Yet he seemed to do well enough without her. The next definite news came from Crosby’s Place in Bishopsgate Street in his own hand; he had been confirmed as Protector, Parliament was to be summoned, and the coronation of his nephew would take place at midsummer. All was quiet, and he asked that Anne should leave with convenient speed to join him. She had not expected the summons so soon, and all her longing to be at his side evaporated. London, with its strident narrow streets, its mobs of uncouth apprentices and kennels choked with refuse. She remembered the winter fogs that poisoned the lungs, the humid stench of the summer. And Westminster, which was worse - the elegance, the smiling, the opulence, the treachery. She had spent so short a time there, so long ago, but she had forgotten nothing.
And then abruptly she came to herself. The messenger was still kneeling before her, a page was lighting the candles, Kat curled asleep in her lap, portly and pampered, and at her feet Katherine sat on a cushion, the Romance of the Rose open where she had broken off reading, her brown eyes fixed apprehensively upon her. All the ladies, arrested in their work as if some magician had turned them to statues, were gazing at her with the same expression. Why, she wondered, what is wrong? and simultaneously she saw that the letter from Richard, with his red boar seal broken, was crumpled up in her clenched fist. Her own fears must not be allowed thus to spread despondency through her household, and so she attempted a smile and addressed Katherine, although she made sure that everyone could hear.
‘My lord is well, and he has been confirmed as Protector.’ Her attendants relaxed, echoed her smile, and began to chatter over the resumed needlework. Kate only did not move, but continued to stare at her.
‘What else did my lord father write, madame?’ she asked. Anne began mechanically to caress the cat. Sometimes her foster daughter was too perceptive.
‘He has asked me to go south and join him.’
‘And will you go?’
‘Of course. He is my husband.’
‘What about ... us?’ The shadow of Katherine’s question fell over Anne’s mind, and forced her to acknowledge the real reason for her dread of going to London.
‘I don’t know, Kate. I haven’t decided.’ Richard had not mentioned their son in the letter; that issue he had made over to her before leaving Middleham. And it would have to be settled in the space of the next few days. Suddenly she rose, tipping Kat to the floor with an indignant little yowl.
‘Ladies, I must go to the chapel. You are released from any further duties this evening.’ At all costs she must escape from the accusing gaze of that pair of eyes which so reminded her of Richard’s. She wanted silence and solitude about her, but more than anything she wanted his presence, and his voice to tell her what to do.
As usual she had dismissed the matter from her mind, hoping vaguely that some miracle would render the decision unnecessary. Yet it had lain beneath the surface, influencing all her prayers, colouring all the hours in which she watched Edward, and talked with him, and thought about him. Except when he was displaced by his father, he had never been far from her thoughts since the day when she knew she was carrying a child. His rearing, his health and his welfare had been her personal care, not delegated to nurses and attendants; Richard had supervised his education instead of appointing a governor. There had been no question of his being sent away for training. The Prince of Wales, who had become King, had had his own establishment at Ludlow since the age of three; the vast majority of the sons of noblemen and gentlemen were transplanted to another household for their growing years. Their Edward was different. He should remain under his parents’ eyes, protected but not pampered, until he was old enough to fend for himself. And strong enough, was the unspoken phrase that hung over every discussion about his future. Meanwhile he had been on careful journeys to Pomfret, to York and Sheriff Hutton, but not for more than a week beyond his mother’s sight. To take him as far as London, or to leave him behind where she could not see him for maybe many months, was both ways an evil. Struggling to channel her thoughts into a logical progression, she could not envisage ever making up her mind.
Two days later she was still vacillating, and in danger of making herself ill from constant fruitless worry. Edward had ridden hawking up into Coverdale with his companions, and she happened to be by when they came back. A biting wind had been blowing from the east all morning, sweeping away the softness of spring. Anne clutched her cloak to her against another gust, and watched the boys dismounting. To be accurate she watched Edward dismounting. He handed his falcon to Peacocke, the groom who held his mare, and slid to the ground with the ease of a born horseman. But Anne observed what none of the others, grooms or henchmen, could see. As he touched the ground he pressed his hand to his side, hunching a little over the pain. Her heart lurched, and she restrained herself from running to him. In a moment he had recovered, straightening himself with a slight shake of the shoulders, and was taking his falcon from Peacocke in order to return it to the mews himself. He passed his mother, noticed her for the first time, ducked his head courteously and smiled at her. She tried to return the smile, although she was sure she could read in his expression the lingering of that brief pang.
Turning from the errand she was bound on, she went instead up to the chapel and stood for a long time staring at the stained glass St Anne who carried so carefully and so incongruously the nest of fledglings. A squall of rain was flung rattling against the east window like a shower of pebbles. Even in her cloak she was cold. Her decision was taken, and she sensed that it was really Richard’s decision, that he had left it to her only because he was sure of what she would do. If Edward suffered so from an expedition of a mere few hours, it would be madness to subject him to a journey of two hundred and fifty miles, especially in the wild weather that was paying for a calm beautiful April. And how would he fare in the plagues and bad airs of London? He would be upset, of course, at being left behind, but she would explain to him, and in the company of his friends, and the absorption of his strenuous routine, he would not grieve too much.
She must act at once before her resolution wavered. Genuflecting to the jewelled crucifix which she and Richard had presented, she left the chapel and traversed the short passage into the great hall. A few of her ladies were huddled round the unseasonal fire, although the smoke was blowing back from the roof-vent and rimming their eyes with red. Despatching one of them to summon Edward, she returned to her chamber. The women trailed after her, speculating in low voices on what was making their mistress behave in this strange abrupt way, when my lord’s fortune was made and she would soon be with him in London and the first lady in the land. When Edward came in, Anne had been sitting there for some time, nervously rehearsing the words she would use to break it to him. His hair had been tossed into disorder by the wind and gave him, with his sharp little nose, a faint likeness to a ruffled chick. Anne’s hand ached with the longing to reach out and smooth the soft fair down into place. She had done it so often when he was a baby, but to caress him now would be a breach of the rules she imposed upon herself. He was no longer a little boy, and must not be petted in public. So she asked, rather quickly, whether the hawking had gone well. Edward explained that the gale had prevented the falcons from stooping on their prey accurately, so they had not taken much.
‘But Yseult will come to my fist now without a lure,’ he added eagerly. The little falcon was his first hawk and he was very proud of her. ‘She rouses whenever I come into the mews, and she’ll take meat from my hand.’ Anne had always been a little wary of falcons, and did not really comprehend the close relationship that men built up with their favourite birds, but she knew what perseverance and nerve went into the breaking process, and praised her son as warmly as she could.
After that she could find no way to lead gently into her subject, so she said bluntly, ‘Ned, you have heard that your lord father has summoned me to London?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘We do not consider it wise to take you away from Middleham a
t present... with your training as it is...’ She wished she had the facility of words to make it sound less bald and formal. The boy was returning her worried gaze with his great grey eyes clear and calm; perhaps he had not yet understood. ‘It will only be for a time, until something better can be arranged. Meanwhile, all your friends are here, and the servants. And Kate is staying with you.’ That she said on impulse, realising as she spoke that she had counted on Katherine’s companionship for herself in London.
‘Yes, madame. Thank you,’ Edward replied cheerfully, and with scarcely a pause, ‘Do you suppose my lord father will remember that he promised me a puppy to train for hunting when his bitch Diana whelps? William says she’ll drop the pups any day now.’ Anne could not believe it. At first she thought he was putting a heroically brave face on his disappointment, and waited for the long mouth above the childish chin to tremble. Then he went on, more soberly, ‘I think Diana’s pining for Father. Will you tell him, madame, and remind him about the pup? When you’ve given him my humble duty, of course.’ It was several seconds before she could answer him, and promise to give his message to his father. Then she sent him away with an abruptness which she had never used to Edward before, and which afterwards troubled her conscience. For the present, she was hurt. By his careless acceptance of the decision that had cost her such heart-searching, he was rejecting her. He was concerned only with the acquisition of a dog, and unreasonably she blamed him for not taking the news harder.
The balance was redressed and tipped the other way when she asked Katherine to stay at Middleham and watch over her half-brother while she was away. The girl was upset both by the imminent parting from her adopted mother, and the idea of Edward’s being left at all. Although she agreed very willingly to Anne’s request, the older woman sensed that she disapproved of her abandoning her son. Katherine had grown up with a very firm set of principles; one was that the strong should always sacrifice themselves for the weak. And Anne could not begin to explain that the strong were sometimes not as strong as they seemed, that Richard’s need for her in London possibly surpassed her son’s need for her in Wensleydale. All the same, her wretchedness increased.
Soon after these two unhappy interviews, John Wrangwysh arrived at the castle, sent by Richard as an escort for the Duchess and incidentally for his own wife, who would be travelling with her. Anne was a little comforted, not only by the evidence of Richard’s care for her safety, but also by the closeness of the saturnine Yorkshireman’s friendship with him. From John at last she could hear the truth of the situation in London and its effect on her husband.
He was not a voluble talker, and even with Margaret’s experienced coaxing to help she elicited scarcely more information than she already possessed: the Duke of Gloucester worked from Crosby’s Place to set in smooth motion the wheels of government which had been snarled by his brother’s sudden death; the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Hastings worked with him; there was much coming and going about the coronation. Was my lord well? Yes, his health was very good. Where was the Dowager Queen? In sanctuary at Westminster, together with her daughters and her younger son. And the young King? In the royal apartments in the Tower. Were there any disturbances in London? No, everyone was going about their normal business. All satisfactory answers, and yet - perhaps it was sheer imagination on Anne’s part he was more reticent than he should have been. Her real questions remained unanswered. Torn between compulsion to reach Richard’s side as quickly as horse would carry her, and a heavy reluctance to leave her son and the blessed security of Middleham, she found herself at one moment urging on the preparations by sweeping aside petty complications, and at another inventing a hitch to slow them down.
But, inevitably, the day of departure was upon her. The packhorses, wagons, and other paraphernalia of a long journey were clogging the courtyard early on a May morning without promise of sun. Already tired from a broken night and rising at dawn, Anne did not feel at all prepared for the miles before her. The small escort of men-at-arms was mounted, the wagoners waited for the signal to move, and at the foot of the staircase to the keep the ceremony of farewell was taking place. So often before Anne had been the stay-at-home; it was strange and uneasy to be leaving herself. In order of precedence the castle officials, all known to her by name, wished her godspeed, then the attendants who were remaining, and then the henchmen and Katherine, who was taking her position of trust seriously and behaving with dignified restraint; the convulsive hug she had given Anne in her chamber this morning had not been for public eyes. Last, the Earl of Salisbury, who knelt to receive his mother’s blessing before embracing her, as he had the right to do. She could not think of what to say to him, except silly things like, Wrap up well in the evenings, don’t overtax yourself, don’t forget me. Before anything sensible came to her lips he had stepped back a little and was fumbling in his pouch. He handed her a small package, his cheeks dyed suddenly scarlet. Inside was a miniature crucifix, beautifully carved from rose quartz.
‘Master Bernall bought it in York. I wanted to give you a relic of St Anne, or one of your other saints, but there wasn’t time to find one. I hope you like it.’ He was talking fast, breathlessly, as if trying to postpone his mother’s comment on the gift. But all her comment was to take him again in her arms, the tears she had promised herself not to shed spilling over. Undemonstrative as he generally was, Edward res ponded fervently.
She could not remember afterwards whether she ever thanked him; only that he requested her to pray for his father while she was on the road, and to pray for him when she reached London, and at the last as she was helped on to her mare, ‘And, madame, you will ask my lord father about the pup?’ That only increased her tears, although she wanted to laugh as well, and there was the embarrassment of riding through the ranks of her servants and followers to the gatehouse, the mistress of Middleham and first lady of England, weeping like a foolish girl.
Her social commitments were an ordeal of endurance and memory. So many lords and ladies, all dressed in the latest fashions, which made them almost indistinguishable one from the other. Two she could not mistake, however, were Richard’s associates in the triumvirate of government. Lord Hastings she had encountered before, at the time of her wedding; now he was a vastly corpulent gentleman, his face a network of the little purple veins that are the mark of good living. Genial and gallant, he appeared far too frank for any subterfuge, simply the good fellow that everyone called him. Buckingham was of a different mettle. His urbane smiling expression might conceal any kind of thoughts, and the slight figure clothed in exquisite taste drew all eyes as if by right. Anne was captivated straight away by his perfect courtesy and beautifully modulated voice, as she was repelled by the aura of slight dissipation which hung about Hastings. Yet her earlier suspicions of the Duke were resurrected unaccountably when she noticed how Richard looked at him. She had seen before that unguarded admiration, and although she could not remember when, it spelt danger. And there was no doubt that there were tensions between the three, despite the efforts to present a united front. Her hypersensitive eye discerned a veiled malice between Hastings and Buckingham, and on Richard’s part, who was so much less experienced at dissembling, a wariness of his brother’s old boon companion.
He did not talk to her of them in their rare moments alone. Undoubtedly he was pleased to have her with him, but all the help and good advice she had planned to give him dwindled to sharing a hasty supper with him before his evening session of letter-writing with Kendall, and making love whenever they both had the energy. There was much on his mind, and she did not even like to ask him what it was. Her fears of inadequacy, long banished in the orderly routine of Wensleydale, returned to her.
One night the crease between his brows was deeper than before. He had not supped with her, but in private with the Bishop of Bath and Wells. Greeting her kindly, he asked how she had spent the day, but did not really listen to her answer. After a poor attempt at conversation he said he was going to bed. Anne could
see that he was preoccupied. and although the anticipation of their evenings together sustained her through the gruelling days, she accepted his goodnight kiss and tried not to be disappointed that he went no further. She woke several times during the night, and could tell from his imperceptible breathing and stillness that he was lying open-eyed beside her. At last she said, Richard, why can’t you sleep?’
‘There’s too much to think about. It is only at night that I have the leisure.’
‘Is it... my lord Hastings that troubles you?’ His head made a tiny sharp movement on the pillow.
‘No. Not Hastings.’ She thought he would say no more, but after a long pause he continued. ‘I must work it out in my own mind first, Anne. Will you bear with me? And try to sleep.’
‘Yes, my love, I’ll try.’ Obediently she turned over, but she found only uneasy dozes, drifting a short way into oblivion and always returning to the unnaturally quiet body beside her staring at the invisible tester of the bed. From one of these dozes she was roused by a hand on her shoulder and a light in her eyes.
Anne.’ Richard had lit the tallow dip on the shelf above them, and was raised on his elbow. ‘I must talk to you. I have considered very deeply, and I believe you have the right to know. It is your concern as much as anyone else’s.’ She dragged herself into a sitting position, and shivered in the before-dawn chill of the summer night. Her husband rose naked, and fetched her Indian silk wrap which he placed round her shoulders before finding his own bedgown. Anne noticed anew how thin he was - too thin, she thought, since leaving Middleham and all the time she was calm and quiet in spite of the monstrous dread that clawed at her. As if all his stillness had been used up he roamed the chamber, noiselessly on bare feet, and she lay and listened to him.
The White Queen of Middleham: An historical novel about Richard III's wife Anne Neville (Sprigs of Broom Book 1) Page 29
