Anne O'Brien

by Virgin Widow (epub)

  ‘Quietly, my son,’ Margaret murmured. ‘Nothing is yet certain.’

  ‘Once the Bishop has pronounced the blessing of Holy Church over our union, I shall be committed to this girl whether Warwick succeeds or not.’

  ‘Not so. Do you think I have not thought of that? I have a plan…’

  This time Margery and I definitely exchanged looks. Margery’s thick brows rose, her lips parted as if to speak. My hand closed on her fingers like a trap.

  ‘What are you planning?’ the Prince demanded. ‘Tell me!’

  How similar they were, mother and son, in the little cameo before the sun-washed window. Hawk’s eyes, fierce and bright. Neat, even features now lit with inner convictions, even brighter than the intrusive sun, that success was at last within their grasp.

  ‘Not yet. It is too soon,’ murmured Margaret. ‘You must learn patience.’

  And I saw the Queen smile at her son. I watched as she lifted a hand to brush her fingers through his hair. For good or ill, there was a bond here. All the Queen’s hopes were placed on the shoulders of this young man and he was content to have it so. And I knew, with terrible foreboding, that any woman who became a part of that relationship would not find it easy to dislodge Queen Margaret’s dominance from her son’s life. Mine would be an uncomfortable marriage. I shivered at the prospect of being caught up in this three-cornered union.

  Margaret drew the Prince closer, smiling down into his face. What mother would not love so beautiful a son when she had lost all else?

  Unaware, I must have moved. I saw Margaret’s hand grip Prince Edward’s wrist tightly as her head turned towards the door. So did his. I waited, breath held, to see how they would receive this unwanted intrusion. Lively emotion still burned in the Prince’s eyes.

  His reaction was immediate, supremely comforting, amazingly gratifying.

  ‘Lady Anne.’ Rising quickly, gracefully, without embarrassment, he swung across the width of the floor, to fling back the door, to bow, to take my hands in a light clasp and to kiss my cheeks, causing me to flush vividly. His smile was warm, hospitable, as if he could envisage nothing better than to spend some time in my company. As his hands continued to hold mine, I could feel the heat of them warming my blood and my face.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. His head tilted, lips smiling. ‘I didn’t know you had come. I’ve been taking up your time with madam, the Queen.’ The familiar perfume from the library, the sweet overtones of frankincense, teased at my senses, until as before the base notes of something entirely unpleasant made my nose wrinkle.

  I curtsied, tentatively. ‘I would not interrupt, my lord.’ And as his smile widened, encouraging me to respond, I found myself smiling in reply.

  ‘A good thing you did interrupt,’ he remarked, drawing me forwards into the room. ‘As my lady mother will tell you, sometimes I am too bloodthirsty for my own good. Being inactive does not suit me and I wish beyond anything to have my feet planted on English soil. Impatience sometimes draws me into words that I might wish unsaid when in a cooler mood.’ He laughed, a low, attractive sound. ‘Her Majesty tells me it is the extreme emotion of youth and I will benefit from a few more years under my belt. Forgive me, lady, if I seemed too callous for your ears.’

  The Prince’s candid self-deprecation was totally unexpected. It presented an instant appeal, magnified by his attractive features, now serious with his need for forgiveness. ‘Sometimes the pain of exile becomes hard to bear, and then I’m carried away with the emotion of it all,’ he explained. His smile vanished, a shadow crossed his face. And, knowing it to be true, my heart softened towards him.

  ‘Of course. I understand your need to return, my lord.’

  ‘As we shall. Together. You look in good spirits today, Lady Anne. Perhaps I dare hope that the prospect of our marriage has given you such a bloom of happiness. And the deep rose of your gown becomes you. A most flattering fashion.’

  I flushed a deeper colour than the velvet at his compliment. ‘Thank you, my lord. Your kind words enhance my happiness.’

  He leaned to whisper in my ear, a charmingly winsome gesture. ‘You must call me Edward, now that we are near betrothed. And now I’ll leave you. Perhaps we can meet in the garden and walk there when the evening is cooler.’

  I curtsied again, wishing he would not leave, drawn by his serious and gentle treatment of me. It would surely smooth my audience with Queen Margaret.

  But he left me to bear that burden on my own.

  ‘Come forwards!’

  I obeyed. Experienced now in the ways of Margaret’s Court, and with a mind to propriety, I knelt before her, hands folded, eyes downcast. In truth my knees trembled, as my blood beat heavily, loudly in my own ears.

  ‘At least your manners are pretty enough,’ she remarked.

  At least! Outwardly composed, inwardly terrified, I kept my silence.

  ‘Sit beside me.’ She picked up the piece of intricate knot work that had earlier been abandoned and applied herself, glancing at me every now and then. Her fingers were small and skilled, deft in their movements. The work seemed to take all her concentration. ‘Do you embroider?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, your Majesty.’

  ‘You read and write, of course.’

  ‘I do, your Majesty.’

  ‘I know that you understand my own language.’

  I made no reply, deeming it unnecessary.

  ‘Can you sing? Dance?’

  ‘Yes. I can hold a tune. I can play the lute to better effect.’ It pleased me that my voice remained firm under the catechism.

  ‘And I suppose you are skilled in the management of a household,’ she observed. ‘To oversee accounts, the efficiency of the servants and such matters.’

  ‘My mother has ensured that I am well taught, your Majesty.’

  She made a few thoughtful stitches, her face expressionless, but antagonism seemed to flow from her to engulf me, wave after wave. Her calm stitchery was a mere façade.

  ‘Are you a woman yet, able to take on the full responsibilities of a wife?’

  ‘Yes, your Majesty.’ I knew her reference. My courses had already begun.

  ‘Hmm.’ Her glance was sharp. ‘You were betrothed to Richard of Gloucester, before your father’s change of heart.’

  Now where would this conversation lead? ‘I was, your Majesty. The Duke of Gloucester was educated at my father’s home at Middleham. I have known him since I was a child.’

  ‘Is there any remaining attachment there, between the two of you?’

  Why would this interest her? The match between us had been long abandoned. All I knew was that I must deny any attachment. In this delicate game of diplomacy I must tread with care. ‘No, your Majesty. There is none.’

  ‘Excellent! I want no distractions.’ She stabbed at the fine linen with her needle. ‘It will be your duty to bear a son. The whole inheritance of Lancaster rests solely on my son the Prince’s shoulders. It needs strengthening. He needs sons to his name. Your mother’s inability to carry a son does not fill me with optimism.’

  ‘I understand, your Majesty. I will do what I can.’

  Her flat stare took in my face, my gown, my tightly clasped hands. ‘Now that you are to wed my son, I think it would be best for you to become part of my household. To learn the requirements of a princess and future Queen.’

  The appalling prospect of life within this woman’s governance was a weight in my belly, but I knew I could not refuse. What I wanted to ask was: what is your plan, to loosen the commitment between the Prince and myself? I have a plan…Instead, ‘I hope the marriage pleases you, your Majesty,’ I responded as calmly as I could, as a good daughter would say.

  ‘Louis tells me I need Warwick, hence I need you.’ She aimed a lethal glance at me. ‘And I do not wish you to walk unchaperoned with my son in the gardens. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, your Majesty.’

  ‘You will refuse, if he asks you. Now you may go.’

  And that
was the end of it, leaving me to wonder why she had so desired this conversation. What had she learned from it, if anything? All she had discovered was my education and my past relationship with Richard, neither of which could have been a surprise to her. Perhaps she had simply wished to see me and make her own judgement.

  Margery lifted her skirts as we climbed the worn stairs to our own rooms. ‘She’s as cold as an icy ditch in February. And twice as bitter.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Be on your guard, lady.’

  ‘I will.’

  The Queen had no liking for me at all. But at least I did not think that the Prince hated me with every breath he took.

  ‘Here comes her royal Majesty, returned to our midst. Do we curtsy? Do we kneel at her feet?’ Isabel looked round as I entered the door, but did not stir from her chair. The virulence in every word hurt my heart. Her eyes flared with self-pity whilst her hunched shoulder was a calculated insult. Since my marriage had been broached she had built an impregnable wall around herself. It seemed higher than ever this morning. ‘Are we to be informed when this magnificent union is to take place?’ she asked, her brows raised in a semblance of polite enquiry that hid a bellyful of disappointment.

  I ignored her. I lacked the energy to deal with her.

  ‘Well?’ the Countess enquired, a pale smile in recognition of my refusal to be drawn. ‘I see you survived the ordeal.’

  I sank inelegantly on to a stool at her side, clasping my arms around my knees, studying the toes of my shoes so that I did not have to meet my mother’s eyes. I had no intention of allowing her to read the conflictions in my mind.

  ‘She hates me. She doesn’t trust my father. She doesn’t trust any of us,’ I stated baldly. ‘She didn’t say so in so many words, but she didn’t need to. It was written in every bone in her body. She gave the impression that she had to force herself to stay in the same room. I don’t know why she sent for me in the first place.’ I scowled at the soft leather, noticing the scuffs from hard wear and rubbing at them with my fingers.

  ‘You amaze me!’ Isabel announced. ‘Anyone would expect her to worship the ground you walk on, if you—or the Earl—can magic a crown out of disaster for her dear son!’

  I turned my back on her, pressing my lips together. Once I would have let my fears tumble from my lips. Now I simply locked them deep inside.

  The Prince expressed a desire to execute his enemies, to impale their body parts, but assured me of his pleasure in marrying me. He smiled and urged me to call him Edward. He said he would like to spill the blood of every Yorkist. His lips were warm on my cheeks when he kissed me in welcome, but he does not want me—he called it a damned marriage…

  I shrugged. I did not want to think of it. ‘The Queen says I must become part of her household,’ I said instead. ‘She intends that I should come under her guidance so that I will be worthy of her son.’

  The Countess grimaced with a short laugh. ‘It will only be for a short time. When you are wed and returned to England, then you will have your own household. You’ll be free of her.’

  ‘What will it mean for me?’ I asked as the vast changes in my life suddenly seemed to gallop towards me with a breathtaking speed.

  ‘Why, all the rank and wealth of a Princess of the Blood will be yours, with land throughout England from Cornwall to Chester. You’ll choose your own attendants and ladies-in-waiting, your own officials to oversee your affairs.’ The Countess kept her tone light with a brief, warning glance in Isabel’s direction. My sister sniffed audibly. ‘You will enjoy extensive apartments in numerous royal palaces and castles up and down the length of the country. When you travel it will be in comfort with servants to answer your every need. The most luxurious fabrics, the most valuable jewels, will be yours to command. You can set the fashion, if that is your choice. And you will be at the centre of every Court ceremonial. I shall have to request an audience with you, my own daughter, when I wish to see you.’

  She paused for a moment, then continued quietly, ‘You will be shown every respect and honour. Particularly when you have carried a Lancastrian heir, a son, for the kingdom. That, more than anything, will give you more power than you could imagine and allow you to shake off the Queen’s control.’

  Her words ran through my mind, jostling in an uneasy counterpoint to the suspicion that she was working too hard at this to embroider an attractive scene. It gave no recognition to the bloodshed, the battles that must surely be fought before the Prince could be restored to his inheritance. Nor to my isolation within the Queen’s household where at best I would be tolerated, at worst loathed. Nevertheless I realised the truth of it, of her final observations, where they touched on my mother’s own private sorrow.

  ‘You must pray that you quicken soon,’ she added in a low voice.

  And because our conversation had opened the Countess to such a query, I asked her, ‘How long were you married, before Isabel was born?’

  ‘Seventeen years.’ The little smile that came and went was not a happy reminiscence.

  ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to make you sad.’

  ‘You haven’t. Your father and I did not live together for all that time. We were betrothed when we were very young, too young to set up our own household. And then it was God’s will to deny us a child for many years. Finally He gave us two much-valued daughters who will bring honour and glory to the Neville name. What more could we ask?’

  But no son on whom to pin all your hopes. As Queen Margaret would with the Prince. I felt my mother’s unspoken grief as I offered up a silent prayer that I would bear a son, and soon.

  Isabel sat silently, stony-faced throughout. Until, unable to bear it further, carefully folding her work and placing it on the table as if it took her entire concentration, she stood and walked from the room without a word. My mother sighed. We watched the rigid spine and unforgiving carriage of her head as my sister closed the door behind her with ferocious control.

  ‘Perhaps I should not have brought up the subject of heirs and children,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s Clarence.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘It’s more a matter of what he has not done!’ The Countess stood to pour two cups of ale, passing one to me with a thoughtful expression. ‘He’s gone from Angers. Early this morning without warning. And refused to take Isabel with him. He could not stomach the negotiations in which he has no part and will finally strip away his birthright—as he sees it. He’s gone into Normandy, to one of the ports, he says. Isabel feels abandoned.’

  ‘He would return to England?’ I asked, unable to think why he would.

  She returned to her chair, sipped the ale. ‘Not alone, he wouldn’t. He dare not, he dare not risk King Edward’s wrath. Whether he will eventually accompany the Earl at the head of an army, or will try to contact his brother and cobble together some sort of peace between them, I know not. I doubt Edward would ever consider a rapprochement. This is the second time that Clarence has betrayed his brother. If I were in Edward’s shoes…’ Her forehead wrinkled as she considered it. ‘Well, I don’t know what I would do.’

  Nor I. Once, the King had welcomed Clarence and my father back to Court with soft words and promises of restored power, but now if either of them fell into Edward’s hands, I feared it would be a bloody end.

  ‘Meanwhile Isabel is forced by circumstance to remain here,’ the Countess continued, ‘to watch your triumph. We must be sympathetic to her.’

  ‘I want to slap her!’

  The Countess pursed her lips. ‘Isabel always wanted the gold and ermine for herself, did she not?’

  ‘Will I be wed soon, do you suppose?’ The overriding anxiety of my own future returned triple-fold.

  On my words the door opened. We looked up, expecting the return of Isabel and another sour blast of her temper. But it was the Earl who entered in time to hear my unhopeful question.

  ‘Not any time soon!’ He was dressed for a royal audience, a
nother in the endless round of negotiation and compromise, but the lyre marks between his nose and mouth were heavily accentuated.

  ‘Surely she has not already reneged!’ my mother demanded. ‘Anne has only just returned from her august presence.’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s not Margaret’s doing this time. I suppose I should have thought of it, but I didn’t.’ He smiled at me, but bleakly from the stance he had taken before the empty fire-grate. ‘Anne and Prince Edward are related. Cousins in the fourth degree, both great-great-grandchildren of John of Gaunt. A papal dispensation must be applied for.’ He groaned, stirring the remains of a half-burnt log with the toe of his boot. ‘My coffers are beginning to rattle as the gold disappears.’

  ‘It could take months!’

  ‘I know. At this rate, if we ever get the Angevin woman to a betrothal it will be a holy miracle.’

  The Countess sighed with desperate patience. ‘Then we must pray for one.’

  From this day I will be acknowledged as the Lady Anne, Princess of Wales.

  I stood and shivered in a robe of blue silk embroidered in gold thread with the Prince’s heraldic feathers on the bodice, before the high altar in Angers Cathedral. I was to be betrothed before God. My role was assigned to me—all I had to do was to obey. My only show of resistance, if that is what it was, was to state, ‘I refuse to be betrothed in a borrowed gown!’

  My refusal was ignored. Clad in the blue silk, overlaid with a cloak of velvet and ermine, both borrowed for the occasion from Queen Margaret herself, I took my place with Prince Edward at my side, arrow straight, much taller than I so that I had to look up to catch the sheen of victory on his face. I shivered. Betrothal before God to Edward of Lancaster would alter that path of my life irrevocably, paving it in gold. It would be the first ascending step to Anne Neville’s becoming Queen of England.

  It made no sense to me. It must be some other girl standing here in these hastily altered robes that still folded heavily around my feet, some other young woman making these vows. Margaret scowled ferociously throughout the ceremony. I sensed it even when my back was turned to her, having lived in daily expectation of her cancelling the whole proceedings, unsure of which side of the coin—reluctant acceptance or wilful rejection—I would most prefer. Yet the urgency of an invasion had driven her to this moment and I must accept the consequences.