by Anne O'Brien
I nodded sadly, even as his treating me as his equal in political understanding pleased me inordinately. How would I not appreciate the importance of his pronouncement, when politics had been discussed around me and over my head at every meal as far back as I could remember. ‘I understand. Strong political reasons.’ A favourite phrase of my mother’s. Now I knew what she meant.
‘Yes. Strong political reasons. The strongest. How could we expect anything other in the disposition of our lives? We are not free to choose as we wish, Anne.’ I smiled—bravely, I hoped—whilst Richard studied the tree before us. ‘I would say…’ he added, a little gruffly,’I regret it. I would like to have wed you rather than any lady I know.’
‘Truly?’
He leaned, a little reserved, and kissed my cheek.
‘Truly.’
Startled, I laughed. ‘I would have liked it too.’
Which for some reason prompted Richard to kiss my lips also. Soft. A mere moth’s wing of a caress that startled me more. And then he pulled back.
I watched him as he smiled at my surprise, trying to untangle my thoughts. He was mine. I wanted him as my friend, as my companion. I was still too young for much else, yet I found myself drawn into those introspective, secretive eyes. With those I swear he would bewitch any girl. Not with the golden beauty of his brother, as Isabel was always quick to point out, but with something far more enticing, far more intriguing. Yes, I wanted him, I acknowledged, as I accepted that I could never have him.
‘What does my father say to all this?’ It was the only possible glimmer of hope if the Earl could persuade the King to change his mind.
‘Very little and in words as curt as the King’s. He’s agreed with Edward that the Plantagenet-Neville alliance is off. They clasped hands over it.’
So that was the end of it. My sister and I were back in the marriage market—with no possible bridegroom on the horizon—and all the future uncertain.
Chapter Four
IN the year I reached my twelfth birthday, and in my own mind became full grown, the assured, confident direction of my life was to change for ever. On the political front it was the year of ‘The Earl’s Great Rift’, as the Countess dubbed it in a moment of mordant anxiety. When my father found his plans for a French alliance irrevocably torn up and the King’s feet set firmly on the path to an alliance with Burgundy, with the Woodvilles crowing over their success, he stormed from Westminster to Middleham, vowing never to set foot in Edward’s presence again unless Edward made a complete volteface. There was no hope of that. Within the week Earl Rivers, the Queen’s father, was appointed Constable of England. The final blow was the betrothal of the king’s sister the Lady Margaret to the Duke of Burgundy.
‘Will your sister enjoy her marriage to the Duke?’ I asked Richard, secretly horrified at the prospect of being sent to live so far from my home and those I loved, with a man I did not know. The Lady Margaret might never return to England again.
‘I don’t suppose she has much to say in the matter.’ Richard dismissed my concerns with what I considered cold-hearted indifference. ‘Last year the bridegroom was to be Portuguese. Then French. I think she will not mind who it is, as long as it happens!’
I too might be destined for a foreign husband in some distant country. It was a chilling thought, as was the knowledge that we were likely to be cast into political isolation. Any lingering hope in Isabel’s breast for her marriage to Clarence was snuffed out, even when, in the end in a sour spirit of compromise because he had no choice, the Earl went to Coventry to make his peace with the King. The omens for the future were not good.
At home my outlook was even less cheerful because it was the year I fell into love after hovering precariously, unknowingly, on its brink. An entirely adult emotion that exploded through my blood, creating a fire that would burn for ever and never release me.
It was all the fault of St George and the Dragon.
In October of that year, Richard came of age. We celebrated, gifts presented to mark the occasion. Edward sent him a full suit of armour, swathed in cloth and soft leather against the rigours of travel. It was a Milanese confection, chased and gilded, a magnificent affair from the visored bascinet to the pointed sole rets, it would encase him cap-à-pie. I imagined it would draw all eyes on a battlefield or in a tournament. My father gave him a destrier, a true war horse of his own breeding at Sheriff Hutton, with some Arab blood in its proud head-carriage and arched neck. Dark bay and fiery, it was of the weight to carry him into any battle. They would make a splendid pair.
My undoing was at the evening banquet where it was decided that we, the younger members of the household, should enact the chivalric tale of St George and the Dragon, our own version of a mummers’ play. We’d seen it performed often enough—crude and popular in the repertoire of travelling players—so it took little preparation beyond a good memory for speeches and a delving into a box of costumes and other oddments from a decade of Twelfth Night productions. Costumes, armour, hobby horses and masks—much chipped wood, scuffed gilding and curled board—but all we needed.
Richard, of course, made a courageous St George. Francis Lovell in character as a wily dragon. Isabel would take the role of Virgin Maiden to be rescued and saved from a fate worse than death. But since I made a stand, refusing to be pushed into the background as the Virgin’s servingwoman, there were two of us, beautiful damsels, to be rescued.
There was much posturing and declaiming.
‘Come to our aid, bold knight. Or we shall surely perish.’ Isabel wrung her hands. I fell to my knees in dramatic grief.
‘Halt, Sir Dragon.’ St George stood foursquare before the terrifying beast. ‘Do you dare attack these sweet maidens?’
The Dragon in mask and scaled body with a cloth tail bellowed and vowed his intent to eat us all. Clad in old gowns, once sumptuous but now musty and mildewed, that hung on our figures and trailed the floor, with diaphanous veils floating romantically from brow and shoulder, we maidens clutched our bosoms as symbols of our virtue and wailed at the sight of the dragon come to ravish us.
The Dragon roared. Virgin Isabel pleaded for her life. I remained on my knees, dumbstruck…because I found myself unable to drag my eyes from my rescuer. In that moment Richard filled my whole horizon, his face pale with the dramatic tension of the moment, shoulders braced, all knightly courtesy and determination to overcome the brazen creature. Handsome, no. His face was too thinly austere for conventional comeliness, but striking, yes, with all the glamour of his gold armour. His voice raised in authoritative demand was suddenly, disconcertingly adult. His dark eyes blazed as he stared down the Dragon; his dark hair was tousled from nervous fingers. I could not look away.
Forced to take one deep breath, I found it difficult to take another. Standing, I retreated to Isabel’s side. My lips parted, but I could think of none of the words I should speak, even when my sister’s elbow found sharp contact with my ribs. I had fallen headlong and breathtakingly into love with Richard Plantagenet.
I did not tell Richard of my new feelings for him. Why? Because I promptly pretended that I fell out of love again within the week, when I caught him kissing a kitchenmaid. That my heroic and fascinating cousin should choose to kiss Maude, a flirtatious and extremely pretty kitchenmaid in the shadowed corner behind the dairy when I came upon him—it turned my bright daydreams to the sour lees of old ale. These kisses were not formal or passionless, mere bushes of lip against fingers or cheek. They opened my eyes to reality. Whispered words, more heated kisses, fineboned hands that stroked and caressed. Maude giggled and tossed her head.
Fleeing to stand in the centre of my room in the dim light, I ran my hands down my sides, over my chest, dismayed at the evidence of unformed waist and hips, lean flanks, the flattest of bosoms. None of the womanly curves that Maude flaunted. As for my face, I had studied it in my mother’s precious mirror. The far-more-desirable-Maude’s fair skin and velvet-brown eyes would attract. Why would he not kiss
Maude who had all the attributes I lacked? He would not kiss me with such fervour! Richard would never see me in such a light.
So my love was dead, I told myself. Killed by his perfidious preference for another. Not that he had ever led me to believe otherwise, honesty forced itself into my bitter thoughts. He held me in some affection, perhaps, but I wanted more than that. I wanted those intense kisses for myself. I wept hot tears of hopelessness.
When I could weep no more, I practised my own version of my mother’s severe dignity. I forced myself to stay away from him, chin raised, head tilted, the coldest of shoulders. I stared my reproach, but closed my lips when Maude served Richard with ale and a tilted chin, and he smiled that slow smile. My words were short and sharp when conversation was needed. Richard frowned, perplexed at my ill manners, but for the most part ignored my attempts to impress him with my heartbroken dignity. He asked Isabel if I was suffering from some form of ague.
It hurt. My feelings were not dead at all.
‘What is it like to be in love?’ I asked Isabel, driven against my better instincts to talk to someone who might know. ‘Is it painful?’
Isabel shrugged her uninterest. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you not love Clarence?’
‘No!’
‘But you would wed him.’
‘It is my greatest wish.’ Her smile was full of pitying condescension. ‘But love is irrelevant to people of our standing.’
Yet I thought she lied. I thought her heart was more than a little engaged despite her terse denial. Nor did love seem irrelevant to me. It was a most painful part of my existence. How could I love him and he not love me? I hated him for it and determined to have no pleasure in life.
‘I am bidden to London, madam. Immediately.’
I could see the simmer of anticipation in Richard. Despite my continuing coolness towards him, it was the news I had been dreading. Relations between the King and the Earl continued to lean and totter endlessly on a knife edge. So Richard would be gone at the King’s order, away from the Earl’s influence, and would never return. I hugged my silent misery as the preparation and packing up of his possessions, the leave takings, all merged together into one throbbing wound.
The Countess embraced him with real affection and a quick sadness. ‘We shall miss you. You have been like my own son to me.’
Francis staked a claim for future friendship. ‘I shall demand your royal attention when I too come to London. A tankard of ale at least for old times’ sake. Or will the Duke of Gloucester be too high for the likes of me?’ Francis demanded with the sly humour of deep bonding over inexplicable male issues.
Isabel wished him well in her self-important fashion.
Stony-faced, ungraciously monosyllabic, I swore silently that I did not care, that his absence would make no difference to me. In reality I was frozen with dismay. I had long ago given up the pretence that I was immune to Richard, although I guarded my words and my actions around him. The days of youthful confidences had long gone. Now I might never see him again unless we visited Court too, an unlikely event given the increasingly bad blood between our families. It cast a dark shadow over that cold January day with the promise of snow on the northern hills. It was no colder than my heart.
‘Will you not give me your hand in farewell, cousin?’ Richard had manoeuvred a moment of privacy within the swirling movement and bustle of the courtyard.
I did so, curtly. ‘God speed, Richard.’
‘I think you will not miss me.’
‘Of course I shall.’ I went through the demands of courtesy.
‘Then adieu, Anne.’ A flamboyant bow with his feather-trimmed hat as if he would mock my poor manners. ‘One day I shall see you at Court too.’
‘Perhaps.’
On a thought he leaned to whisper in my ear, before I could pull away, ‘Perhaps we would not have suited after all. Your affection for me seems to have quite vanished, little cousin. I would want a warmer bride at my side.’
‘No, we should definitely not have suited,’ I snapped back, ‘for I would demand constancy and loyalty in a husband.’
Richard laughed aloud at my stubbornness, eyes sparkling. I could see the excitement, the exhilaration. He wanted to be gone. Planting a kiss smartly on my cheek, he was mounted and away.
Thus it was a cold departure between us, and all my fault. If I could not have his love, I would not tolerate the mild warmth of his friendship. Now lonely and adrift and unquestionably guilty, trailing along the battlements to the spot where he used to stand to look out towards the south, I set myself to wallow in my own self-inflicted misery. For the first time in my life the confines of Middleham hemmed me in and my desire was to escape. If we were to go to London, Richard would be there…
Calais! Not Warwick. Not London. But Calais?
Why were we to travel to Calais?
It was eight years since either I or Isabel had last been to Calais so I had no memory of it. The Earl was often there, but why should he suddenly take it into his mind to transport his whole family with him? The Countess, who received the instructions from the Earl, saw no need to enlighten us.
I did not like it. There were too many secrets by half.
We journeyed south, rapidly, a strange journey, almost as if in flight from some unforeseen danger. First to Warwick Castle, not stopping there above two nights, but met there by my father. Then on to the coast at Sandwich where we took ship. There was a tension in the party, between my parents, that could almost be tasted. The uneasy crossing was also to match our mood, the seas cold and grey. Moreover, barely had we set foot on land, our household disembarked into the comfort of the great castle there with its formidable garrison, than the Earl turned on his heel and left again.
‘But why are we here, madam?’ Isabel asked crossly with no attempt to disguise her disapproval of the whole venture. With betrothal in her mind, and robbed of one bridegroom, this military outpost was no place to achieve another.
‘And where is the Earl gone?’ I added.
‘Returned to England, to the King’s service.’ It was the only explanation the Countess was prepared to give in all the dreary weeks of waiting—for what I didn’t know—that were to follow. I had the dismaying sensation that we had been abandoned there. But if the Earl had mended his friendship with the King, why must we be in this voluntary exile? More dark secrets as we sat in our stronghold in Calais, grasping at any crumb of news, all through that spring and early summer. We knew that the Earl spent time at Sandwich where he was fitting out his ship the Trinity. The Queen gave birth to yet another girl. There were rebellions in England, in the north, against high taxation. Edward had left London to collect an army to subdue them.
‘Will the Earl march with him?’ I asked, with ulterior motives. ‘And Richard too?’
But the Countess’s distracted reply troubled me even more. I had never known her so anxious as she was in those days. ‘Who knows the outcome? But at least the rebellions will keep Edward from concentrating too much on what we might be doing here!’
But what are we doing here?
I had given up expecting a reply. As for Richard, I gleaned comments as a mouse would seek out and store ears of corn against a hard winter. He was at the King’s right hand. He was marching north with him. He was present in Edward’s councils with Earl Rivers and my lord Hastings. He had become an important man at Court. Did he ever give thought to me? The passing weeks did nothing to make me miss him less.
Finally, hopelessly, to make some contact, however ephemeral, I was driven to pen a letter that I passed to one of the couriers who frequently travelled back and forth across the Channel. I addressed it boldly to the Duke of Gloucester. It had taken a long time and much thought because I did not know what I wanted to say other than to forgive my ill temper and not to forget me when all around was new and exciting for him. Eventually it was done.
To my cousin Richard Plantagenet, We are settled here in Calais. I know that you are eng
aged with your brother the King in putting down the rebels in the north. I pray for your health and your safety.
Perhaps one day I shall return to London and we can meet again as friends.
I regret the nature of our parting. It was entirely my fault. Perhaps you could find it in you to forgive me,
Your cousin,
Anne Neville
Excruciatingly formal and not at all what I wished to say. That I missed him—I could not say that. That I loved him—I could hardly lay my sore heart at his feet. In the end, what had I said that was worth the sending? And I had no knowledge if it would ever reach its objective and of course I received no reply. If Richard was in the north facing a hostile army of rebels, what time would he have for a foolish letter such as mine? In my lowest moments I could see him in my mind’s eye, crushing it in his mailed fist with a grunt of impatience as he spurred his destrier into the thick of battle.
‘I shall never see him again, Margery,’ I sniffed.
‘Not for a little while at least, mistress,’ she admitted, reading the subject of my thoughts. She opened her mouth as if she would say more. Closed it.
‘What do you know that I don’t?’ I demanded sharply.
‘Nothing, lady.’
I didn’t believe her, but my hopes died with the flicker of a spent candle.
At last—at last!—there were sails on the horizon, and more than one vessel. Then they were arriving and disembarking, the Trinity at the forefront, so I went with the Countess and Isabel down to the quay, formally dressed and in celebratory mood. Immediately the Earl strode across to our little knot of welcomers, his smile lighting his whole countenance.
‘Is all well?’ The Countess accepted his salute, hands grasping his as if she would not release them.
