by Anne O'Brien
‘You have made a mockery of my marriage, madam!’
‘No, I have saved you.’ Margaret’s voice was soothing. She reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘We will work this out together. Later, when you are restored, I will come to your room and explain. Do you understand me? Now you must go.’
‘I want—’
‘No, Edward.’ Another kiss, gentle, tender. ‘You will be calm. I will come to you.’
The Prince, without another word, clutched his robe around him and strode from the room, with one final thunderous stare, as if he hated me.
The priest spluttered. The Countess looked stricken. Margaret watched with hooded eyes. I merely stood, my wrist pressed against the blood on my lip.
‘Since you are both still here, I have a use for you,’ she declared, making her own way to the door in the wake of her tempestuous son. ‘You will bear witness that this marriage is not complete. You, Anne Neville…’ she looked at me in passing uninterest ‘…will be acknowledged as Princess with all honour and respect as my son’s wife, but you will sleep alone. With Lady Beatrice in attendance to ensure that it is so. The door at night will be locked and I will keep the key.’
Then she was gone. Leaving the bitter dregs of my sham marriage to swamp the room.
Through the vicious heat of it all, followed by frozen shock as my room emptied of all the main players except for myself and my appointed gaoler, it seemed nothing more than the weird development of some nightmarish dream. Or a malice-driven plot from a childhood tale, into which I had by some magical means fallen. But then I heard the key turn in the lock, and knew that the Queen, single-minded, inflexible in her fury, would turn that key every night until she was convinced beyond her multitude of doubts that my father had fulfilled all his promises. Until she was certain that I could not be jettisoned as so much worthless dross.
Even then I think she would find an excuse.
What would the Earl think of this Lancastrian treachery when the news reached him? In my shame I did not care.
It was not the bridal night I had expected. I sat on the edge of that vast expanse of empty bed, clad again in my chamber robe, conscious of the richness and luxury only at a distance. Those fine linen sheets, fit for a princess, would not be witness to the end of my virginity. Not now, not ever. Nor any succession of sheets, fine or coarse, as we made our journey to Paris, at Louis’s invitation to celebrate Christmas in the capital. I continued to sit in disbelief. What now? Should I simply tuck myself under the coverlet and go to sleep? Wait until whatever the morrow might bring? Held by a strange lethargy, I could not bring myself to do it. It was as if Margaret had drained my will and my senses when she had condemned me to this pretence of a marriage and ordered her son from the room.
Lady Beatrice, resentful, glowered from where she stood on guard beside the door. I choked back my feelings, part-sob, part-dark sharp-edged amusement as I imagined the scene. Did the Queen truly expect Edward to defy her, to return and break down the door? To insist on his physical satisfaction in the face of his mother’s denial? I knew that he would not. Despite our short acquaintance, I knew the Prince better than that. After his loss of face the Prince would take himself to his rooms to prowl and sulk. Or to engage in some ferocious passage of arms where he cared little for the injuries sustained by himself or his unfortunate opponent. Or to hunt until his horse foundered and his ill temper was swept away by the heat of blood and the kill. Then would return full of boundless enthusiasm, disturbing in its extremity, to ignore what he could not change. To pretend that his authority had never been questioned.
I frowned down at my bare feet that did not quite reach the floor from the high bed. They were cold. As was I. My lip ached, raw and tender. Shivering, I turned my thoughts to more practical matters. Moping with lingering sighs would achieve nothing, nor would sitting here until I succumbed to a chill or a desperate lowering of spirits. I could vent my anger—for that is what moved me most—on the one person at hand. I spoke to Lady Beatrice with more sharpness than might have been tactful towards one of the Queen’s ladies.
‘You have no choice but to remain here, Lady Beatrice. It is not my wish, but neither is it my fault, and I will not suffer your ill grace. I think we should both prefer it if you occupied the pallet in the dressing room.’ I waved towards the door to the small room adjacent to my own, set aside for a serving woman. The consummation might be forbidden, but until an annulment I was a princess and I would insist on the respect due to me. ‘I trust you will hear if the Prince seeks to force entry in the dead of night. I give you permission to enter to drag us apart and summon the Queen!’
How I enjoyed her stiff resentment as she obeyed. She might have to stay within call, but I would not have her sour face beside me all night. I hoped the dressing room was cold and damp.
The hours stretched endlessly before me and sleep was far away. What would a rejected bride do, alone without comfort, without consoling hands and words? Looking back, I know that this discarded wife grew up quickly. I had not known what unhappiness could be, but I discovered it that night, alone and without hope. I did not know the depths of it that could tear at the soul, until that night. Straight-backed, I sat against the pillows amongst all that borrowed luxury—and cared nothing for it. What value the magnificent bed, the ermine of my cloak, the gold of Lancaster’s ring on my finger, compared with this dishonour? I would not weep, I would not give in to useless emotion. No one would know of my grief, my fury at being so publicly discarded. No one would smirk and gloat at my expense. As for the capricious and volatile Prince—it took all my will not to detest him to the depths of my soul on that night.
I have never, from that day, been able to tolerate frankincense or civet.
I was awakened with a start to voices outside the door. At some point near dawn I had crawled under the covers, falling into heavy and unrefreshing oblivion, now disturbed by a clash of wills, low but rising in volume. Footsteps died away into the distance, only to return. More words of a briefer, curter nature. The key turned and my mother entered, warmly dressed for travel despite the bare traces of grey light, followed by Margery. The Countess strode into the centre of the room. Pale-faced she might be with smudges of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, but her expression was set and the proud resolve of her Despenser ancestors hung about her. This morning she was not the supplicant for the Queen’s favours, but every inch the Countess of Warwick.
‘You may go.’ A clipped order as Lady Beatrice emerged from the dressing room. ‘You may tell the Queen her wishes have been fulfilled. The Princess is a virgin yet. Her Majesty must make whatever arrangements she wishes on the journey.’ She waited until the outraged lady had gone. ‘Well, that was an unforeseen outcome, was it not?’ Her manner did not change. She flung back the curtains herself and motioned Margery to place the tray of food and ale on the table and then stir the fire. ‘The Queen has a talent for drama, without doubt. She continues to amaze me. I doubt you slept well.’
‘No.’ Suddenly I had to struggle against a fit of helpless tears. During the long hours, my determination to bear myself as if nothing were amiss had weakened. All I wanted was to hide from the world. ‘I feel ashamed. And now I must face Margaret’s sneering Court.’
If I had hoped for warm sympathy, there was none to be had. The Countess regarded me bleakly. ‘Yes, you must. And there must be nothing in your demeanour to cause disparaging comments. I will not have the world seeing you as—how did she put it?—an embarrassing burden. You are at this moment the most valuable asset Margaret has with all your connections. She needs Warwick whether she will admit it or no. Get up, Anne.’
‘I suppose I must.’ I didn’t move.
‘After last night’s débâcle, we are at war here just as much as the Earl is in England. Our weapons are different, as is the enemy, but this is a battle we shall not lose. Listen to me, daughter. We leave Amboise within two hours. You must be ready.’
‘For what? To hear the P
rince tell me he hates me and wishes he had never set eyes on me?’
‘Don’t put on that woeful face for me—or for anyone else here.’
‘How shall I face the Court? The gossip, the smiles and whispers? Everyone will know what Margaret did and why.’ Where had my stubborn courage of the previous night gone? I was horrified to hear the whine in my voice. Yet I climbed out of bed to wash my face in the scented water poured by Margery.
‘Of course they will. And the Queen will treat us as filth beneath her feet. But you are not responsible, Anne. You are the victim here, of the Queen’s treachery. You will put on a brave face.’
‘But—’
‘If I have to beat it into you, you will be a proud Neville to the end! And no daughter of mine will hide in her bed when there are trials to be faced!’
She would not beat me. That was never my mother’s way. I smiled wanly at the prospect and she nodded. ‘Think of your Aunt Cecily when your spirits fail. She would never bend before any man—or woman.’
Cecily Neville, Richard’s mother, a beauty in her youth who had taken the eye of the Duke of York, with a name for formidable bravery and astonishing arrogance. Proud Cis, the commoners dubbed her, and not from affection, but her courage was legendary, even faced with a rampaging mob in the town of Ludlow where she had stood in the market place, unprotected, with her youngest children around her, and defied the rabble to harm her. Nor had they. Yes, I too would look the world in the face and defy those who hated me. I would be like her.
‘So I hold up my head.’ I allowed Margery to begin the lacing of my gown.
‘You do. You are the Princess of Wales. You will ignore those vulgar enough to make comment. You will not apologise for Margaret’s doing. And certainly not to the Prince. You have both been sacrificed to her whim and ambition.’
True. I forced my shoulders to straighten beneath the green patterned damask. ‘The Prince…’ I glanced across at my mother. ‘I don’t know what he will say this morning…’
‘Edward has already gone to the practice yard, even though we leave so soon.’ The Countess’s lips twitched maliciously. ‘They say he has a sore head so perhaps he’ll not feel like conversation. Besides, it does not matter what he says, today, tomorrow or next week. You will eat well, sleep well, conduct yourself as if this is of no matter to you and all will be resolved between you when you both reach London. Do you understand?’
I understood. There was much that I understood now. What a child I was when I sulked at Isabel’s side as she was delivered of that ill-fated child. Since then I had been dropped into a tangle of political intrigue more deadly than any I could have imagined. I was a pawn in a game where the outcome was uncertain, used by both Neville and Lancaster. I did not like it, but even my youthful eyes saw the value of the Countess’s advice. I would follow it with impeccable grace. No one would suspect my inner fury; my conduct would be exemplary. And my heart was full of admiration for the Countess who, unlike me, taken up with self-pity, had clearly spent the night hours in plots and plans to preserve our Neville dignity.
‘When we reach England and the Earl drops the crown into the Prince’s lap—for King Henry is surely not fit to wear it—then how we shall crow as the Queen has to retreat,’ she continued, ‘when she is forced to allow her son to claim you as his wife in body as well as in words.’ She took my shoulders, looked me over. ‘No. That gown is too dark, too sombre. Margery—she must wear the red. See to it. It is more becoming to her complexion and is a royal colour. We will make a blazing statement of power as we travel.’
So Margery unlaced and re-laced with resignation. The Countess’s lecture continued until I stood in the glory of the crimson gown and over-gown with its black patterning and sable cuffs. The intricate gossamer veils fluttered decorously on their gold wiring. At last I was ready. Whatever anxieties were in my heart would remain locked there. At least I looked like a princess. ‘Am I very pale?’ I asked, with some concern.
‘Yes. No surprise at that! And your lips are bruised, but we can remedy that, too.’ Touching my cheek in a quick brush of comfort, the first softening she had shown since she entered the room, from her wide sleeves the Countess produced two small phials. ‘What nature does not provide, artifice can remedy. We’ll paint a joyous colour into your cheeks and lips!’
So it was done.
There was never a prouder, more satisfied wife, in all of England or France, when I took my place in the travelling litter beside Queen Margaret. And if the Queen saw fit to ignore me, I did not allow it to prevent me smiling and waving to those who stopped to watch us pass. I had my finches beside me on the cushioned seat. It pleased me that the Queen disapproved—a curl of the lip—but I refused to acknowledge it. And if the Prince was as ill tempered as a goshawk in full moult before he spurred his horse off into the distance so that I saw no more of him that day, what did that matter? I was Princess of Wales. Much could happen to prevent Queen Margaret ridding herself of a daughter-in-law she did not want. I had my own plans.
Christmas in Paris? What better time and opportunity to lure my new husband to my side away from his dominating mother? I swore I could do it as my little birds settled in their strange surroundings and began to sing. I would seduce his affections. I would not be cast aside if I had anything to say in the matter. As a wave of homesickness swept through me I made the decision that, if nothing else, I would persuade the Prince to return to England with or without the Queen’s permission. And I would go with him. I would no longer be able to live at Warwick or at Middleham, but it would please me to be home at last.
Settled in Paris, in the Cité Palace on the island in the Seine, I quickly discovered the Prince’s habits, and rose early to break my fast with him, braving the icy temperature in one of the stone-floored parlours that looked out over a drear garden in the grip of winter.
‘My lord.’ I curtsied, waving aside the constant shadow of Lady Beatrice.
‘Anne.’ Edward’s face actually brightened at the sight of me. ‘Have you come to watch me in the tiltyard?’
‘I came to keep you company, as a wife should when she is kept from her husband’s side.’ I sat on the stool he pulled forwards for me, arranging my skirts gracefully. ‘It is not my desire that we should be estranged in this way.’ I smiled as sweetly and innocently as I could. ‘My lord—do you like me even a little? Do you trust me at all?’
The gold-russet brows pulled together. ‘Well, you’re a Neville, of course. And madam the Queen says I must not spend time with you.’ He looked at me in some puzzlement, as if he had never in his life had to consider his feelings for another. But then, why should he? The Queen had made him answerable to none but herself.
I pressed on. ‘I am your wife, of course you can trust me. And I needed to speak with you privately, before we are unable to be alone together.’ I put my hand on his where he grasped a knife to attack a fat capon and leaned forwards confidentially. ‘We should not be here in Paris, Edward. We should be in England before Edward of York can return. The Duke of Burgundy is promising to aid him.’ No point in subtlety. With the Prince it was far better to get to the point. ‘You are the Prince. You should not be wasting time in games and frivolities here. You have such an important role waiting for you at Westminster. Everyone awaits your arrival. Don’t disappoint them, I beg of you.’
‘Madam the Queen says it is not yet safe. And I am about to be engaged in a joust.’ In wayward mood, he shook off my clasp as he carved a slice of the white meat. I hid a sigh. A challenge to a joust with lances took precedence. Nor did he need my companionship other than as an admiring audience. He did not even see the need to consider my own provision of food or ale. The Prince began to eat with fierce concentration, gulping down the small beer.
‘My father says it is the perfect moment,’ I murmured, continuing to lean close as if sharing an intimate secret. ‘Do you not wish to be at his side? Do you not wish to take your place at the head of your own army if Edward of York s
teps on to English soil and challenges your right again? We can be in England before the end of the month.’ I replaced my hand on his arm, tightening my grip, to hold the knife steady with its burden of capon. ‘How magnificent you will be beneath the banner of Lancaster as you ride into battle. Can’t you feel the glory of it?’
His eyes locked on mine, his imagination caught. ‘By God, I can!’ he stated through a mouthful of bread and meat. ‘I agree, my dearest Anne. I will think of it after the joust. But first I must defeat this arrogant French lord who thinks he can best me. I’ll teach him, by God!’
Brushing crumbs from his doublet, he emptied the cup and seized his gauntlets from beside his plate. Any hopes I had collapsed as he rose and strode out without a backwards glance. I poured my own ale, disconsolate at the empty table. I had done all I could, but there was no guarantee that the Prince would even remember this conversation.
My words did not go unheeded. Edward did give my suggestion a passing thought. Unfortunately it all came to nought, except that the Queen locked me in my room with only myself for company for two whole days.
‘You have been speaking to my son about England. You will not do so. The decision is not yours to make. How dare you inveigle my son into going against my wishes? How dare you turn him against me? He is my son and I will not have you usurping my power over him. By what right—?’ Margaret’s lips closed like a trap, her face flushed with temper.
An impression, soft as goose-down, brushed my mind. It seemed to me a very female jealousy, of a woman who would keep her hold over a man. Then it was gone.
‘Your position at my Court is not beyond my power to dictate, Mistress Neville!’ Margaret continued after a moment. Her scorn scalded me. ‘You will learn that at your peril.’
