Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  “Lord Stanley yes, your sister Eleanor’s young husband.”

  “Instead his forces were compelled to desert me because of Richard,” Warwick complained.

  Warwick and Clarence had created uprisings throughout Lancashire in an attempt to depose the King and place Clarence on the throne in his stead. Richard learned of their intentions, however, and raced to the aid of the King. He intercepted the surprised Lord Stanley as he was moving to meet with Warwick.

  Realizing his untenable position, Lord Stanley hastily sent word to Warwick that he could not support him. “I am ever thwarted by the Woodvilles and Richard,” Warwick lamented.

  Her Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, who had remained loyal to the King, thought Anne. She pined that her father had lost a crucial ally in Richard, and she became, consequently, further distanced from her Love.

  “An ingrate. Gloucester forgets the past easily,” continued her father.

  A harsh, bitter anger contorted the Earl of Warwick's handsome face. The planes of his cheeks flattened; his mouth stretched into a thin line. He believed he had the Duke of Gloucester on his side. Her father had raised Richard at the family castle, Middleham, in Yorkshire. A small dark-haired boy who'd even then had promising strength and purpose. And he was a loyal lad. He would have staked his life on that.

  He'd trained him, cherished him as his own son and watched the first blossoming of love between the young Duke and his daughter, Anne. By all the saints, he had liked the young man and became proud of him. For Richard was forged, even in those days, into a finer mettle than most men. He was never expedient. He could use such a man now, thought Warwick. The Earl’s anger turned inward, for he himself had forsaken steadfastness and trust in the pursuit of self-fulfillment.

  Anne swallowed. She recoiled at his anger. “I’m sorry, father.”

  “If the king had allowed you to marry him, my position would be vastly different,” he lamented.

  “I know.” The paternal anger hurt. “Richard but waited upon King Edward’s permission.”

  The fierce hate over his circumstance, bright as red coals, flamed in Warwick’s eyes. “England may as well have no ruler. Edward is unfit to be King.”

  She backed away, shaken. She’d met her cousin Edward once, when her father briefly held the reins of power, and kept him a prisoner at Middleham. He seemed to be a worthy King then. Anne shook the image from her mind. A child’s image. She glanced unhappily at her father. He had betrayed his King, not she. “I’m sorry father. It was not meant to be.”

  She knew her father’s love was there for one breath of time when he suddenly took her hand and smiled gently. “You are but a child, Anne. We will see. The future still holds promise for us.” He walked slowly away deep in thought, already full of new plans. He would once again bring another king to the throne. That Anne would play a part in his ambitious plans, she was yet unaware. She would be used, as had others to regain his power in the kingdom. His basic self-confidence was stirring again.

  Anne leaned against the coach. She felt fear. She heard her mother sobbing within the coach and Isabel’s low moans mingling with Ankarette’s assurances. Would her marriage to Richard have changed this? The cold seized her throat and body. Pain pounded her brow. But she cleared her head and climbed back into the coach. She realized that she must serve her family. All else was futile. She would strive with all her being to assure the success and fulfillment of her father’s dreams. While her Richard remained ever loyal to his brother the king, she would be steadfast in her devotion to her father.

  CHAPTER 2

  Warwick had found ships at Exeter on the northeast coast and barely escaped the pursuit of Edward and Richard charging down from Wells. The channel crossing had been long and hard, but they safely reached Calais, the last English possession on French soil. There, Wenlock, a friend who had visited with them often at Middleham, was in charge of the port. He would surely give them refuge. A fresh sea breeze filled the painted sails and whipped to life the Bear and Ragged Staff banner of Warwick.

  Anne shaded her eyes to better see the approaching harbor. Soon the sailors would pause and sing a hymn of thanks as they did the end of every voyage. Then the bells in the town would ring and cannons roar a salute. They would now be safe. She glanced at her father standing on the forecastle. His shoulders were thrown back; legs planted firmly, head high. She knew he thought of the glory days when he was Captain of Calais and a hero to all England.

  It was a pity Isabel wasn’t well enough to come on deck. She’d remember the Tower of Rysbank, which dominated the Calais harbor, and the castles of Hammes and Guisnes standing sentinel at the entrance just as they had seen them when very young. Calais was almost another home where she had spent many joyous childhood days. Here they could leave this forsaken ship, have good food, and sleep in comfort. Perhaps it would hasten Isabel’s recovery.

  Anne was suddenly startled by the thunder. Saltwater splashed onto the deck. The ship rocked. Such a small ship. They did not have enough time to get her father’s flagship, the Trinity, although a number of smaller craft with loyal men had joined them at Exeter. Thunder roared again and men scurried about. She knew after the second time there was no welcome to be had in Calais. The port was loyal to King Edward. They fired continuously upon the Warwick vessel. Suddenly, breathlessly, her mother was at her side. “No!” Anne could see puzzlement in her mother’s face but not fear. “No, it’s but an over-zealous welcome. John Wenlock, our friend, is in charge of the port.”

  Anne Beauchamp, Countess of York, had lived the past weeks in a surreal world she was unwilling to accept. At Calais she was to awaken to a living nightmare. Small and delicate, like her daughters, Anne Beauchamp had always been surrounded by vigorous, protective men, so she approached her middle years with a sense of peace and serenity. She never needed strength for more than the trivial, but she came of a proud bloodline and, somehow, found the stamina to say with calm reason, “It’s a mistake, you’ll see.”

  “They fired on us, mama.” Anne took her mother’s hand. “Let’s go below. Isabel may need us.”

  Anne Beauchamp stared down at her travel-stained dress. “Wenlock is a friend”, she repeated.

  “We’ve not been hit. Perhaps that is as much of a friend as he dares to be.” Anne could hear the straining of the tiller and rudder as the ship began to change position. “Please, mama, we should be below.”

  Below was a tiny, wainscoted cabin beneath the poop deck. The bunks were bone-crampingly narrow. Every creak of the tiller, every call to the helmsman, filled the tiny room with noise.

  Isabel lay on the best of the narrow bunks, her body bent, and knees drawn up. Ankarette was with her, wiping perspiration from Isabel’s forehead. “Her time has come,” she said. Ankarette had been part of the family since Anne’s infancy. The servant was as pale as her sister.

  “Are there wine, herbs? The pains seize Isabel. Often now, and hard.” Nausea and faintness gripped Anne. The sheets beneath Isabel’s hips were red with blood. Her sister had always been a delicate, dainty person, never meant for childbearing on a ship’s narrow bunk with cannon roaring.

  Isabel’s colorless lips quivered. “The pain. Please. Help me. I can’t bear it”, she moaned.

  Anne drew in her breath. She could feel her sister’s suffering. Isabel screamed in agony.

  “Wine,” Ankarette urged.” The pain must be eased.”

  “I’ll try.” Anne climbed to the deck.

  The ship had pulled back. Their escort ships had slipped even further toward the safety of the open sea. Her father’s face was flushed with fury. George of Clarence chewed on his lower lip. He looked sickly. A galley, boldly decked in Yorkist pennants, pulled alongside the ship and a Herald swung up the ladder. He was young, obviously uneasy, though he managed a minimal bow as he looked at some distant point over Warwick’s shoulder. He drew a rolled letter from beneath his tabard, and read the incredible news. By royal proclamation, which had arrived half a
day before, His Grace, King Edward, had ordered Calais closed to the Earl of Warwick. The Port of Calais was loyal to the King.

  Her father had winced as though struck broadside with a sword. His lips moved soundlessly. The short moment of stillness was broken by a thin cry of agony. Anne pushed Clarence forward. “Tell the Herald to bring some wine from Calais. Wenlock will allow it. Tell him your wife suffers in childbirth.”

  Clarence was limp, his voice whiney. “We need wine here, for my wife.”

  The Herald, too young to remember the glory days of the Earl of Warwick, grew smug. A renegade who relied on a lost reputation. He replied stiffly, “I am not authorized to bring any Supplies.”

  “You’re not in charge of Calais”, Anne said firmly. Desperation pushed her even as she was prodding George.

  “Sir Wenlock won’t treat us so. Ask him.”

  In the small area of the poop deck, Warwick moved closer. His hand gripped the Herald’s shoulder, straining the cloth. “We must have wine. Hasten.”

  The Herald attempted to shrug him off but faltered under the weight of that hand. He managed an ungracious bow. “As you say,” he muttered. He was down the ladder and into the eight-oared galley in one quick motion. The galley pulled away with pennants blowing.

  “May I see my wife, Anne?” George’s eyes were red-rimmed. A muscle twitched in his left cheek. He held a shaking hand on the sleeve of Anne’s dress. “Her screams are frightful.”

  Anne took his arm. “Perhaps for a moment. She’s very weak.”

  At the door of the cabin Ankarette, arms crossed, filled the narrow entrance. She regarded George coldly. “This is woman’s work, Your Grace.”

  George drew himself up as straight as the passage permitted. “Let me by, shrew. I’d see my wife at once.”

  Ankarette shrugged. “Then you must be strong as a woman, Lord.” You are weak and a fool, she thought in disgust. Her watchful hazel eyes regarded him with contempt.

  Roughly, George pushed her out of the way and, bending, entered the tiny cabin. Anne stood by the door. Isabel lay on her side amidst fouled sheets, which the Countess was attempting to change. Through dry, cracked lips her breathing became, spasmodic and animal-like. A blue vein pulsed sluggishly across her forehead, the only color in the puffy whiteness of her face. George took a deep breath, as did Anne, and they both choked on the stench of vomit and birth-blood. George put one hand forward to touch Isabel, then clutched his own stomach and fled.

  For a brief moment Anne felt a flicker of amusement and pity for George. She turned to her mother and Ankarette. “Wine has been ordered. I’m sure Wenlock will send some.”

  Her mother nodded. “Of course he will. John Wenlock is a friend,” she persisted. She looked about the small cabin and at Isabel. “I do not understand this day.”

  Ankarette unbound her hair under her coif. She was careful to tie no knots, which might jinx the child’s delivery. Then she opened the door of the cabin slightly. “Nothing must be sealed,” she whispered.

  Slowly Anne undid the plaits of her own hair. Ankarette was right. Anything that could help must be done. Now no breeze stirred in the scorched air. Anne’s hair clung damply to her neck and arms. She knew death was near. She smelled it in the blood, the heavy air, and the ship’s old timbers. She remembered a radiant Isabel attired in a gown of white velvet during the Yuletide season. It all seemed like a ghostly dream. She helped apply cool compresses to Isabel’s forehead and body, massage the muscles of her back, and moisten her lips with water.

  By the time wine arrived, Isabel no longer cried. Her face had become death-like gray with the sharp lines of the bones clear against the skin. Ankarette forced some wine between Isabel’s lips.

  “All will be well little lady,” the servant murmured. “I will be gentle.” Her figure, strong and protective, bent over Isabel.

  Isabel coughed on the wine. “The babe.” Her voice was a tiny whisper. “I know it’s dead. Not moved.... three days now.” She gasped, swallowed, and then arched her back in another spasm of pain.

  Ankarette leaned closer. “Forgive me dearest lady. I must hurt you so.” Then she gently relieved Isabel of her stillborn child. The strength of her will and resolve could not mask the deep hurt and inner torment Ankarette felt for the tiny babe and the frail mother.

  CHAPTER 3

  The babe had died but Isabel survived the ordeal, drifting in and out between a real world of pain and fantasy. “I dreamed it still moved within me. My baby. How I loved it so,” she murmured.

  Her mother and Ankarette consoled her. “There will be others. ‘Tis not your fault.” The Countess took out her rosary but just let the pool of coral beads lay in her lap.

  Anne prepared the child for burial. The tiny, whitened body, so perfect and still. There was a bit of blond fuzz upon the head, and she was sure the eyes, which would never open, were blue. She was not repulsed by this tiny, dead thing, but performed the ritual in numbness. Gently she wrapped the babe in a piece of Isabel’s petticoat, covering it completely except for one miniature hand lying upon the folds. She looked questioningly at her sister, wondering if Isabel would like to see her child; but the young woman had drifted into a restless sleep, and Ankarette shook her head.

  “It’s better a mother not see a still-born child,” she whispered.

  So Anne took the tiny bundle and climbed to the deck. It was evening now and a breeze pulled at her skirts and unbound hair. The sun hung low and red on the rim of the ocean, turning the water to rippling flame. She stood there with the dead babe and tried to accept that this child would never see the light of a new day or know one brief smiling moment. He would never experience a gentle kiss or soft lullaby. But he had been loved. Loved by Isabel while he lived within her; loved by all as the promise of a new generation. And his brief being had given joy to Isabel until the end. Now, though unbaptized, he was surely with the angels. Gently, Anne kissed the small, cold hand. “Little, unnamed boy,” she prayed, “May the angels sing you your lullaby.”

  Late that night, while Isabel slept, two sailors lowered the tiny body over the side. Anne stood by a sobbing George. Unthinking of Isabel, through his drunken breath, he cursed at his fate. The child was to have been his prince and heir. Warwick, head bowed, watched the small form sink into the waves. His grandson-to-be. The Countess wept and made the sign of the cross pledging special prayers every April. Below in the cabin, watched over by Ankarette, Isabel slept unaware. Now Anne, her lips as cold as the baby’s hand, allowed the sadness she had held at bay to escape and fill her. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she watched the child slide into the depths of that endlessly rocking cradle.

  Anne was on deck when they arrived at the French port of Honfleur on the north coast of Burgundy where her father had diverted his ship when his attempt to land at Calais was thwarted. Although the Count of St. Pol, governor of the Burgundy region, was the uncle of King Edward’s spiteful Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, strangely, this time there was no challenge. Sea gulls circled and squeaked above. A snatch of music drifted across the harbor from a tavern near the docks, followed by singing and the resounding thump of the tabor, much as it would surely be in her beloved England in the spring.

  “Well, daughter, do you find the scene pleasing?” Anne was startled. Both her father and George had joined her at the rail. They were finely dressed. The chain about Warwick’s shoulders was worth a fortune, a Burgundian fortune. George sported a handsome medal in his plumed hat. Treasures of past raids on the French.

  “Yes. I will be relieved when we land.” She did not show her bewilderment. Warwick looked exhilarated, a man about to start a great new venture.

  George obviously did not share his euphoria. “Louis of France won’t be glad to see our ships here in St. Pol’s domain.” Warwick smiled. “Though Louis despises Burgundy and its ruler, Duke Charles, Louis will permit it. I have his word on it.” Unknown to the others, the conspiring Warwick had already made overtures to King Louis XI.


  “And the Treaty of Péronne between King Louis and Duke Charles?” George chewed nervously on his lip.

  Her father widened his arms expansively. “King Louis doesn’t rule France by being tied to unfavorable treaties. I will propose a tempting plan. No, call it an Enterprise, an Enterprise to regain England.”

  Anne turned away. She knew nothing of treaties and only a little of Louis. The French King was a much feared but respected man. And her father’s ambitions worried her. She climbed down to their cabin then paused, for George had followed her. In the dim light his face was creased with disappointment. Once again pity for George stirred in Anne. “George, are you all right? We’re soon to land.”

  “It all means nothing to me. I’m no longer in the plan of things. I’m no longer assured a crown.” He pressed his hands against his head as though to block out the thought. “Damnation! Did I give up everything for naught?” Clarence, too, schemed to occupy the throne of England. By taking Isabel as his wife and aligning himself with the powerful Warwick, her father, he was fantasizing a means to the throne. Warwick would surely take the opportunity again to place him on the throne as next in line to his brother Edward, he reasoned. He would want his daughter, Isabel, as Queen to secure a line of heirs and expand his powers.

  “I have forsaken my kin and sacrificed my inheritance to seek my rightful position. I am more suitable than Edward to be King,” Clarence whined. “The crown should be mine.”

  Anne and Anakarette exchanged glances and their eyes told them that they hoped this would never be so. They knew that his temperament would likely only worsen with power. They pulled away from him imagining such a day with dread.

  CHAPTER 4

  Warwick finally debarked at Honfleur and rested his family in a white plastered nunnery in the city. A statue of the Virgin Mary smiled sweetly down on them. There were summer flowers on the tables. Roses, white roses for York, Anne thought to herself. Warwick decided that now was the time to reveal his grand plan to his daughter to regain the throne of England. He explained his great new adventure to his daughter, pacing about the small parlor as he spoke. George had indeed guessed the truth closely enough. The Enterprise of England would not include a crown for him.