by Anne O'Brien
The door closed behind us, shutting out the usual round of coarse and ribald jokes that men enjoyed at the expense of the lack of experience and ability of the bride and groom. I had heard it all before at other feasts, at other marriages. But not when I was the one whose virginity was causing such interest.
A bedchamber had been prepared for the bridal night with a sumptuousness that would have overpowered me if my mind had been fit to register it with more than a passing glance. The vast bed was made up with the finest linen, the bed hangings swooping and billowing from their carved restraints and embroidered with gold-stitched French fleur-de-lys. A fire simmered cheerfully in the hearth. And if thirst and hunger assailed us through the long night, there was a flagon of hippocras and a platter of nuts and fruit and sweetmeats. My throat dry, I could not imagine having appetite for either.
‘He was ever keen to demonstrate his manhood.’ Margaret’s ladies were as bawdy as the men. ‘Yesterday the tilt yard, today a softer opponent…’
I swallowed against what I could not deny was a dart of fear as I was stripped of my finery, twisted and turned as if I were a doll, the velvet and ermine, even my linen shift, laid aside and my hair brushed into a gleaming curtain over my naked shoulders. So at length I sat dwarfed by the huge bed, unable to relax against the feather pillows, the linen clutched to my chin to hide my lack of womanly curves, with an empty expanse beside me for the Prince. Dried flowers and herbs had been scattered beneath me to promote fertility and a successful joining although the brittle sprigs of lavender and rosemary seemed to have no property but to irritate my skin. The Grand Vicar of Bayeux who had performed the bridal ceremony stood in pompous readiness to sprinkle us, the fortunate couple, with holy water and sacred words.
All I needed now was the bridegroom.
I tried to imagine the coming hours. I did not fear him, I decided. And I knew what to expect. The Countess had been sufficiently explicit.
‘Do you suppose he’s drinking himself into a state of courage?’
I hoped not. One of us would need sharp wits this night. I prayed fervently that the Prince was not as ignorant or as unskilled as I. The observations became more malicious as boredom threatened and the ladies began to yawn behind their elegant hands. ‘What’s keeping him? Has he found more accomplished entertainment for the night? Some Court whore to complete his tuition.’ Then, ‘Perhaps he’s waiting on the Queen. Maybe she’ll insist on accompanying him and remaining for the event.’ And finally sotto voce, ‘She supervises every other breath he takes! And much else!’
I knew their intent. To embarrass, to unnerve by reminding me of my lack of experience. Even to reduce me to a bout of terrified hysterics. They had never been my friends and my new status would not change that—but I would not be cowed by them.
‘The Prince needs no Court whore to guide him,’ I remarked with an ingenuous smile. ‘I shall ensure the prince has good practice tonight.’
‘Remember though that you must rise early tomorrow for the journey to Paris. Do you think Edward will be up betimes?’
With a knowing smile I intercepted the glance. ‘Definitely he will! I intend to keep him up all night.’
‘And you a virgin! Do you have the appetite for it?’
‘I do. I hope the Prince is hungry.’
The resulting laughter was no longer at my expense. I was now wife to Prince Edward and this would be the first time for me to be quite alone with him, with myself as the sole object of his notice. Holy Virgin! I prayed again that we would find some measure of communication.
A roar of coarse mirth from the other side of the door blasted our ears. The halt of many feet. The clatter of metal on stone as someone dropped a drinking vessel, followed by a string of curses. Then with a cursory knock against the panels to unnecessarily advertise their presence, the door was thrown open.
Prince Edward had arrived, attired in a chamber robe of magnificent hue. Smiling, his face as striking as the crimson and gold, full of wine and good humour. Yet not, I thought, too overcome, unlike Clarence who was all but carried to Isabel’s bed on the occasion of their marriage. From somewhere in the depths of his selfish heart, the Prince my husband found the sensitivity to slam the door back in the prurient faces. For a moment silence fell in the room, soft as a fall of snow. The sounds of merriment receded as the revellers returned drunkenly to the scene of the feast.
Edward approached with leisurely steps. My fingers curled into the linen, even as I tried to prevent myself clutching the material to my flat chest. Edward seemed totally unaware of my rioting nerves. His eyes as they travelled over my face, over as much of my figure as he could make out beneath the covers, were just a little hazy, but not beyond what might be expected. He halted at the side of the bed, bowed deeply, then captured my hand, lifting it lightly to his lips.
‘My sweet, delicious bride. How lovely you are. You’re not afraid of me, are you?’
‘No, my lord,’ I managed on a croak and a gasp as a wave of the Prince’s favourite perfume washed over me. I swear he had drenched himself in it, the cloying sweetness of the frankincense, but with the underlying tone even stronger than usual. What is it? I resisted the urge to sneeze. Civet! More cat than civet! It revolted my senses.
‘I shall make you my own, my sweet love, with all care and gentleness.’
How thoughtful of my nervousness. I should have been seduced by his soft voice and gentle fingers, the featherlike touch of his lips. Surely this could not be an unpleasant experience at the Prince’s considerate hands? But the constriction around my chest tightened even further. I did not trust him.
Releasing my fingers, he walked carefully around the bed to his own side, casting away the furred and embroidered night robe to reveal his neatly muscled body. His chest almost hairless, he looked no more than a young boy, yet paused to draw the appreciative looks of the assembled room. I tried not to let my gaze linger on the soft arrowing of red-gold hair on his belly, at his manhood that was impressively erect despite the wine and the very public show, but with hands on hips the Prince invited admiration from all present. So I looked until, satisfied, the Prince flung back the counterpane, hoisted himself up on to the high mattress and settled himself comfortably next to me, beckoning to the Grand Vicar to complete the ceremony whilst I swallowed against the suffocating perfume, and fear in equal measure, as the cleric promptly raised the phial of holy water and began to shake the drops on to the bed, on to Edward and myself, walking round us so that not an inch might go unblessed. In a sudden feverish wave, I felt an urge to laugh that we might actually be drenched before he was quite satisfied.
The priest raised his hand in a final blessing. The words rolled over us, heavy and sonorous, as he pronounced the hopes of the whole Lancastrian cause.
‘God bless you, my lord Prince. And your fair wife. May you prove loyal to each other and endlessly fruitful for the House of Lancaster. May the glorious heir of Lancaster be created from your loins this night, my lord Prince. As God wills it. Amen.’
The Countess, with a reassuring smile, leaned close. ‘God bless you, daughter,’ she whispered in my ear, echoing the cleric. ‘Hold tight to your courage.’
Courage! Easy to say! I quaked inwardly, fingers like claws in the bed-linen, as the disloyal thought came to me that I did not want the Prince to touch me. Repugnance filled me as, now that the moment had come, I imagined his hands on my body, stroking, exploring…I closed my eyes against the image—as I deliberately closed my mind against any image of Richard that threatened. He had no place in this cold marriage bed. For better or worse I was the Prince’s wife and must accept my duties.
The door opened, without even an attempted knock as polite warning, the announcement as shattering as a thunder clap.
‘This will go no further.’
Queen Margaret stepped across the threshold, still in her festive velvet and ermine. Still crowned with gold, yet as pale as her son was flushed. She stalked to the bed, close beside the Pr
ince. It seemed to me that her whole body throbbed with furious, barely controlled energy.
‘Out!’ she ordered, barely glancing at the women, her eyes only for the Prince. ‘Get out!’
The women scuttled for the door, tripping over their hems in their flight, but my mother stood firm. I thanked God for it.
‘Your Majesty!’ The Grand Vicar drew himself up to his impressive height. ‘What can you imply?’
‘I imply that this marriage will go no further.’ The Queen barely glanced at him. Her eyes were fixed on her son’s face. ‘I have no intention of being ambiguous, your Grace. There will be no consummation.’
‘There must be a misunderstanding, your Majesty,’ gabbled the priest. ‘There is no cause to forbid this union of these young people. All is correct by my hand and in the sight of God. It is most acceptably done!’
‘For you, perhaps. But all is not acceptable to me!’
I sat open-mouthed. So, momentarily, did the Prince as if he could not believe the exchange of words. I looked towards the Countess, seeking an answer. Surely this was not what she had expected. Had it been decided that because of my lack of years this completion of the marriage bond should be postponed? Had the Queen, in arbitrary judgement, suddenly at this eleventh hour decided that I was too young to permit the physical union? I had not thought so. I would not be the youngest bride to accept her husband’s demands in bed. I would not be the youngest royal wife to carry a child.
‘Madam! In God’s name…!’ At last the Prince reacted, leaping from the bed and shrugging his arms into the bed robe, as if to face this crisis naked would put him at a disadvantage. I remained where I was, unable to even think what I should do next. Inconsequentially I was aware that my husband’s show of awe-inspiring masculinity was a thing of the past. I forced myself to sit without moving and allow the scene to play out. Edward quickly had the furred garment belted tight.
‘I demand to know, madam—’
‘I do not have to explain myself. You are my son and you will obey me.’
The Grand Vicar intervened, planting his feet like an oak. ‘I would advise you, your Majesty, that you have no right to dictate to the Prince in this matter. He is of age and so can determine his own behaviour towards his wife.’ His hand clenched around his pectoral cross as if to invoke the power of the Almighty.
My mother merely stood, speechless, frozen. I watched as panic played across her features.
By this time the Prince had found his confidence, but lost any ability to remain cool. ‘By the Rood, madam! I demand an explanation. This woman is my wife before God and the law and I should bed her.’
‘Your wife she may be. But this marriage will not be consummated.’
‘Why not? In God’s name, why not?’ Gone was all filial respect. The Prince shouted his disbelief.
‘I forbid it.’
‘You forbid it! I am Prince of Wales. My father’s heir, heir to England’s crown. You have no right to forbid it.’
‘I can and I will.’
Edward took a step forwards towards her. A dangerous step. He lifted his arm, the flat of his hand raised. We held our breath as it appeared for one horrifying moment as if he would actually strike the Queen. The volatile temper, the unbridled violence I had suspected in the Prince was about to be displayed.
‘My lord. Your Majesty. Let us not be carried away with hot humours.’ The GrandVicar cleared his throat to draw attention, stepping forwards nervously. When Edward’s arm fell to his side, he continued in low tones, ‘On what grounds do you take this step, your Majesty?’
The Queen did not even look at him, or even at me. I was as nothing in her plans. She continued to hold her son’s blazing gaze. ‘It is not required that I give an explanation.’
‘Tell me!’The bark of anger that echoed from the walls startled us all, the Prince’s beautiful features obliterated in a furious scowl. ‘Explain to me!’
Whilst I simply sat in the great bed and held my breath for the outcome of the trial of strength between mother and son, I saw the jewels glint on the Queen’s breast as she inhaled slowly. Her glance flickered to my mother, then to me, and finally back to the Prince. When she spoke I knew that this had always been her plan, and that we were all tied securely into it with no way out. ‘There is no reason why you—all of you—should not know,’ she explained with terrible reasoning. ‘If there is a way out of this marriage for me, any way at all, I will take it. If I can have it annulled, I will do so. Monsieur de Warwick will be a creature of mine. I will never be one of his.’
‘You want room to annul the marriage,’ the Countess murmured, aghast. ‘So if my lord of Warwick fails, my daughter will be cast aside from an incomplete, unconsummated marriage. You will put an end to this marriage before it has even begun, and with such humiliation for my daughter. It is cruel!’
‘I will not be dictated to in this manner…’ the Prince broke in, but the Queen waved him aside as she focused on the accusation.
‘Cruel, Madame de Warwick?’ Margaret was on firm ground now, victorious ground. She oozed confidence, even allowing herself a smile. ‘Not cruelty, but a matter of political necessity. I will do whatever needs to be done to restore to my family what is theirs by right of inheritance. You of all women should know of such things. You have been raised all your life surrounded by political intrigue. You were married for the sake of land and titles. Where is the cruelty in that? It is what we do. Why should you be so surprised?’ Now there was a lick of disdain, sharp as a whip. ‘I will not tie my son to a marriage that will bring him no advantage.’
‘My husband has risked his life for you and the Prince.’
‘We still do not know that Warwick will be successful.’
‘The Yorkists are in flight! My father is crowned King again,’ howled the Prince. ‘What more do you want?’
‘I want all Yorkists run to ground and dispatched. I want no hostile forces on English soil. Even now, Warwick can still fail. What if the Yorkist upstart should return from exile with a Burgundian army at his back to restore him to the throne?’ It seemed that my bridal chamber had suddenly become a chamber of war as Margaret hammered home the fears that drove her. ‘Could Warwick stand before such a force? I doubt it.’ She looked again at me, an expression of pure distaste. ‘If he fails, what use will it be to me for you to be tied to the Neville girl, nothing but an embarrassing burden on us if Warwick can offer us nothing. In that eventuality I want you free to take another bride who can bring us power and military force. I will not be moved on this.’ The Queen faced the Prince. ‘You, my son, will now obey me by returning to your own rooms.’
To give him credit, he still stood his ground before her. ‘I refuse to do it. She is my wife. I demand to stay here.’
‘You’ll not defy me, Edward. I have not brought you up to defy me. If you try, I will have you taken by guards and locked in your chamber. And I shall continue to keep you there until you bow to my wishes.’
‘You would not dare!’
The Queen was unmoved as her lips curved in a thin smile. ‘I would. You know I would.’
I thought the Prince would explode with passion. He might be taller, broader than her slight figure, but the Queen’s will filled the room. All the determination that had carried her through defeat and exile, humiliation and penury was distilled into sheer force as she stared down her son. Would he retreat before this overwhelming force? I was not at all sure. At that moment, if he had worn a sword, I swear that he would have drawn it. It spurred me into action. I abandoned the linen, my own acute embarrassment, and leapt from the bed. It was so few steps to fling myself to my knees at Margaret’s feet.
‘Your Majesty.’ I felt the shame of my shivering flesh as I knelt with head bent. What I hoped to achieve I had no clear idea, simply knew that I must speak out and fight for recognition of my own position in the marriage. ‘We are legally bound, your Majesty,’ I urged. ‘The Prince is my husband. I beg you—’
‘In name o
nly. Get up.’ She would not even listen. ‘You will remain a virgin until my son is acknowledged before Parliament as heir at Westminster.’
The violence that I had seen building inside the Prince, hot and deadly, erupted to scald all of us. Pushing to my feet, I stepped out of his destructive path as he swept the cups and flagon from the night stand, spilling the contents in a blood-like pool across the floor. ‘I will not be refused. I will not be ordered to my rooms as if I were a child.’ He kicked out at the bed hangings, tearing some of the fragile cloth, making the dust motes dance. He hurled a jewel-encrusted candle-holder to crack against the wall. Then in some irrational redirection of anger, he turned his ire on me.
‘I should have known that marriage to you would bring nothing but disaster. It would bring me no satisfaction, but dishonour and insult. That I, a man, not a boy to be ordered and lectured, should be barred from your bed…I wish I had never set eyes on you. You have shamed me. I wish I had refused the marriage in the first place!’
‘But, my lord, your condemnation is unjust.’ Could he not see that the fault was not mine? I faced him, my eyes a challenge, my hair falling thick and straight over my shoulders. Naked I might be, but I would neither cower nor retreat before him. The only dishonour between us, the only shame, was from his unfounded words of accusation against me.
‘Enough! I’ll not speak with you!’ Fury flared into leaping flames. Before I or anyone could react, Edward thrust out a hand to grasp a fistful of my hair and dragged me against him so that I had to brace myself with hands against his chest. He ignored my cry of protest, of pain—of shock at the physical assault—and took my mouth in a kiss as vicious as it was startling. A hard press of lips, a scrape of teeth, my hair wound tight against my scalp. It was cruel, taking my breath, forcing my lips to part against my teeth. When he had had enough of me, he pushed me away, my lips bruised, torn so that I tasted blood.
‘My son!’ Margaret intervened, laid her hands on his shoulders, looking up into his face, her own softening. ‘Enough. Calm yourself. This is no manner for a man, a Prince, to conduct himself.’
