‘Anne, that is so exciting,’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘You’ll be head of your own household. A queen in your own castle.’
‘I shall, but maybe, one day, you will be a queen of your own home too.’
‘Of course,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘Although, it’s a shame Prince Arthur is only a baby or one of us could have married him.’
‘He’ll marry a foreign princess,’ said Edmund, who had been gazing out of the window at the drizzle hazed parkland. ‘Everyone knows it’ll be a diplomatic arrangement.’
‘Perhaps there will be more princes,’ said Anne. ‘You could marry one of those, Lizzie.’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied. ‘A man a few years older than me with a court position and homes of his own will suit me very well. The weight of the crown would be far too heavy for a neck as small as mine.’
‘It’s enormous,’ exclaimed Elizabeth as she climbed down from the carriage and gazed around a week later.
The Howard progress had finally arrived and they were alighting into the vast central courtyard of Sheriff Hutton Castle. Four huge towers dominated the skyline, marking the corners of the ancient fortress. People bustled around, calling, shouting, scurrying past with luggage. Dogs and cats scooted through the crowds and in the distance, Elizabeth could hear the bells of a church ringing.
The castle had once been home to the former king, Richard III, when he had been the Duke of Gloucester. He had acquired the castle through his marriage to Anne Neville, the daughter of the Kingmaker, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. In 1484, Richard made Sheriff Hutton one of the two centres that housed the Council of the North, using it when necessary, but otherwise the Gloucesters had preferred their home at Middleham, a considerable distance of over forty miles away.
‘We’re living in a home marked by history,’ murmured Elizabeth, her eyes moving from tower to tower, imagining all they had borne witness to through their long lives.
‘Lizzie,’ her mother’s voice cut through Elizabeth’s daydreams. ‘It’s freezing out here, come in and warm yourself.’
Elizabeth Howard, Countess of Surrey, stood tall and elegant, a long russet cloak, edged with fur, swathing her from head to foot, her hand held out to her daughter.
My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, thought Elizabeth, as the winter light glowed off the icy walls, giving an edge of luminescence to the countess, but as she ran towards her, an eerie sound rose from beyond the walls. A haunting, beseeching cry, not quite human, not entirely animal, keening, desperate.
‘What’s that noise?’ Elizabeth said as she reached the safety of her mother’s side.
The call came again, ethereal, strange. A tall thin man, who was carrying one of Anne’s chests towards the castle, paused and frowned.
‘It’s the Seven Whistlers,’ he said and his eye twitched with a nervous tick.
‘Who are you?’ asked the countess.
‘Travers Littleby,’ he replied. ‘Assistant to the head steward, born and bred in these parts.’
His Yorkshire accent was thick, and Elizabeth had to concentrate to understand his words.
‘And who – or what – are the Seven Whistlers?’ asked the countess. She had aimed to make her question amused, but Elizabeth heard the tremor in her mother’s voice.
‘It’s a local tale, ma’am,’ he said in his gruff voice. ‘Folk in these parts say that when you hear the cry of the Seven Whistlers, disaster is near at hand. The curlews who feast on the mudflats near the river yonder are haunted birds, their cries carry the voices of those who have drowned in the waters of despair. Whenever you hear the pee-wit call in the light of the setting sun, the curse of your blood will show. The secretshidden in your soul will fight their way to the surface and the devil will reclaim his own.’
Elizabeth felt as though all the warmth had been drained from her. An internal shaking began which she could not control, wave upon wave of fear and dread, a feeling so intense she thought it would consume her. Her voice froze on her lips as, once again, the cry of the curlews pierced the gathering dusk. She remembered the words of her nursemaid, Mrs Crew,‘When you hear them in the day, it is a sign of death.’The terrible feeling of doom that had suffused her when she had entered sanctuary with her mother returned. The memories of the death of Mrs Crew, who had died a month later from a fever, overwhelmed her.
‘Take it back,’ she gasped to the man. ‘Take back the curse.’
Terror rippled across her skin as, thin and piercing, the birds’ lament enveloped her. Her vision blurred. A sword glinted, swift, brutal, and she felt its sting on her neck, blood on her fingers…
‘Lizzie, he was teasing,’ her mother said, placing a cool hand on Elizabeth’s cheek, breaking the spell. The blood vanished and Elizabeth felt the icy slush of the courtyard seeping into her soul instead. ‘It’s an old folk story. You’re tired and hungry after the journey. Try not to let this man’s words upset you. I shall speak with your father and ask him to curtail these servants.’
‘No,’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘He is wise, we must listen to him. He speaks the truth.’
Her bright blue eyes met the dark brown gaze of Travers Littleby.
He gave a slow respectful nod and turned away with Anne’s chest, calling to the servants.
Elizabeth let her mother guide her inside. The household women were bustling to unpack, but the preternatural call of the wading birds echoed in her mind like the tolling of fate.
8
