‘Of course,’ the earl had said. ‘Back then, my father was briefly constable of the Tower of London. He passed the position to Robert Brackenbury, but a scribe working for us began to whisper about the large order of lime my father had requested. The scribe said this particular lime was known for dissolving bodies.’
Elizabeth’s heart had raced in fear.
‘But it was also useful for plastering walls,’ her brother had interjected, his eyes brimming with laughter.
‘Exactly, and we were renovating this house, The Tower,’ said the earl.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘Can’t you see, Lizzie,’ Edward had said. ‘The fool of a scribe who was working on the accounts books for Grandpapa put two and two together and made seven when he saw the entry “five sacks of lime for The Tower” shortly after the two boys had disappeared. He thought the order referred to the Tower of London and the lime was for nefarious purposes.’
Elizabeth had turned to her father, not entirely convinced, ‘But it was for work being done here?’
‘Yes, my love, the tower room that Edmund has adopted was in a terrible state and we had to completely replaster it. Next time you’re in there, look to the right of the window and you’ll see the date “May 1483” carved into the lime plasterwork, which was the day the work began.’
Her father and brother had laughed heartily at the long-forgotten scandal, but Elizabeth had been unable to shake her unease. From other tales she had heard, she knew her grandfather had been considered a ruthless man when crossed: had he really been involved in the disappearance and alleged murder of King Edward V and Prince Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York? The young Richard had also carried the additional title of Duke of Norfolk. A title, returned to her grandfather a few weeks into the reign of Richard III.
The conversation had stayed with Elizabeth for many weeks, and when she had stolen into her brother’s room and traced her finger around the date carved into the wall, she had shivered with a strange sense of unease. A white light had flashed before her eyes and she saw the glint of a sword blade, the gasp of a crowd and the small intake of breath of a woman before the vision cleared.
‘Blood on their hands,’ she had whispered and fled from the room with its views towards the imposing fortress of the Tower of London.
Now, Elizabeth watched as her brother and father strode from the room. She understood their need to be outside. The house of mourning was oppressive and cheerless. Outside, the clouds were lifting and the threatened storm was retreating, into the distance, Elizabeth could see glimpses of blue in the sky, tiny sapphires on black velvet. A sign of hope.
Like her brothers and father, Elizabeth was overwhelmed by the desire to feel fresh air on her face, to breathe freely, away from the cloying incense Agnes had obtained from a friar and insisted on burning in honour of the countess.
‘Cousin Agnes, I, too, must retire,’ she said. ‘Would you please take my sister Muriel and the other ladies to Mama’s small solar for relaxation.’
‘Of course,’ Agnes said and belatedly bobbed an awkward curtsy.
Elizabeth, as the eldest daughter, was the highest-ranking woman in the household and deserved such deference, but many of the extended staff forgot, leaving Elizabeth with a quandary as to whether to remind them, as her mother would have done, or allow the disrespect to pass.
‘I shall send the maid to fetch them,’ said Agnes. ‘Will you be joining us, Lizzie?’
‘Alas, no,’ she said, desperate to join her father and brothers in the mews, where a new merlin, the final gift from her mother, awaited. ‘I shall walk in the garden and perhaps join my father and brothers in the mews.’
‘Would your mother have approved?’ asked Agnes, frowning, her voice hinting at disapproval.
‘My mother gave me a merlin to fly, she didn’t mean for it to remain cooped up in its stall,’ replied Elizabeth.
‘Of course,’ said Agnes, but her tone was flat, sour with irritation.
Elizabeth sent Agnes a scorching look of contempt before gathering her skirts in her hand and turning, her anger with Agnes rising fast in her breast. Who was Agnes to question her movements? She was no one.How could she understand?thought Elizabeth.
My mother’s absence is one I can hardly bear. There are moments, such as now, when the pain is so intense, I feel it will crush my heart, leaving me gasping for breath on the floor as I die of despair.
Her mother’s voice murmured in her mind,‘Straight back, Lizzie, imagine a stout stick keeping you upright.’
And, despite her terrible grief, Elizabeth’s angry footsteps slowed and a tearful smile played on her lips. Her mother would never have been caught weeping and wailing.
‘We carry the blood of kings,’ she had once told the young Elizabeth.
‘Do we?’ Elizabeth had asked in awe.
‘Probably,’ her mother had replied with her tinkling laugh.
‘Oh, Mama,’ Elizabeth exclaimed aloud, her voice a mingled cry of despair, frustration and love. ‘What shall I do without you?’
Tell the truth, she thought as she wrapped a cloak around her shoulders before venturing out into the cool afternoon.I shall tell the truth.This is the trouble with my family,no one ever tells the truth. It’s all ifs, buts and maybes. When I have children, I’ll teach them real facts, give them a propereducation, even the girls – especially the girls – and I’ll make sure there is none of this obfuscation.
