Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  Charles waved his jeweled hands. “Then so be it, brother-in-law. And we will make Louis regret his declaration of war against Burgundy.”

  Edward slapped Charles on the back in satisfaction. “We will be victorious. I know it.”

  At Vespers, Edward and Richard gave thanks in the gleaming chapel of Charles’ palace. The smell of incense closed about them. Candlelight reflected on the priest in his green chasuble, the season’s holy color. During the low chanting Richard asked, “Have your agents in Paris heard ought of Anne?”

  “She is betrothed to marry Prince Edward.” Edward glanced sideways at his brother. “And I hear also that she has taken ill lately.”

  “You should have told me? You know how concerned I am for her.”

  “Why add to your anguish. You could do nothing. Her mother is tending her.”

  “I will slay the Lancastrian with my own sword.”

  “No. Let someone else do that. If perhaps she grows fond of her husband-to-be, she won’t blame you.

  The advice was logical, yet Richard was uncertain. He didn’t really want to slay the Prince, who was even younger than he. He just wanted Anne--free. Free of a forced marriage; free to chose her own love. He wondered in his misery if love could survive all that has happened. The priest chanted on. The incense hovered in great clouds. Richard prayed his familiar prayer: “God and the Blessed Mother, protect my Anne.”

  CHAPTER 14

  At Amboise, messengers began to arrive regularly from King Louis. In England, the Lancastrians’s advance moved unchallenged toward London. Warwick led them openly with John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, by his side. Many men of Kent flocked to the Lancastrian standard.

  Letters also arrived from Warwick. Anne read joyful letters her father wrote to his wife. In none of them did he ever mention his daughter. He described at some length his brother John’s defection from the King. A sign heaven blessed his Enterprise.

  “Uncle John was the soul of honor and reliability,” Anne was puzzled.

  “Family ties are strong.” The Countess reached for the recent letter. She read each one over and over. Her husband was accomplishing the impossible. She’d come to accept any expediency, any compromise for his sake. “I fear your Uncle John is angry because of slights he has experienced from King Edward.”

  “What do you think will happen, mama?”

  The Countess shook her head. “We can only pray.”

  Anne glanced at the coral rosary, which entwined her mother’s fingers. “For what do you pray?”

  Anne Beauchamp regarded her daughter in faint surprise. “Why, for salvation, of course. May we all know grace.”

  “You don’t ask for our estates to be restored? For victory?”

  “No! Not for worldly things.” The beads slipped slackly through her fingers. “God has promised us nothing in this world, only in the next.”

  “Yes, but....” Anne thought her mother looked much older. It was as if ten more years had passed. The indentations about her mouth cut deeper. More gray streaked her hair.

  The Countess gazed into the far distance. “When you are older”, she interjected, “you won’t ask such questions of me or God.” She felt pity for her daughter. Being Princess of Wales as Prince Edward’s wife would not secure happiness, perhaps the most scarce of earth’s treasures.

  “Isn’t Charles of Burgundy wed to King Edward’s sister?” She remembered hearing Clarence speak of his youngest sister, Margaret, and her brilliant match with the famous Duke.

  “Charles the Bold, the Rash. Yes, and now he is England’s ally. He refuses to be a vassal to King Louis. ‘Tis said his knees creak like breaking twigs when he bends them.”

  Anne laughed. The letters had been a small diversion in the boredom of long pointless days. The room was small. Mice scurried about at night; spiders claimed and reclaimed large corners. Large, black roaches hid in the bedclothes. A slight breeze brushed by the narrow window, leaving unchanged the stale air, old with decay and mildew. The women assigned to them by Charlotte gave grudging service. Queen Margaret kept to her own stately room in luxury. Prince Edward rode out daily. Even meals were sent up on a tray. The wine had gone sour during the heat of summer. Anne stretched. Her young legs felt cramped. She wished she could mount a horse and ride away from this forsaken place, never to return.

  From the window she could just see one section of the garden, which was well attended. Neat borders and a thick trimmed hedge. But she could see no gardener.

  Her mother sat on the coffer, which contained their clothes, holding the rosary she always kept at hand. The coral beads were motionless in her fingers. She seemed to be waiting for something or someone.

  “May I go out to the garden?” Anne felt foolish bothering her mother with such a small matter. At home she’d raced about, even up to a few years ago, standing with the sentinels, bravely keeping watch.

  “Of course, Anne. It must be very dull for you also. I will remain here and read of your father’s exploits’

  “And pray for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for a great triumph?”

  “Just for him, Anne. I told you, everything else will follow.” The Countess forced a smile. Her child was turning into a lovely woman with each passing day.

  In the garden, Anne contemplated the neglected areas of brown plants. To her all France was desolation like this. She strolled over to the one colorful patch among the weeds. This section had a touch of England in spite of the hot sun and dry wind. Keeping himself carefully in the shade of the high hedge, an elderly gentleman, wearing a coté-hardie, stylish a generation before, pruned a border of marigolds.

  He saw her and made a spry bow. “Would you care for some flowers, Lady Anne? You may have any you wish.”

  The crown of his head was burned tan within the circle of a gray fringe of hair. His small brown eyes looked shrewd but kind. “St. Adelaide is with me. My garden flourishes even here.”

  “But you’re not a gardener, sir?”

  He laughed. “I’m Sir John Fortescue, lawyer and tutor to Prince Edward.”

  Even to Anne, Fortescue was known for his political acumen. She wondered how he had ended up on the Lancastrian side. No doubt his horoscope would explain. “I’d like a bouquet.” She smiled uncertainly at him. “Our room is very drab.”

  “Everything is drab here at Amboise, until recently that is. But then you know all about that. There are not two pence to rub together among the lot of us.” His voice was amiable and without bitterness. “So I took a small corner of the grounds for my own. After all, I must do something with my time. The Prince doesn’t care to linger at his studies.” Eyes squinted against the sun as he studied her. Une belle jeune fille. Even in plaits, her hair full of light fell like bell ropes below her waist. He saw the sadness in her large gray-blue eyes. A proud little thing, he would guess.

  “Does Prince Edward know the ways of England? Will he be a worthy ruler?” Anne sensed she could ask this man anything.

  Sir John nodded slowly. “The Prince is difficult but clever. Not at all like his poor addled father, King Henry. His Valois line is strong. And with these many years in France, of course, he needs to be about a man’s business. This life is not good for a young man. Strong emotions and appetites go unslaked here.”

  “Then he should be off to England.”

  “Ah, Lady Anne, Queen Margaret would not risk that until your father has secured England. Then, too,” he smiled, “there is the matter of your wedding.”

  “Yes, of course.” Anne sat down in the grass along the carefully tended flower border. “Hopefully, the Queen will postpone it. I’m sure she would like to do so and even prevent it if she could”

  “And you’re in no hurry?”

  Anne picked a golden flower and tucked it in the neckline of her dress. “Sir John, I would be happy if this wedding were delayed until I am old and ugly so that Edward would have none of me.” She leaned back, lifting her face to the sun. “Perh
aps, if I cut my hair, very short.”

  “You feel nothing for the Prince?” Fortescue was surprised. He knew the boy was handsome and robust. This lovely girl was a perfect mate. Such beauty could change even Edward of Lancaster. Satisfy his lust.

  “I don’t really know him. And the Queen despises me.”

  “Yes, she has said as much. Yet I think she recognizes the inevitability of this match. However, she wants no heirs to this marriage. She would not want you to conceive.”

  “Then she will forbid Edward to consummate the marriage?” Anne’s eyes opened wide. She had not dared hope for such a boon.

  Fortescue shook his head. “She will try to, child. But the Prince may not agree. He is a very virile man.”

  “Then Margaret may make me take a drug to abort if there is a child.” In her mind, Anne thought of Isabel and her fully formed babe lying dead in her arms.

  “No. No.” Fortescue had seen the agony on Anne’s pale face. “We will be in England by such time. Everything will be different. You must not be fearful. All will be well in England.”

  He bent over and picked a few daisies. “Did you know that these were the symbol of Margaret of Anjou when she first came to London? So, you see, I grow daisies. But they also flourish in England. Pick all you want. And someday soon I will brag how an old man gave flowers to a beautiful young Princess.”

  “You’re not old, Sir John.”

  “My dear, anyone who has lived in the household of Margaret of Anjou for nine years becomes very very old.” He glanced uneasily toward the tower rooms. “And now I must attend her. Every day we discuss the return to England. Please linger if this small place pleases you. The air is sweet this time of day.”

  Anne spread her skirts out. “Thank you. May I come again?”

  “Of course, as often as you like. No one else ever does. Next time perhaps you might be so kind as to tell me how it is now in England. It probably is not as lovely as I remember.” He was gone with a polite bow.

  The garden was a pleasant respite for Anne. She closed her eyes. The air was fresh. John Fortescue’s conversation had cheered her. The Queen wanted no grandchildren. Then let her give the Prince to the village bawds. Perhaps there might be a way through this long maze.

  “Well, little bird, you fly about all alone.”

  Anne jumped up. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Because you didn’t look very hard for me, ma belle.” Edward held a riding crop in one hand. He felt flushed and tall in his riding boots. He could tell Anne wanted to flee. Resistance always aroused him. Fortescue had called him a tomcat only yesterday.

  “I was talking to Sir John,” Anne said nervously. “He is a pleasant man.”

  Edward shrugged and moved closer. “Sir John and his pleasantries have bored me since I was ten. He’s a stinking swamp of fine words. I’m buried alive in ‘maybes’ and ‘have patiences’.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She thought, without finding comfort, that he did have the Plantagenet easy confidence. But then she and half the royalty in England were all descended from Edward III, both Yorkist and Lancastrian. Now, apparently, time had come again for the Lancastrians.

  “No doubt, you’ll see much fighting soon,” she said slowly. “And many glorious battles.” She edged toward the chateau. She must get away.

  “What do you know of battles? Except for my mother, women always want peace.” Edward stepped nearer, blocking her retreat and moving uncomfortably close.

  “I may not have seen battles, but I have heard many tales of such.” She must stall him somehow. “I was no more than a baby when some were fought.”

  The garden blurred in front of her. It was true. During much of her calm life civil war had raged in England. Her father, the Earl of Warwick, had never let it touch his family. “I remember names,” she said. “Northampton, Mortimer’s Cross. Sometime later, at a place called Hedgley Moor, my Uncle John slew Sir Ralph Percy and became Earl of Northumberland until it was taken from him by King Edward.”

  Anne didn’t realize the anger in her voice. She thought of Uncle John, now the Marquess of Montague. He had once called her his golden butterfly. “Of course, I also remember the second St. Albans battle.” She knew that many people still talked of it. So many had died. Margaret had ravaged the countryside. Even commoners, who cared for no political quarrel, had been murdered in the heat of the struggle. The Queen had won, but London had refused to accept her afterward.

  Edward nodded, interested that Anne knew of his mother’s exploits. “My mother says the whole bloody mess was due to the Yorkists. After they captured my father at the first St. Albans, she turned into a lioness. My father and I became her cubs.”

  Anne regarded him uneasily. “Your father was captured by chance,” she said tactfully.

  “Oh, I know the story. They found him sitting under an oak, singing.” He studied her face for a moment. “It will be different when I command. My father just prayed as the battles raged about him. I plan to use cannons and drive the Yorkists from the field.”

  Anne tried to keep the conversation going to take Edward’s mind off his obvious intentions. “Everyone uses cannons now. It’s tricky not to overshoot. And I hear some say that cannons will explode unless perfectly cast.”

  Edward laughed and slapped his side. “King Louis and his engineers know more about cannons than anyone else. I’ll learn from them. My enemies will scatter before me if any are left alive.”

  In that moment, Edward seized her and smothered her with a violent kiss. She was delightful. God, her skin was soft and scented. He’d never before known anyone who smelled of flowers. How easy it would be to take her. Tempting. He realized talking with her had increased his desire. This was no kitchen wench. They were betrothed. He pulled her down, crushing her beneath him. She twisted and fought. Edward was elated. Her efforts increased his desire.

  “The wedding night.” Anne’s voice was a whisper. “You deserve a virgin.”

  Edward stared down at her. Damnation. She was right. He was a Prince after all. He drew back and looked at her with her braids loosened, her little body shaking and her lips flecked with blood where his teeth had cut her. “The marriage bed. You promise good sport?”

  Her words came in pent breaths. “Edward, I will do your bidding as your wife. But you must respect my honor just now.” Tears ran down her cheeks, so that she tasted salt with the blood from her swollen lip.

  “You persuade me.” Abruptly Edward released her. He watched as she covered herself, pulling her long hair over the rips in the fragile silk gown. He saw no reason to tell her he’d never planned more than a romp anyway. He’d found what he wanted, a lovely, innocent body. “We are both young. There will be much time for pleasure.”

  “Edward, just be gentle with me.” Anne slowly got up. Her back felt bruised. Dust and plant stains smeared her skirts. She pulled a cluster of Fortescue’s flowers and handed them to Edward. He stood for a moment staring at the flowers. He felt a pang of tenderness. This strange emotion bothered him. He didn’t recognize it, except as new and weak. He must never be weak.

  He was beside her, taller by a foot. “I refuse to have a tedious marriage. The Prince and Princess of England can’t be a sluggish pair. I’ll teach you many pleasures. You’ll see.”

  Anne nodded. He exists for self-gratification, she realized, and arrogance controls his every action. She could be thankful for his conceit. It had protected her today.

  She clasped her own drooping flowers and began walking toward the chateau. With luck her mother would be napping and had not seen the episode.

  Edward swaggered beside her, whistling as though he just won a carnival prize.

  CHAPTER 15

  A few days later, Louis of France arrived at Amboise from Tours. His drab clothes were grimy, his hair was windblown, and several new lead medals weighted his cap. He’d gathered everyone in the damp center hall. Black beetles scurried away. Tinder tried feebly to ignite a log on the old-style centr
al hearth. He spread his hands, embracing Margaret, flashing a large ruby. It was the only thing that bespoke a king.

  Louis spoke in a rush to Margaret. “Chere cousine, your husband Henry has been released from the Tower. Once again he is King of England. You are a Queen again in every sense of the word.” He shifted his attention to Edward. “And you are now the Prince of Wales.”

  “Justice has prevailed.” Margaret crossed herself thinking only of her kind of justice. “But the Yorkists? What of them?”

  “Unfortunately, they have escaped to Holland. Still, I understand that they are penniless and destitute. A poor man has no friends. The Yorkists in London are in sanctuaries. The Woodville woman, no longer Queen, is in sanctuary at Westminster where she gave birth to a most inopportune child. England is won to our cause.”

  “And George, Duke of Clarence?” Anne’s mother spoke quietly, but her eyes were intent.

  Louis looked surprised. “I’d forgotten about him. I believe he’s staying at The Erber, which, am I not right, was once the home of your father-in-law? The Earl of Warwick, of course, stays with the King at the Bishop of London’s palace.”

  “Isabel should join her husband.” Anne Beauchamp was firm. “He needs her.”

  Louis nodded smoothly. “Then the Lady Isabel shall soon sail for England. It’s well to remind Duke Clarence that his allegiance is with Warwick.” He suddenly remembered that, after meeting with the Countess and her daughter, Queen Charlotte had told him they could no more be trusted than the false summer, which sometimes came in March. He was glad he had no son-in-law or a willful daughter.

  “But the Yorkists will attempt to return. There will be battles yet for me?” The Prince spoke from behind Anne, his voice eager as though he was talking about a festive hunt.

  “Oh, most surely. And you, mon Prince, will fight gloriously.” Louis motioned them to draw closer. “In the meantime let us plan the happy business of your wedding and triumphant return to London.” He concentrated on Anne. “Damoiselle, I would give all the medals off my cap to be young as your Prince and be your bridegroom.” He saw that she was thinner than at their last meeting, and he sensed she was more unhappy and confused than she’d admit even to herself.