Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  Margaret greeted them at the top of the incline, where a straggly border garden and broken walls marked the chateau grounds. Anne jumped off her horse, stumbled in the absence of a mounting block, and managed to turn it into a curtsy. Margaret faced them defiantly with hands on her hips. “So you did come.” She waved a hand in the air. “Well, welcome to Amboise,” she said facetiously. She was inwardly gleeful at the thought that her prized horses and falcons would have better quarters than the small, dank room she planned for the Countess and her daughter.

  Margaret could see that, despite her ordeal at Angiers, Anne looked fresher, less tired, and more mature. She knew, too, that the women in attendance meant that Queen Charlotte had taken an interest in her nemesis. Margaret’s tortured compromise with Anne’s father engulfed her. God help us that we ally ourselves with the Nevilles, she thought.

  Anne walked slowly to the main door of the chateau. A slight breeze pulled at her hair and skirts in the early evening coolness. She watched her mother coolly pass by Margaret as though the Queen did not exist. There was hostility in her step.

  “Come Anne. Let us go inside.” She put her arm assuredly around her daughter’s shoulders. The Countess was stronger since the interlude at Angiers.

  Anne knew that the days would go by, slowly, relentlessly, until all was resolved. Until her father conquered England. Until she married, and perhaps Richard slain. She saw Edward watching her and turned into the chateau. She couldn’t bear the thought that no matter how the way ahead twisted, she had vowed on the cross to wed this arrogant man who would determine her fate.

  CHAPTER 11

  Shortly after leaving Angiers, the Earl of Warwick met with the Duke of Clarence at Valognes on the northeast coast of Normandy where Warwick began to ready his fleet of French ships for the invasion of England.

  Clarence was not pleased with the arrangements the Earl had made with King Louis and Margaret of Anjou. “So you have made your bed with Louis and Margaret. What assurances do I have that there is any place for me in your grand Enterprise? I may have better opportunities with my brother, King Edward.” Clarence was thinking back on the visit of an attractive courtier sent to him at Honfleur by King Edward with enticing incentives to urge his return to his family, and the pleading messages from sister Margaret and his mother.

  Warwick was taken aback by the thought, for the first time, of Clarence’s defection from his cause. “Yes, I have made concessions to King Louis and Margaret in order to secure the support I need to regain the power necessary to control England. Nevertheless, in addition to greatness, titles and land you will realize when I succeed, you have my pledge that the crown of the Kingdom will be yours if Anne gives no heirs to Prince Edward after they are wed. But we have more pressing concerns now if that is all to come to pass. As you are aware, we have been prevented, for some weeks now, from sailing because of the blockade by the fleet of English and Burgundian ships.”

  Clarence was somewhat pacified by Warwick’s offer and inquired of Warwick’s men. “How fare our forces for the invasion?”

  “We must break the blockade soon. The men are uncontrolled in their behavior, brawling in the taverns and constantly bullying the locals. The French populous grows more hostile daily, and considers us pirates because of our raids and looting on the coastal cities. If we can break the blockade, our cause is bright, for I now have the support of Lord Stanley and the Earl of Shrewsbury. I am uncertain of the Marquess, my brother John, and his forces, however. I have sent agents to plead on my behalf for his support. I know he is angry that the Earldom of Northumberland was taken from him by King Edward and given to Henry Percy. He may be persuaded to join our cause in retribution.

  “I have also sent envoys to recruit Lancastrians to my banner and create disturbances in northern England to distract King Edward. Once they learn of my glorious plans to return England to greatness, they will rally to my side.” Of course Warwick was clever not to mention that he would be coming in French ships with the support of King Louis. The English did not think fondly of their traditional enemy, to whom they had lost most of their lands in France the past years.

  Warwick then turned to the messenger, Jean Bourre, whom he had sent to King Louis to plead for more money. Warwick was at the end of his temper. His men had not been paid in many weeks, and their bad temperament was due in part to this and their resentment at having to return much of their booty at the insistence of the French King. “Doesn’t Louis understand,” he shouted at the messenger, “the English and Burgundian fleet hamper my every move. They control the Normandy coast. How am I to sail for England? I need more gold. And tell the King he must attack Burgundy and march against Duke Charles.”

  Bourre watched the Earl. The man looked older than he’d anticipated. “King Louis is bound by the Treaty of Péronne with Burgandy. He would be foolish to break it until you control England. Burgundy is a great power which the King knows full well.” But Louis had already ordered that the Earl be paid what he needed. Bourre dutifully pulled out a bag of gold. “Pay your mutinous men.”

  Warwick counted out the coins. It was enough. Just enough. It was humiliating to have to beg. His banquets, his estates, his style, had outshone all kings. The gall he must swallow had a bitter taste.

  He wrote to his Countess that, God willing, the blockade would break and he would soon sail.

  A week later, Warwick gave thanks to St. George. An autumn storm had broken the blockade.

  Shortly, the fleet would sail for England. His natural optimism began to rule. The sailors’ cheers echoed in his head. Before sailing, he learned that his brother John was finally with him against the King. True, John Neville had been maddeningly loyal to King Edward, but those were the days when John was Earl of Northumberland. Now Edward had snatched the Earldom away and returned it to the Percys. The Nevilles and Percys had always competed for the North. And even though John was given the title of Marquess of Montagu, he was upset with the King. Now he would fight with his own brother, his own blood. He was almost thirty-eight, old enough by far to understand the compromises necessary in life. Warwick remembered suddenly that John was Anne’s favorite uncle. He wondered briefly how she fared.

  In September, after an easy crossing of the Channel, the gangplank thudded down at Dartmouth and Plymouth on the southern English coast. The townspeople stayed inside. No one offered resistance. Warwick learned that King Edward was in the north, suppressing the local rebellion caused by Lancastrian agents as he had directed. A message caught up with him from King Louis assuring him of continued support. The French King had also made offerings and prayers both at St. Gatien Cathedral and Notre Dame de la Deliverance for Warwick’s success. Louis left nothing to chance. He made sure that God blessed the right side.

  Warwick was jubilant as he organized his men to move northeastward toward London. He felt triumph in his bones. He remembered his first victory at St. Albans at age 26. The glory of winning never diminished. Soon other allies joined the Warwick-Lancastrian numbers. The Earl of Shrewsbury and Lord Stanley brought several thousand men. John Neville started south with a force strong enough itself to crush Edward’s army.

  More good news followed. King Edward, Richard and a small band of followers had fled the field before John Neville’s forces; barely getting away with their lives. They slipped to The Wash and sailed for France from the coastal town of Lynn. There the waters were rough and a tempest caught their small craft. Warwick hoped that the Channel would claim them. Now, in the first week in October he pressed on for London.

  CHAPTER 12

  In Bruge, Richard of Gloucester was thanking Providence that he was still alive. He, King Edward, Anthony Woodville, and a few loyal followers had fled before the forces of John Neville in Northumberland and boarded small boats at Lynn on the coast of the North Sea. They barely made it to shore and safety of Holland. A fierce storm had ravaged their tiny fleet. Twice the Channel had beaten them back and their ships floundered, taking on water. Vessels
of the Easterlings also pursued them to the beaches of Alknaar where Seignior Gruthuyse, the Governor of Holland, had finally rescued them.

  Now they lived on the charity of Gruthuyse and hoped that their brother-in-law, Charles of Burgundy, would receive them and see fit to support a military return to England. While they waited to be summoned by Charles, they bided their time. Richard often skated on the frozen river Reye on bone skates and he found himself brooding on his loneliness. The other men with King Edward made themselves comfortable. The ladies of Bruge were amiable; time was in surplus.

  Charles finally notified Edward that he would receive them after the Christmas holiday. It was a busy season just now. Richard imagined how busy it must be for Warwick back in London. The chores of triumph. England lost again because Edward was careless, gulled into a false security. He trusted too easily. Trusted and procrastinated until it was too late to take action against the uprising. Edward mistakenly believed the rebellion in Yorkshire was a local matter, not the diversion it had proven to be.

  Even as they ran, Edward puzzled over John Neville’s desertion. Reviewing the situation, he expressed his dismay to Richard. “I trusted John Neville. He had crushed an uprising for me in Yorkshire once and I counted on his continued allegiance. True, I transferred the Earldom of Northumberland to Henry Percy, but this was only to bring peace to the North where the Percys were well liked. I was certain he understood and accepted this. I cannot believe he would betray me because of it and join with Warwick and Clarence against me. Against England. He was amply rewarded with a Marquess title and gold.” Richard did not want to tell his royal brother that the obvious is not always what it seems.

  So now they waited. Richard divided his time between Gruthuyse’s fine house and the port of Flushing. There a fleet was to be assembled which would carry them back to England. He often sat on the old docks and watched the cranes, small by London standards, swinging their loads to and from the ships. And over and over in his mind he heard Edward say, “She may already be wed, I say forget her.”

  Richard had asked Edward what the Prince was like. Edward shrugged in response. “A braggart and out for blood, so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t have thought Warwick would sink so low as to wed his daughter to him in the final pinch.” In his heart, neither had Richard. Now that he was here in Holland, he thought of the distance to Anne. Not so great in miles. Yet it might as well be as far as the moon. He stared down into the filthy gray water. Chunks of ice bumped against the dock. He pondered that if only he had been able to marry Anne when she was a child, consummation could have come later. He could have protected her, sheltered her.

  The wind chilled him through his old wool-lined cloak, the borrowed beaver hat, and the padded doublet, as cold as the fate that twisted their lives apart. He couldn’t even protect himself, he thought ruefully. He began walking back from the pier, his steps quickening so that his clogs banged on the cobbles.

  The pale evening sunlight began to fade. He would leave for Lille tomorrow. He recalled that Edward had asked him to go on ahead to Burgundy to talk with their sister Margaret, wife of Duke Charles. Her continued help in persuading brother Clarence to return his allegiance to the family was needed desperately.

  A day later in the splendor of the Burgundian palace, Richard greeted his sister, the Duchess of Burgundy. She danced toward him, a swirl of velvet, ermine and jewels. “You look lovely, Maggie,” he said truthfully.

  “And you look a bit shabby brother Richard. We must have a tailor fix that doublet? It’s much too large and baggy.”

  “It’s only for a short time.” Richard was impatient with such amenities. Women must coddle, he supposed.

  Margaret was choosing veils to go with her new towering headdress. “Is mother still at Fotheringhay?”

  “We hope so. Remember when we were children at Fotheringhay? You, George and I. We both adored you Maggie.”

  “And still do, I trust.”

  “Edward and I worry about our brother George. He’s in a thorny maze. He was foolish to go with Warwick. But then a man in love.... Isabel Neville’s a pretty lass,” Richard replied.

  “Will he return his allegiance to York?”

  “Hopefully, with more reminders from his adored sister of the fondness we all share for him. We need your continued assistance on this matter, Maggie.”

  “The prodigal,” Margaret laughed. “You’ll have to kill a fatted calf when he returns to the fold.”

  “Then you’ll write to George again?”

  “Of course. Mother and I will get in touch with him again and let him know how much his return to the family means to us all. We will make Warwick the fatted calf to celebrate the return of the prodigal if we succeed.”

  Margaret laughed, and Richard joined her with a laugh that was more a sign of relief than of mirth.

  CHAPTER 13

  After the Christmas holiday, Duke Charles agreed to meet with Edward and Richard. The snow covered the landscape like a smooth, crystalline blanket. Icicles glistened like prisms on the trees. The palace of Duke Charles sparkled: tile floors, scrubbed; tapestries, freshly brushed; rooms bathed in warmth; fireplaces walled with tall chimneys.

  Charles of Burgundy dressed in jewels and furs, faced his brothers-in-law who were clothed in borrowed garb and rented gems. Edward’s oversized cap should have been in his hand. He came to beg. He needed fifty thousand crowns to equip his fleet for the return to England. But France had just declared war on Burgundy, despite the Treaty of Péronne, and Edward knew that Charles was in a position to bargain.

  “A truly great amount, Edward.” Charles glanced at his adviser Phillippe de Commynes, a brilliant but dull man. He had ordered new black armor rich with niello work for the battles ahead and left the rest of any preparations to de Commynes. In his mind, war with France would just be a tedious venture; not at all appropriate for the holiday season.

  Edward smiled. “This is but a small amount to you, Charles. Come, you are the wealthiest man in Europe.” Edward regarded Charles as a strutting peacock, and peacock-brained as well. Vanity was Edward’s route of appeal to the Duke.

  “Fifty thousand crowns is not a trifle.” Charles took a half-minute to continue. “Have you discussed this with my wife, the Duchess Margaret?”

  Richard, standing beside his brother, interjected and nodded. “Yes, at Lille. She’s in touch with George of Clarence again in an attempt to persuade him to return his loyalty to the House of York. She will remind him of the sweet memories we shared and the devotion to each other when we all were children at Fotheringhay.”

  Charles spared Richard one glance, then sent a desperate mental message for guidance to his adviser who had withdrawn to a far corner. Phillippe de Commynes had been wondering if he served the wrong master. Louis of France made all the right moves; Charles, unless carefully watched, made all the wrong ones. Life was a chess game. He had every intention of being on the winning side. Still, he was a Burgundian.

  Phillippe smiled cynically at Edward. “Do you propose, Your Grace, to use the ruse that you plan to return to England just to claim your estates? A hazardous venture at best.”

  Edward answered the smile, putting all his charm and bright intellect into his words. “You are a master-politician. Yes, this is my plan. And it will succeed if we can sail by March. My countrymen will welcome my return and rally to my cause.”

  Charles shuffled uneasily and looked over at Richard. To him he lacked any importance. Yet de Commynes had told him to take heed of Richard of Glouster. “And what is your interest in all this?” His huge hands clapped together. “What part of England do you intend to claim?”

  “I have no hidden interests. I fight at my brother’s side. For England.” Richard couldn’t muster a liking for this brother-in-law. His was a world of necessity and expediency with little thought for the needs of others and the greater glory of service. He looked at Edward. His brother looked tense and uncomfortable. The humility of a supplicant was hard to maintain
.

  De Commynes returned his attention to Edward. “And the Queen, with your newborn son. Will she give you a royal welcome?” He was referring to the recent birth of Edward’s son to Elizabeth Woodville, his wife, in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.

  “Most assuredly.” Edward tried to sound convincing. He thought of his Queen with mild interest. She would have her demands ready. She always did, and in the night when her soft curved hips met his, he always gave her whatever she asked.

  The Woodvilles. Richard winced at the thought of them. The Queen and her kin were a canker sore eating at the heart of England, rife with greed and corruption. Since the day Edward married Elizabeth Woodville, her family made insidious incursions into positions of power. Her five nubile sisters married into wealth and titles. Her five brothers equally flourished. Self centered and selfish, none were concerned for the welfare of the people or the land. Anthony Woodville was the only one here in exile with them. The rest of the curs had found safe kennels, but they would quickly return to Westminster with Edward’s success, ready for more riches.

  Richard knew the Woodvilles had nothing but contempt for him. He wasn’t one of the handsome, witty ones, convivial, and unfettered by morals. He wondered that he could support Edward when his brother let this tribe of leeches flourish while his years of Warwick’s friendship were lost to neglect. But loyalty was his pledge. He pulled himself back to the present and caught de Commynes watching him with hawk-like eyes. “I can sway the North for my brother.” He said it without boasting. Yorkshire was the home of his heart.

  Duke Charles expressed a yawn. “De Commynes, do I have fifty thousand crowns to spare?”

  “You do, Your Grace. And the sum will be well spent. France will stop warring against us when York returns to England.” Better to spend it for fighting in England now to assure the security of Burgundy later, he thought.