Virgin Widow

by Anne O'Brien

  At least the accommodations at Angers were an improvement on Amboise.

  Angers had a library. It helped to make my life bearable as a place of refuge where it was possible, if only for a few hours, to forget. It did not rival King Edward’s collection of fine books and manuscripts at Westminster, but as the summer settled into a period of unseasonal rain, it offered me the stories of Boccaccio and histories, books of fine paintings of plants and flowers, a hearty relief from Lady Masham’s works of piety and morality.

  We had settled into the royal castle at Angers. Well used to travel as we were, this was not the same, with no comfort of familiarity, no ease of well-remembered rooms. Nor did we have our possessions around us, our servants other than our most personal attendants. Everything was strange. All I owned was packed into one small wooden chest. Dresses and shifts, a winter cloak lined with fur, the necessary accessories for me to appear decently in public. A metal bird and a pair of embroidered gauntlets. How vulnerable we were. I had no experience of this bone-chilling insecurity, but learnt it tenfold in those days when Neville failure and defeat faced us at every turn. Queen Margaret swept through the corridors and audience chambers of Angers, her childhood home before her marriage, with the confidence of ownership, meeting us without even the barest acknowledgment of our existence, haughty in her knowledge that hers would be the deciding voice in any negotiations.

  Not that there were any after her rejection of our suit.

  We had been there more than a week when another heavy shower drove Isabel and myself from the formal terraces to the refuge of the library. Running from the deluge, shaking the rain from our gowns, we entered with laughter and flushed cheeks, a momentary return of youthful spirits not much in evidence in recent days.

  We were not the first to seek its refuge.

  A young man, resplendent in vivid silks and velvet, the deep blue of them enhancing the russet lights in his hair, stood before the fireplace where a fire had been lit against the chill morning. Soft-voiced, he was engaged in issuing orders in rapid French to a servant, yet not a servant of Angers, for we immediately recognised him—Thomas, the Earl’s youngest squire, an angular and unpolished lad, had been waylaid by the unknown gentleman and commandeered into service.

  ‘Bring me wine. And then build up the fire. It’s cold in here.’ The courtier turned his head in our direction, hearing the opening and closing of the door, the clamour of our voices when we first entered. He immediately bowed to us with a graceful flourish. ‘Then serve these two ladies who look in need of refreshment.’

  He was young, perhaps the age of Isabel. His welcome should have put us at our ease, his face being open, pleasant, a little smile on his lips, yet I found myself immediately, uncomfortably aware of our less-than-tidy appearance, the damp hem of my gown, beside this exquisitely groomed courtier. Before I could stop, I found myself smoothing the folds of my veil and twitching my sleeves into place. I could feel my face heat with annoyance under his cool appraisal. Meanwhile Thomas went about his work, slow at first to comply. He could speak French, as I knew, as any well-educated youth from a good family would, but the young man’s accent and peremptory delivery perhaps made the words difficult to grasp.

  ‘Come, boy. Wine, I said. King Louis’s servants are usually more efficient.’ Decorative, imperious, smiling still, the courtier pointed to the chased silver flagon and stemmed goblets set out on the cupboard.

  Thomas, flushed, poured and carried the cup as he had been meticulously taught, presenting it to the young man with an inclination of his head, as he would to the Earl. The young man took the cup.

  ‘My thanks. But you must learn not to keep me waiting, you understand. You are very young, I suppose, and not used to the ways of this Court.’ He leaned forwards, lowering his voice intimately. ‘You should show me more respect when offering me wine.’

  He struck Thomas a blow to the shoulder with the flat of his hand, as a friend might in a companionable gesture of good humour, but the impression stayed with me that there was more weight in it than friendship. Enough to make Thomas, slight at only twelve years, stagger a little as he kept his balance. Enough to make me march forwards with sharp words, except that Isabel took a tight hold of my skirts. Thomas kept his composure and brought the silver tray with two goblets for Isabel and myself. I could see his fingers grasping the curved rim, white as bone, determined to do the job well. Although I smiled reassuringly, murmured my thanks, he blinked with anxiety.

  ‘Now build up the fire.’

  The clear order made Thomas scurry to manhandle the large logs on the hearth, aware that every movement was closely watched, carrying out his task with credit despite a clumsy nervousness. Then he straightened to await more orders.

  ‘Do you require any further service, my lord?’

  ‘You should kneel before me.’ It was gently said, simply a smooth reminder.

  Thomas promptly did so. Head tilted, the young man surveyed him for a long moment. ‘Good. That is all.’

  Thomas leapt to his feet and departed, more speed than elegance, with only a quick bow and glance in our direction, and that of pure shame. A ripple of unease touched me. I had never seen the Earl or the Countess strike even a servant in our household, much less a squire from a gentle family, as this courtier had done. Yet he had smiled, showing no evidence of temper or anger. I decided I had been mistaken. Thomas had been caught unawares, unbalanced, whilst the courtier’s words, his whole demeanour, had been pleasant enough.

  Isabel and I were still standing just inside the door. The young man set down the goblet and approached. Once more he bowed, a gleam of white teeth. He was all courtesy and well-bred good manners. As I felt the warmth of his charm the little throb in my throat picked up its beat.

  ‘Make use of the library, mesdames. It should now be warm enough for your comfort.’ He spread his arms, engulfing us in a cloud of cloyingly sweet perfume, yet with an underlying more pungent aroma within it, as he indicated that we should move towards the fire. His eyes touched on mine, then passed on to Isabel. The smile deepened. ‘You must forgive me if I leave you. I have a pressing engagement…’

  He walked out, leaving the door open as he strode along the corridor.

  I was forced to admit the attraction. Any woman would. And yet why had he not acknowledged us? I knew, from the glint in his eye, that he had recognised who we were. As he must have known who Thomas was, that he was not a mere servant. The Neville bear and ragged staff was clear on his livery for anyone to see; it was not an unknown heraldic motif. I frowned at his departing back, at the arrogant swing of his cloak and the stylish peacock feathers in his cap. He should at least have shown us some respectful recognition, whatever the disagreements between our two families.

  Isabel and I looked at each other. ‘And that, I presume, is the man who we would wish to put on the throne of England,’ she stated.

  ‘Yes. He’s very handsome.’ I spoke the first words to come into my head.

  ‘I can’t deny it.’ Isabel scowled as if she would like to. ‘But do you think he would be a better candidate than Clarence?’

  In all honesty I did not know. My cheeks heated again at the memory of his close, knowing scrutiny. We knew who he was without any introduction. His colouring, the rich auburn hair and fair skin, the mix of green and brown in his eyes—all the exact colouring of his mother. Even without the gleaming display of ostrich feathers in gold on his breast, we knew who he was.

  Edward of Lancaster.

  I spent the day—the following few days—thinking over that first meeting. I did not see him again—although I admit I looked for him in the vast rooms and rain-drenched gardens—but the impression remained strong with me. Physically beautiful, tall and athletic, well proportioned in leg and arm, the Prince would steal the eye, whether at a banquet or when engaged in the lists or in the disciplines of a tourney. I could imagine him—and did so in my many moments of idleness—riding forwards, all elegant grace and honed skill, arm
our gleaming, horse burnished but well-controlled under his hand, to claim a lady’s scarf to wear on his sleeve. I imagined myself in the role of presenting him with my favour, tucking it intimately beneath the plates of his shoulder guard, and his carrying it to victory, to the jealousy of every other lady present, as the sun touched with red-gold his hair that curled and waved with silken extravagance when he finally removed his helm to receive the victor’s reward from my hands.

  It was an engrossing image that filled my thoughts.

  I sighed as the days passed without any recurrence of our meeting. Edward of Lancaster was handsome, astonishingly so, yet in no degree feminine. Any delicacy was offset by a stubborn chin, a masterful nose, whilst his eyes were fierce and challenging. I remembered that his fingers around the cup, as jewelled as his mother’s, had been long and slender. As for his presence…If his mother claimed little money to spend on her own appearance, it was not so with her son. Was all she had, all she could raise in loans, to be spent on him, to portray him as the Prince of Wales, England’s heir? The heavy collar set with fine sapphires that had graced his chest, the matching ring-brooch in his cap to secure the peacock feathers, would have outfitted a ship to take him across the Channel.

  Then, because I was not given to dishonesty, guilt struck. How could I allow my inner eye to be ambushed by this unknown young man, simply on the strength of a brilliant smile? And I found myself drawing a mental comparison with Richard of Gloucester, placing the two side by side so that I could see them both in my mind. I did not like the result. At first Richard receded in that comparison. Less impressive all round in form and figure, his colouring less brilliant, Richard faded alarmingly beside the glowing Prince Edward. Nor did Richard’s austere features win him any merit beside the handsome heir of Lancaster.

  Was I as fickle a lover as I had accused Richard of being? The thought did not please me, but how easy it was to be blinded by Margaret’s son. If, when he smiled, his eyes had remained cool and thoughtful, what did that matter? If he had pretended ignorance of our state, was that important? Perhaps it was a product of living out his adult life in exile, on charity, his future uncertain, that made him circumspect. And to live under the dominion of Margaret of Anjou, as the sole object of her interest, into whom she poured every drop of her ambition—would that not have an effect on the man, making him careful and quick to hide his thoughts?

  And yet he had struck Thomas. Richard, my Richard, would never act like that. I blinked against a quick rush of tears that took me unawares. I must not let myself dwell on the past. Everything had changed. Mary of Burgundy’s Richard would always act with respect and consideration. In my mind I could see him as I had on that last occasion at Warwick, intense and driven, his eyes dark and full of secrets. Did he pin my image next to that of the lovely Mary of Burgundy? If he did, I would be found wanting. The tears spilled over and I made no attempt to stop them.

  Two melancholy thoughts troubled my sleep. Richard could never be mine. And Edward of Lancaster, however attractive he might be, was nothing to me. I was not even sure that I liked him very much, although I could not have explained why.

  Relief swept through our apartments, a soothing breath of wind in the heat. When we had all but given up hope, Margaret of Anjou agreed to meet with the Earl. If she would but agree to the alliance, we could be on board ship, sailing for England again by the end of the year. But with what I thought might be habitual spite, the Queen kept us waiting, interminably through the hours, until the late evening of the day. Weary but determined to wring from the occasion as much advantage as we could, we were ushered into her presence, again with Louis present to smooth the way.

  The Countess and I led the way, curtsied as we had before. Unsmiling, again enthroned, Margaret gave a curt inclination of her head, the slightest lift of her hand from her lap. We rose, stepped back. So far so good. Next came Isabel and Clarence. Margaret barely looked at them as they showed their respect, but impatiently waved them to stand beyond her line of sight, because there, before her, the object of her undying hatred, was the Earl, standing at Louis’s side, sumptuously but sombrely clad in black velvet and richly draped cap, jewels glinting in the final rays of the sun.

  ‘Do you think it wise…?’ my mother had asked on seeing his magnificence.

  The Earl had been uncompromising. ‘I will beg for forgiveness because I must, but not as a pauper or a commoner. My family is as good as hers.’

  ‘She’s the daughter of a royal family,’ the Countess chided, although I could see without much hope of success. ‘King Rene is—’

  ‘King Rene is nought but a penniless client of Louis.’

  My mother conceded defeat. ‘Just don’t let her see that you think she is inferior!’

  I held my breath. So, I think, did my mother. Louis halted. My father continued to approach. He bowed low, then knelt before the Queen, straight backed, head bent to await the verdict. Silently I exhaled. This was the moment of decision, for all of us. As we waited, a rapid footstep sounded from behind me as a newcomer entered the chamber, an interruption that caused Louis to frown, and on to the dais stepped the young man from the library. As impressively clad as before, he knelt before his mother in quick reverence before standing to take his position at her side. One hand resting on his sword hilt, the other gripping the carved back of the throne, he cast an all-encompassing glance over the scene. Then as Margaret sat immobile, Prince Edward leaned, one glittering hand on the arm of the throne, to whisper in her ear. White-faced, Margaret said not one word, neither to her son nor to my father.

  It seemed that the silence would smother us all. It was Louis, of course, who broke it. ‘Your Majesty. As you agreed, my dear cousin the Earl of Warwick is here, at his own request, to beg your forgiveness and offer his services to you to restore your power in England.’

  Still Margaret took her time to consider. And then, ‘Warwick! I never thought to see you kneel before me. It is my inclination to damn your soul to the fires of hell for eternity.’

  ‘I put myself at your mercy, your Majesty.’

  Unblinking, she stared at his bent head. ‘You are the source of all my ills. How should you expect mercy?’

  ‘I stood against you,’ the Earl admitted. ‘I saw you as my enemy, an enemy who would destroy me and those who were my friends. I had not deserved such animosity and so I struck back. I admit my mistakes. All I ask is that I can show my good faith by putting right the wrongs I have done.’

  ‘And what is best for the future? What is best in the eyes of the Earl of Warwick? How will you right the wrongs?’ The Prince intervened before his mother could answer. There was no anger in his question, rather a calm understanding of our dilemma. He took one step forwards as if to encourage the Earl. ‘What would you ask of her Majesty, as well as her mercy?’

  ‘An alliance, my lord Prince,’ the Earl replied without hesitation. ‘Lancaster and Neville. That I might lead an invasion in your name. I swear on the Blood of Christ that I will be as much Edward of York’s foe in future as I have been his friend. And as much your friend as I have been your foe.’ All spoken with my father’s eyes never lifting beyond the hem of the Queen’s gown. Margaret pursed her lips.

  ‘I must consider.’ Which she did. Time crawled, endlessly. ‘You would rescue my lord Henry and place the crown on his head once more?’

  ‘I would, your Majesty. I swear it.’

  Then a longer silence, her eyes flitting between the Earl, to Louis, then back to the Earl whilst she kept my father on his knees. Spine erect, muscles braced, he kept his position without any sign of physical discomfort. Or of the humiliation to the very depths of his soul. How could he ever serve this woman who could reduce him to this role of beggar? How could he put himself—and his family—so completely into her hands?

  ‘How do I know that I can trust you?’ she demanded at last.

  And Louis was there at the Earl’s side to make the reply. ‘I will personally guarantee the Earl’s fideli
ty, the sincerity of his words. He will not betray you.’

  ‘Then I have decided.’ Her eyes held the Earl’s, dagger bright. ‘There are conditions, of course. You will publicly withdraw your slanderous remarks about my son’s birth and my own honour. You must take an oath before God to serve me loyally.’

  ‘I will, your Majesty.’

  ‘Then…’ With a faint frown she looked up at her son, as if groping for an assurance of the rightness of her decision, and he responded with a smile of such sweetness that it took my breath. He leaned again to place his hand on her wrist, the lightest pressure of fingers on the soft fur of the cuff. And for the briefest of moments I saw Margaret’s face as it softened in maternal love. Could Margaret with her fierce and driven ambitions and hostilities be capable of such a tender emotion? It seemed that she could.

  Her face hardening again, as stony as the towers of Angers, she made her response. ‘My lord of Warwick. My son and I are in agreement. I will agree to pardon you. I will agree to enter into an alliance with you.’

  It was done. The agreement made as at last—at last—the Earl was allowed to rise from his knees. I felt the relief flutter under my rib cage, beginning to grow until I had to struggle against the desire to laugh aloud at the new horizon that had come into view. No longer homeless exiles. My father would return to England with an army and, with France behind him with all its wealth and power, and Edward of Lancaster as a figurehead to draw the nobility to his banner, he would surely defeat Edward of York. Then we could all go home to Warwick or to Middleham and life would be as it had always been. All the security and comfort that I had taken for granted would be mine again—

  My thought came to a dramatic halt, as if in collision with the very stone wall that hemmed us in. If Edward of York was defeated, what would be his fate, and that of Richard? If they survived the ensuing battle, it would be to escape into exile. And if in exile, powerless and without hope of restoration, would Richard’s betrothal to Mary of Burgundy be rejected? I knew the answer to that, right enough. The Burgundian marriage would be abandoned—but neither would my father consider him as a candidate for me. Relief turned sour. There no chance for me, for our reconciliation, whichever way it fell out.