Anne was eager to learn more of her adversaries. “And what of Margaret of Anjou? I have heard of such terrible things of her.”
Anne’s mother lay on the wide bed. She seemed exhausted beyond words but was willing to continue. “I have never seen her personally, daughter. She came to England as a bride to King Henry at the age of fifteen. Lovely, very fair, very stubborn. When she eventually bore King Henry a son, Prince Edward, the King’s wits were already addled.” Her mother then smiled faintly. “He declared that the child must have been fathered by the Holy Ghost. Edward grew up on Margaret’s hatred, obsessed with killing and war.”
Anne’s mother turned on her side, gazing into a distance beyond the grim walls. “Margaret ruled at Westminster through King Henry. Her government was faction-ridden and corrupt. She and her Lancastrian supporters controlled Parliament. The land was ravaged because of scant Lancastrian support by its owner, or simply for sport. No one was safe. She executed her enemies unmercifully, including kin of your father. England became an island floating in the blood of human souls. It was your father, with the young Duke of York, now King Edward, who engaged her in battle and drove her into exile. As you know, she hates us all and will resist any attempt at an alliance with the Nevilles, through your father, and a marriage between you and her son.”
Anne sat down beside her mother on the bed. The spread was made of rough wool. The canopy overhead sagged. She was heartened by her mother’s comment about the marriage to Prince Edward, since it reinforced her own feelings about such impossibility. If her mother could see the folly of it all, surely her father could also. But she had to know more of this king who had such sway over her father. “And King Louis, mother?”
Her mother’s eyes closed in contemplation. “Ugly, clever, so brilliant. Loyal only to France. Queen Charlotte has just borne him a dauphin so no doubt his mood will be mellow for a few days.” She shifted again. “No one really knows Louis. He is a very complex person who uses his persuasive charm to achieve his aims.”
Anne nodded thoughtfully. There was power here in this old fortress. The power of a man who does not have to display it. Would my father be able to deal with this man, she wondered? Was this French king not simply using my father and the Lancastrians to stir up trouble in England? Civil war in England was always beneficial to France. She shifted uneasily trying to sort it all out. She stood by the window and watched the hazy sunset. “We shall all be at dinner tonight, mama, I would give anything for some perfume.”
Her mother’s voice had a touch of the familiar motherly tone. “It will matter not. You look so lovely in that fine blue silk dress. Let me comb out your long beautiful hair.”
CHAPTER 7
That evening, Anne and her mother were escorted into the Royal dinning room. The table was large and elegantly set. Above, hundreds of candles blazed in a heavy chandelier, creating lovely patterns of light and shadow, but making the air oppressively hot. The various courtesies and introductions were made by King Louis and, with a casual movement of his hand, waved everyone to their seats. Anne sat in the chair designated for her, aware that all were scrutinizing her every move. Now the plotters are all here in my presence, thought Anne. She sensed that she was the center of their attention and surveyed each of the antagonists with mild contempt.
Her father had a guilty countenance, which reflected his actions the previous day. Yet unknown to Anne, he had shamelessly bartered his soul and the person of his daughter in a council with King Louis and Margaret of Anjou. In the arrangement with Louis, he would garner all the resources of France to invade England as an ally to Louis. In the arrangement with Margaret, he would govern England through her husband, Henry, after he was freed from the Tower and crowned King once again. Anne could sense her father’s guilt as well as the self-gratifying pleasure he revealed in his false grin.
King Louis the Eleventh of France sat restlessly in his chair. He was a homely man, hawked-nosed, and dressed in a mixture of shabbiness and wealth. Anne could see stains and patches on his clothes, the clothes of a tradesman. Behind his chair lurked a hunchback who she knew must be his barber-surgeon, Olivier the Devil. Olivier was even more ugly than Louis and, in a grotesque way, a reflection of his master.
Louis, in his mixture of old clothes, patches and jewels seemed unaware her father was bedecked like a king by comparison. He was dressed in the finest silks and leather; his sleeves slashed with cloth of gold. Anne was taken by Louis’ apparent smugness. Anne did not know that the cause of his smugness was the inward congratulation of himself for finally charming Margaret to align herself with Warwick, assuring him that a treaty between England and France to aid his cause against Burgundy, was imminent.
Anne then took a deep breath and caught the fierce gaze of Margaret of Anjou. She wore black as if in mourning. Her son, Prince Edward, sat beside her with a leering grin on his face. In profile, she could see in Margaret the lost beauty, the delicate sculpture of her face, the tilt of her chin. How she must hate to look at herself and see the lines criss-crossing that fine-boned face. Her cheeks were colorless and her lips were compressed, perhaps to suppress her evil, inner thoughts. Anne trembled at the sight of Margaret’s reddened eyes. Though no words were exchanged, her looks told all.
If Anne could read Margaret’s mind, she would learn that Margaret was gloating because even though she was persuaded to align herself with Warwick to place her husband Henry on the throne again, she had saved her pride by making Warwick grovel on his knees for a seeming eternity, begging her forgiveness in front of King Louis for all the woes she received at his hands. This act of humiliation was to be repeated in public at Westminster.
But Margaret still burned with hatred at the thought of her son wedded to the frail worthless wench across the table. Her warped mind whirled with glee at the plan she had in mind to keep this from happening. Anne, knowing Margaret’s past, could almost guess at what evils this wicked woman was capable of, and looked away. The food was served. Thick heavy slabs of meat. Anne stirred her meal about with her fork. The sauce was sickeningly rich. The tines of the fork made little designs in the food. She wondered if Louis could see her plate from the other side of the table.
Evidently the King could. “You do not eat, Mademoiselle. Try the pate de paques. It is excellent. Or do you save your appetite for meringues and tarts?”
Anne was the only Mademoiselle present. “I am not hungry, Your Grace.” The following silence was terrible. No one helped her. “I am journey-weary.”
“As is most natural.” Louis smiled affably. “You will be comfortable while here at Angiers. I will see to it. I consider myself your guardian, Mademoiselle.”
Anne felt that the King was still trying to impress her father by offering this invitation. She glanced at her father. He smiled at her as though the horrible time at Honfleur had never been. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Anne made a desperate effort to be polite, swallowed a lump of something, and washed it down with a great gulp of wine.
For a few moments there was an exchange of polite conversation between Anne’s parents and Louis. Duke Réne chuckled to himself and complimented everyone present in a series of elaborate pleasantries. Prince Edward muffled a snide comment about “tasty meat,” referring to Anne. Louis’ beatific cheerfulness expanded still more. He spread his heavily jeweled hands upon the table. “Lady Anne, you must come to Tours sometime after you are married. Charlotte and I keep our Court there. We will make you and your husband most welcome.”
In shock, Anne did not answer. My marriage, it must be all settled then, she realized. Her father watched her carefully, as no doubt so did everyone. She bent over her plate. She told herself that she must eat this wretched meal or talk. She could not talk.
Louis went on, expansive, soothing. His voice was rich, almost mellow. “I have some fine bolts of creamy silk cloth, much finer than that over which my cousin of Burgundy is fretting since this past spring. There is one piece in particular; it is known as ‘Lively Gh
ost.’ Charlotte tells me that it was woven so that the threads run in such a way that the material seems to change color. A most bewitching favorite with the ladies, or so my wife assures me. Would you, and you too, Madame,” his smile included Anne’s mother, “honor me by accepting it? Dresses can be made in a few days.”
“Your Grace is most kind.” Her mother spoke evenly. “We accept with pleasure.” She stared at Anne. “Do we not, dear?”
“Yes, thank you.” Anne tried to smile and could not. The minstrels had begun to play soft, French songs, certainly love ballads. Old Duke Réne absently tapped his fingers to the music.
Louis continued, “Perhaps you would favor a jewel, too, Mademoiselle. Perhaps a ring fit for a future queen.”
He is trying to impress me, Anne thought in wonderment. His mouse-gray hair hung limply about his jutted chin. “Your Grace is very kind.” A cold dizziness crept through her. She knew that these offerings of silk and jewels were all for her wedding. Suddenly she rose. I must not faint or be sick, she vowed to herself. “May I be excused, Your Grace? I am so tired.” She grasped the table and could feel the chill dampness on her cheeks.
“Of course, child.” Louis smiled still. “Olivier here will see you to your chamber and have someone attend you.”
She moved quickly, the sickness grew. In the corridor, she sank to the floor and rested her head on her knees.
Olivier bent over her like a gargoyle. “Keep your head down Mademoiselle and the ill humor will pass. The air is fresher here.”
His voice seemed a long way off, guttural, yet somehow gentle. I will cry when I am alone, Anne thought. It will be good to be alone.
CHAPTER 8
Olivier dutifully directed Anne to her room. She could not understand the rapid, slurred French he directed at the serving ladies. They were frightened and defensive. Apparently he was not pleased at the room assigned to Anne. Anne thought the chamber elegant. Bright tapestries hid the walls; the rushes on the floor were new and sweetened by flowers, the bed pillows scented with lavender. Perfumed candles burned in the iron wall brackets. Yet Olivier cursed the women, something about the curtains Anne thought, and the words “future Queen of England” drifted in the perfumed air. Anne straightened. Nothing would be too good for a future queen. No kindness too much. The possibility comforted her, somewhat.
Later, tired beyond fatigue, Anne tried to sleep. Bought and sold by her own father into a lifetime of bondage under Margaret of Anjou. Margaret would never forget or forgive her for being Warwick’s daughter, chosen to be wed to her son. Anne was upset that all was decided, but was warmed by the thought that tonight, probably not far away in this dark castle, her mother slept in the comfort of her father’s arms. She would ask no questions. Her father promised to make everything right once more, and that would be enough. Anne turned in the darkness. The night was hot. The stone walls had absorbed heat all day and now released it in humid waves. Somewhere in the far distance there was summer thunder. Somewhere, even further, her England.
Anne shivered in a tightening grip of dread. Never will this strange land, now sheltering the banished Lancastrians, be anything but an exile. She wanted to flee into the shadows, away from the terrible forces gathered together in this castle, scheming to rule England. She could not move. Time had stopped in the darkness, trapping her in this place. Fear had slammed the door to any action. Helpless, ensnared as a tiny insect in the web woven by her father, Margaret, and King Louis. They each played their own game. And she was their pawn.
Anne thought back to dinner at Louis’ endless, gentle bribing; her father’s indifferent silence; Margaret sitting in resentful aloofness; Prince Edward’s lecherous glances; and the Duke apparently oblivious to everything. Too much had happened to him to care any longer. She wondered if the minstrels had sung love songs for her. Love songs! She drew on her memories for strength. She’d been loved. At Middleham. On a summer day, Richard had woven her a crown of clover, jeweled with yellow celandine. They’d frolicked among the purple thistles of cool Yorkshire. At Warwick Castle, Richard had spoken shyly of his love for her and vowed marriage someday. Neither planned any further. They were children, innocents, and all knowing. Now an older Anne realized they knew nothing. She closed her eyes. She must sleep.
There was a flicker of light in the darkness. Anne turned expecting her mother. But the woman who approached her had red-rimmed eyes shining through the shadow of her face.
“God’s mercy!” Anne pulled the bedclothes about her. It was a demon, a ghost wandering its ancient haunt. Frantically, she crossed herself.
But the voice was human. “So, daughter of Warwick. Didn’t you know I’d come? Sniveling, puny wench”
Horror alerted Anne’s body. She knew her tormentor now, and sat up holding the sheets about her. “Madame, do not frighten me so. In God’s truth, I have no choice in what happens within these walls.”
Margaret laughed a bitter, mocking laugh. “Do not insult me. You yearn to be queen to my prince someday.” The candle came closer to Anne’s face. “Well, I come to have my revenge on your father who, with Yorkist Edward, has kept me in exile these past nine years and deprived my son of his inheritance. He has taken my husband’s crown as well.” She bent over Anne who could smell the sweaty flesh and the stink of decaying teeth.
“You are mistaken, Madame. My father would have me wed Prince Edward so that he may have heirs when he inherits the crown from your husband, King Henry.”
Scornful, putrid words burned against Anne’s face. “Your father and I may have betrothed you to my son in the cathedral, but you will not live to consummate the marriage.” Her oath on the relic of the holy cross-meant nothing to this evil woman. “Your body is not worthy to bear Edward’s heirs. Warwick only wants you to wed with the Prince to keep the Nevilles in a position of power in the Kingdom.
Do you know, daughter of Warwick that your father groveled on his knees in the presence of King Louis for my forgiveness? Warwick, the so-called Kingmaker. On his knees. And his contrition isn’t finished. I humbled your father as I will humble all Yorkists when I return to England. More Yorkist heads will be impaled at Micklegate Bar in York.” The candle flickered wildly.
Anne put her hands in front of her face to block out Margaret’s rantings. Is this the mad woman in whose household I must live, she feared? The candle crept closer. She was determined not to let Margaret sense her fear or see her cry. Not this night. Not ever. “Have done,” she shouted and pushed the candle aside. Margaret touched the candle to the crisp taffeta of the bed hangings. In another second, a quick burning fire raced up the fabric. “No, for the love of God!” Anne pleaded.
Margaret stepped back and pulled the door ajar. As Anne rushed at the door to escape, Margaret pushed her back into the room, now beginning to burn. “Now you will learn what it is to suffer. Burn in hell,” she cackled as she exited the chamber, slammed the door and quickly disappeared, leaving Anne in the smoke and flames.
Anne grabbed a dressing gown from a wall peg and pulled the robe over her head. The mattress was already patchy with small fires. The heat and flames began a deadly murmur. She stumbled through black, thickening smoke, as she felt frantically for the door. Acrid air stung her nose and throat; sooty fumes dimmed her eyes. Fragments of bed curtains drifted down like a gentle snow in a world of scorching heat. The floor rushes had begun to catch fire, and dense, stifling smoke curled upward.
She staggered toward the heavy door and, with the strength of desperation and quickness of youth, darted through the small slit of an opening she was able to create. “Au Secours!” she cried. The smoke burned in her chest and smothered her voice. The inrushing air in the hall was cool and refreshing. Anne stumbled, clinging to the wall, trying to see beyond the fog stinging her eyes. “Au Secours!” she screamed into the dark tunnel of corridor. “Fire. Feu. Help me!” The whole castle would burn if someone didn’t come soon, she feared. “Au Secours!” she shouted once again and choked on the dust in her thr
oat.
It was Olivier the humpbacked servant who answered. He caught a fainting Anne as she sank down against the wall. “Are you harmed, Mademoiselle? I heard your cries coming through the thick walls.”
Anne, though trembling uncontrollably, nodded assurance. “The fire!” she exclaimed with a choking voice. “Tend to the fire or the castle will be consumed.”
Olivier moved quickly. Anne was dimly aware that from somewhere buckets of sand arrived. Men went into the room with thick, wet blankets, holding damp cloths over their faces. She sat with her head between her knees, fighting the faintness. Margaret was gone. She’d slipped into the shadows.
Olivier returned. His voice was amazingly calm. “Rest easy, Mademoiselle. I will prepare ointments to soothe your burns. Then I will arrange for you to share a room with Queen Charlotte’s ladies tonight.”
“Merci!” she blinked, trying to see him clearly, this gargoyle of salvation. “I am grateful for your quick assistance. Thank you.” She did not mention Margaret. But she must let her father know of her frightening visit.
“You are very brave Mademoiselle.” Olivier looked down upon Anne. A brave child indeed, he thought. Her father should have had sons.
“No, I am actually quite afraid,” Anne replied. Though she survived this ordeal, inwardly she pondered whether she could possibly survive what was in store for her in this nest of Lancastrians. In the deep recess of her mind, the image of Richard still represented a ray of hope.
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 4
