arm where the blood dripped.
‘There was a man,’ I said, ‘guarding the chest. He had a sword.’
Francis looked around. ‘There is no one here now.’
I shivered. My mind was still grappling with what had happened. Francis was right; the church was empty. I remembered the falling blade and then the burst of light. I’d not heard the man run away, nor seen any place he might have hidden. It was as though he had disappeared in front of my eyes.
I touched the lodestar again and felt the slightest of vibrations against my fingertips. My talisman. Surely it had saved my life.
‘Franke, give me a strip of your shirt,’ Francis ordered, recalling my thoughts from the supernatural to the real. ‘We need to bandage Anne’s arm.’
‘I don’t see why I should be the one to shed my clothes,’ Franke grumbled, but he did as he was bid and Francis bound the cut on my arm so tightly it hurt twice as badly.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
‘There is a secret passageway from the guesthouse into the church,’ I said. ‘I thought I would get here and stop the bishop if he came to retrieve his documents.’
‘The guard cannot have gone far.’ Franke started towards the door. ‘No doubt he and that cursed bishop have arranged a place to meet. I’ll go after them.’
‘No,’ Francis said. ‘There is no point. Get the papers and we will be gone. The King will hunt Stillington down if he so wishes.’ He placed his cloak about my shoulders and I drew it close, burrowing into the warmth, inhaling the scent from his body.
‘We’ll return to the guesthouse,’ Francis said. ‘Franke, I need you to carry those papers directly to the Duke of Gloucester.’
Franke had seen me shivering and gave a brusque nod. ‘Very well, my lord. We’ll get your lady back to shelter and then I’ll ride to the Duke.’ He glanced towards the church door where the snow spun and tumbled on the wind. ‘With any luck the bishop and his man will freeze to death out there in the cold and save the King his trouble.’
He took up the lantern and led the way to the door, slamming it closed behind us. In the sputtering light I saw the standing stones about the churchyard draw close like sentinels. There was blood on the church steps. I drew back in alarm and Francis put an arm about me. ‘It is only Franke’s,’ he said. ‘One of the bishop’s men ambushed us and got in a lucky blow.’
Franke grunted, clearly put out to have been bested. ‘It’s no more than a graze,’ he said.
‘I’ll patch you up when we get back to the guesthouse,’ I promised. ‘It’s the least I can do when you sacrificed your shirt for me.’
We made our way back down the frozen street to the abbey guesthouse, the snow obliterating our footprints as soon as they were made. This time the gate to the courtyard stood open and the space was lit with flaring torches. A monk was shovelling snow to cover what looked like bloodstains on the ground. He looked at us with wide, frightened eyes as we passed.
‘Nobody died,’ Franke said, in response to my look. ‘I barely touched them.’
‘Dear God,’ I said, shuddering. ‘I hope we are safe here. I shall not sleep a wink until dawn.’
Francis too seemed disinclined to rest. Once Franke was patched up and sent off on the only decent horse in the stables, he and I went up to the guest chamber. He paced the floor whilst I poured wine for both of us, passing a cup to him. He took it with a distracted smile, finally easing himself into a chair.
‘You got what you came for,’ I said. ‘Once Franke delivers the papers to Gloucester, all will be well.’
‘I wish I believed that,’ Francis said heavily. ‘The King’s marriage is invalid, Anne. That is dangerous information in the wrong hands.’
‘Did Stillington really tell Clarence?’ I asked. ‘Of all the foolhardy things to do.’
‘He thought to profit by it,’ Francis said grimly. ‘Whatever preferment Edward has shown him, Clarence promised more. Archbishop of York, or even Canterbury.’
I shook my head at such stupidity. ‘He will live to regret it,’ I said. ‘Or die for it, more likely.’ I sat down on the rug at Francis’ feet and leaned into his warmth. ‘Who is the lady?’ I asked. ‘The one whom Stillington married to the King?’
‘The Lady Eleanor Butler,’ Francis said.
‘But she is dead!’ I said. I felt a sense of relief. ‘She cannot bear witness.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Francis mused, ‘she did not die until after Edward had married Elizabeth Woodville.’
I snapped my fingers. ‘Even so. The King may dismiss any stories as no more than idle gossip and any papers as a forgery. In fact, if he were to destroy the papers, no one would be any the wiser.’
Francis smiled at me. ‘You are always pragmatic,’ he said. ‘Would you have Stillington murdered to ensure he holds his peace? And anyone else who can bear witness to the truth?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But Edward must deny it, for what is alternative? He would have to put aside the Queen and remarry legitimately and beget another heir, and that will never happen. Better to destroy the evidence, allow a strong king to continue to rule and his son to come after him. Declaring Edward’s children to be bastards would only serve to plunge us into further war.’
Francis smothered a yawn. ‘I fully expect Gloucester to do just what you say,’ he said, ‘or to pass the papers to the King who will burn them without a backward glance. As for Stillington, perhaps a spell in the Tower will persuade him to hold his tongue.’
‘I hope so,’ I said. I had no truck with the bishop who seemed to me to be a foolish, venal man, but I had some softness for the King’s children and, more importantly, I knew what it was to have a disputed succession to the throne. Edward and his sons were our best, our only hope for continued peace.
I did not know then that Edward had less than a half-dozen years to live.