Virgin Widow

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Do you think there will be a battle?’ I knew there would—all common sense pointed in that direction—but I would encourage him to talk rationally about his plans.

  ‘A battle? Yes, of course there will.’ He grinned, a sudden and charming revelation. The sullen boy had gone, replaced by the handsome knight as he closed his hand over mine where it rested on the wood. ‘What an omen this will prove to be, Anne. We land at Easter. A sign of God’s blessing, I’m certain. Tomorrow on Easter Day we will observe High Mass to give thanks for His endeavours to bring us to this place. Then on to London and at last—once and for all—see the end to York. There will be no more resurrections of Yorkist power, I promise you.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He dragged his gaze from the spot where our ship would put into port within the half-hour to glance down at me. ‘I shall expect to meet up with Warwick and his forces, of course. The Earl will stand beside me on the steps of Whitehall.’

  ‘I know.’ How to put it? ‘When you have taken London—what then? What of your father? Will he wear the Crown again?’

  Prince Edward’s face darkened as he looked off, over my shoulder in the direction of London, as if he could see across the miles to where his father was once again in Yorkist hands and consigned to a room in the Tower of London.

  ‘I think not.’ He frowned. ‘His treatment of the Woodville woman suggests he’s lost all ability to determine friend from foe. To assign a midwife to her, and pay a London butcher to supply her and her household with half a beef and two muttons a week is beyond my comprehension. Much better to send her and her newly born bastard of a son—and all the foul daughters—to the scaffold. That’s what I should have done.’ As ever his violent thirst for blood brought me up short. ‘I shall be Regent and I shall wield the power in his stead if need be. And then, when the time comes—I shall be King. And you, my wife, will be at my side as my Queen.’

  So for now I was restored to a state of grace, until some other matter reminded him of my questionable allegiance. I remained wary, and stood motionless beside him as the sails were lowered, until he turned as if aware of me once more.

  ‘You are very quiet.’

  I glanced at him, weighing my response, finding none that I cared to make to him.

  ‘Do you fear for your mother? Ships often go astray and founder, with all lives lost,’ he observed, callously indifferent, watching for my reaction. Edward had a well-honed nose for distress in others.

  And I gasped at his careless cruelty. For it was true. The fear, almost paralysing when I allowed it, did prey on my mind. Strong winds had driven our ships apart and we had lost sight of the one carrying the Countess. In my heart I prayed, as I had every night, every morning, that the vessel had not foundered.

  ‘They might have put into a different port,’ I ventured, and crushed my fear beneath my silkdamask bodice.

  ‘Perhaps.’ But Edward had again turned his attention elsewhere. ‘Look!’ He gestured with his arm at the bustle on the quay, the seagulls that swooped and dived with wild cries, at the muddle of horses and men that awaited us under the proud banners and pennons of Lancaster. ‘This is mine. My realm, my people and I have not seen it for seven years. How the sun bathes it in light.’

  Indeed it did. Cool, pale, spring sunshine flooded it. A good omen, as he had said. I refused to allow the blood-smeared images of my dreams to creep in and spoil this return. It should be a moment for rejoicing.

  ‘I will pray for your success, my lord. Perhaps we should drink to it.’ I offered him the still untouched wine.

  ‘What an exceptional wife you will be.’ Heavy with irony, the Prince took the cup with a feral baring of teeth—a baseless fraud of a smile—and lifted it to his lips. Then halted, the silver rim almost touching his mouth. He frowned, lowered it, peering into it. ‘No. I won’t.’

  ‘Why not, my lord?’ I did not at first read his reaction.

  ‘You might poison me.’

  I was stunned. ‘Do you think I would?’ This incredible volatile switch of mood. I should be used to it by now. And what a depth of distrust.

  ‘You might.’ Lifting his arm, he tossed the cup far overboard into the water. We both watched the ruby contents fan out into a wide arc of droplets with the force of his arm, until they spattered on to the surface of the waves. ‘Who knows what you might do, if Gloucester asked it of you? Not worth the risk, is it, madam Princess.’

  So my presumed crime still occupied the Prince’s thoughts. How dared he accuse me of so foul a deed. I felt anger begin to bubble through my blood.

  ‘I would never threaten your life!’

  ‘No? But then, I’ll not give you the chance, madam!’

  Before I could vent my fury at his capricious accusation the Prince marched off to oversee the disembarkation, leaving me with thoughts that churned and jostled, none of them happy ones. We had returned and with that would come battle. Battles brought death. My father had been abandoned by Clarence, and Richard would be somewhere in the enemy ranks. My mother’s whereabouts were unknown. The Prince was beyond my managing. Whatever the future held, today I would set my foot on English soil. So would Prince Edward, the hope of Lancaster—and then there would be no more waiting.

  Chapter Twelve

  I ENTERED the Abbey church by the south door from the cloistered walk, Beatrice beside me, hoping to slip in without notice.

  We were settled into Cerne Abbey. It would not be for long, God willing, as the Queen informed my lord Abbot. She had experienced the brutal thorns of the Lancaster rose. Now with her son at her side she would anticipate its glorious blossoming. The years of suffering were over.

  My heart was not in the rejoicing. How could it be when there was still no news of the Countess? I forced myself to cling to the belief that her ship had put into a different port and even now she was travelling to meet up with us. I could not eat. Could not sleep. So I felt unnaturally weak and light-headed as I entered the Abbey to join the Queen for Holy Mass on that Easter Monday morning.

  Mass had already begun. If I could kneel in the cool dimness, in God’s presence, would I not find some reassurance? I saw the Queen and the Prince kneeling far ahead in the Chancel, the Abbot about to raise the Host before the altar. Stepping forwards into the centre of the nave, I watched the ceremony unfold. It was distant, almost unreal, as the light from the great east window was sufficient to glint and sparkle on the silver and gold of the precious vessels, on the Abbot’s ceremonial cope. I felt my heartbeat slow and a calm spread through me. When the Abbot’s voice, sure and true, began the Latin cadences I felt an inner surge of hope. It was all timeless, all familiar. In that moment I believed entirely that my mother was safe and would join us at Cerne. All would be well. Surely all would be well.

  With a lifting of spirits I would have walked forwards to pray with fervour.

  From behind me, a shaft of sunlight, sharp as an arrow, angled across the floor to trap me in its brilliance as the great west door was opened a little way. Three men not of our household entered in haste, to stride past me with barely a look, brushing me with their muddied garments, marching the length of the nave to stand before the Queen who had risen to her feet on their approach. The whole focus in the Abbey suddenly changed. Even the Abbot fell silent, turning his head. The messengers fell to their knees before the Queen. I saw the conversation ebb and flow. It lasted no more than a minute yet seemed to stretch out for ever.

  Then feverish activity. The figures shifted and reformed into a different pattern, a ripple like wind over water. The messengers fell back, their task complete. The plainsong halted as if God had struck the singers dumb and the monks abandoned the choir stalls in disarray. A hum of tension rose, muttered words, whispers. In the centre of it all stood the Queen and the Prince together, now moving from chancel to nave, towards me. The Queen’s voice rang out, sharp with emotion.

  I was drawn forwards by some terrible foreboding. Margaret looked at me, e
yes wide and strangely blank. Cold dread deepened in my belly.

  ‘You will want to know.’ Her voice rang, clear as the abbey bell.

  ‘My mother?’ It was my first thought, my first fear. The ship had foundered and she was lost to me. ‘No, not that,’ I whispered. ‘Tell me that she is safe.’

  Margaret gave a sharp inhalation of breath. ‘Of what interest is the fate ofWarwick’s wife to me? This is far worse…a disaster beyond all imagining. A terrible reversal.’

  ‘What could be worse? I don’t…’

  ‘All our planning is in disarray…’

  ‘Just tell her, madam!’The Prince was beside me, taking hold of my forearm, fingers hard, and shook me. Startled, I gasped with the sudden bite of pain. ‘The Yorkists have defeated us in battle. Warwick is dead.’

  No! No!

  My lips framed the word, but no sound came. I shook my head as if the action would deny the Prince’s brutality. ‘No!’ This time I forced it from my lips.

  ‘Yes. At—’ He swung round impatiently to the messenger. ‘God’s wounds! Where was it? Where was it that all my hopes soaked with Warwick’s blood into the ground?’

  ‘Barnet, my lord.’

  It was as if I heard the words, but could make no sense of them as they rattled and echoed within my skull. The Earl dead? My father? But he had such skills in battle. He could not have lost his life in some obscure battle, and not without my being aware of such a loss. And surely, with all their shared past stretching back over a decade, with the bloodshed, the loss of family, and the glory, surely Edward of York would not seek the death of my father? The pain of the Prince’s fingers around my arm was nothing compared to this. It stole my breath. It throbbed in my head.

  ‘No. You must be wrong.’ I looked from one to the other, my eyes feverishly seeking a different truth from the Queen or the messenger.

  ‘Warwick is dead.’ A bald confirmation from the Queen. ‘This man saw it.’

  The messenger bowed. ‘It is true, lady.’

  ‘He will tell you in what ignoble manner the Earl died!’ Margaret spat.

  ‘The battle was over, lady, lost.’ The messenger spoke carefully, measuring his words. ‘The Yorkists held the day. The Earl tried to take a horse and escape.’

  ‘Coward!’ hissed the Prince. ‘To run from battle when there was still a chance. Damn Warwick! Foul traitor! How could he have allowed the Yorkists to take the advantage? All is lost. Is it not true that he abandoned his men? That he would have fled to Calais, abandoning our cause?’

  ‘So it is said, my lord.’

  ‘He should have negotiated, come to some terms to save his army. Now they are all lost to us, those who escaped routed and leaderless. Warwick was not worthy of my trust…’

  I could no longer listen to the Prince’s ranting. ‘There can be no doubt? That the Earl my father is dead?’ The voice was not mine. The lips that spoke them not my lips. I felt as if my whole body was suspended in some strange weightlessness so that I could not feel or think or make sense of what pressed in on me.

  ‘No, lady. King Edward made sure there would be no doubts. The Earl’s body was stripped naked of his armour…and taken to London. So he might be displayed in a public place.’ The messenger must have seen the blood drain even more from my face and continued rapidly, to tell the news as quickly as he might. But nothing could lance the pain of the telling. ‘He was placed so that all might see and know that the Earl did not survive.’

  The Prince drew his sword in a glittering rush, light spilling along its blade.

  ‘My lord!’ the Abbot expostulated.

  But the Prince was deaf to him as he advanced up the Chancel almost pushing the Abbot from his path. Reaching the altar he knelt there, laid his sword there, and placed both hands on the festive altar cloth. Flinging back his head, he almost shouted the words so that all in the vast building would hear.

  ‘I swear, on Christ’s risen Body, that I will hunt down this scum of York who would still deny me my rights. I will not rest until the crown is mine. God will seal the blade of my sword with His power, so that I may spill the Yorkist blood and take my revenge in His name.’ His voice grew harsh with fury. ‘I call down Almighty God’s vengeance on those who bear the name of Neville. For Warwick has surely damaged my cause beyond repair!’

  Leaving the glimmering blade on the altar, the Prince stalked back towards us, face vivid with purpose. A true dramatic piece of mummer’s work as ever I saw, to draw attention, to put himself at the centre of the scene. To gild himself in his mother’s eyes. And in that moment I despised him. I hated him with every beat of the blood through my body and I would never forgive him. To make that conceitedly grand gesture on the dead body of the Earl, with never a thought of me, of my loss. When it was necessary for him to walk past me he did so as if I did not exist—as perhaps I no longer did for him. I was nothing but the encumbrance his mother had branded me. I had been taken as his bride for a purpose, a purpose that no longer existed. The Earl was dead and his use—and mine—at an end.

  ‘Edward! My son! Control your anger…’ The Queen thrust out her arm to stop him as he strode past her, but he was beyond that. She could not control him.

  ‘No!’ the Prince shouted, his voice echoing in the vast space. ‘My cause is ruined. And you have tied me to this—’ he pointed an accusing finger ‘—to this whore!’

  A monster I had called him when he had killed my finches. I did not then know the half of it. Today I had seen the beast in him. I watched the Prince in my distress, seeing my future life spread out before me, all degradation and slights to bring me low. Should I even fear for my life? Lack of sleep, lack of food, and now this impossible tragedy had their effect. Darkness clouded my sight and I could not breath, yet the cloying scent of the incense was intolerably sweet. The fluttering of an imprisoned pigeon became loud in my ears as the Queen’s stark face and the Prince’s twisted features wavered and swam. I tried to lift my hand, to take hold of some firm support, but there was nothing…An engulfing cold touched my limbs and I fell to the floor.

  When conscious thought returned I was lying on my own bed. I lay still, absorbing the silence, until what had occurred in the Abbey church struck home like a mailed fist. I knew not who had brought me there, but it did not matter. Opening my eyes, I saw that Beatrice was with me, seated by the window. I could not tolerate her presence, spy as she was for the Queen. I turned my face to the wall so that she would not see my distress.

  Warwick is dead.

  My father. Gifted with skill and talent, outrageously proficient in battle and in diplomacy, and yet he lay dead and cold somewhere in London, his body defiled for all to see. His name was known and acknowledged throughout the land, some with hatred, some with admiration, but all with respect. He had wielded a sword, held power, had negotiated terms and settlements since coming of age well before his twentieth year. How could such a charmed life be snuffed out with no cataclysmic reaction? I tried to bring his face and figure to mind as I had seen him last when he left to prepare for this futile invasion, damned from the start by Margaret’s procrastination and lack of trust. Now all was lost and Warwick’s body lay in an open coffin to be mocked by those who would.

  I could not accept it. Would not! He could not have been a coward to flee the field, to abandon his men to their fate, whatever the Prince claimed. Yet the messenger had confirmed the accusation. And how could Edward—King Edward—have allowed his death? Had he truly forgotten all he owed to his friend and cousin? Had my father’s betrayal wiped out all affection?

  My mind detoured into even less pleasant waters. If King Edward was in the mood for revenge, had he allowed the Earl’s body to be desecrated? And where was it now? For all I knew it had been dismembered, the significant parts hacked and spiked on gates and bridges in London as warnings to those who would disobey. I turned my face and groaned into my pillow. I could not think of it.

  ‘Some wine, lady.’

  Beatrice had risen
quietly and come to my side with a cup. I did not even bother to respond, to reply.

  ‘It is God’s will,’ she murmured. ‘We must accept such pain.’

  ‘No, it is not.’ I would never accept it.

  For there was the other dreadful image luring me on. What of my mother? If she was alive, did she know? Had she had some premonition that the farewell at Angers was to be their last? I did not know how she would survive this devastating news. Husband dead, one daughter firmly anchored to Lancaster, the other dragged willy-nilly into the train of York by a self-serving husband. How would she survive such isolation?

  An insistent throbbing of my forearm caught my attention at last, and I looked down, surprised to see the bruising. I brushed my hand over the tender skin and winced. And remembered. The Prince’s anger had again destroyed all his control towards me and I knew that my mother was not the only one to face a lonely uncertain future. I pulled my sleeve over the cruel prints to hide the evidence, but I could not hide my fears. Despair walled me in and I wept. Deep sobs that shook me, regardless of Beatrice’s presence. I did not care that she knew of my grief. I did not care.

  At last I must have slept.

  Ten days we remained at Cerne as the army beyond the Abbey’s protective walls grew. The days were endless now, in a cold and subtly hostile environment from which there was no escape for me. The Prince was gone for much of the time, recruiting, interviewing, building the army that would take him to London. His energies were enormous and allconsuming. He left at dawn, not returning until after dusk, snatching a mouthful of bread and meat as and when he could. This was what he had waited for all his life, to reclaim his inheritance. Now, within sight, he would stop at nothing to achieve it.

  Left to my own devices, I met and spoke with everyone who came to the great door. Every traveller who sought sanctuary, every messenger who came to report to the Queen. Every sick and desperate beggar who limped or hobbled to enjoy the monk’s charity. Anyone who might have news of the Countess. I was a ghost, haunting the entrance and the walls that gave me a clear view of the road.