Anne glanced at Edward. She knew now that his talk of warfare was no pose. He’d been waiting nine dull years believing that he would someday engage all his enemies in a bloody triumph. Soon they would be wed, one in the sight of God and man. Desperation made her daring. “Could we not postpone the wedding until our return to England?” She heard a collective gasp. “I could conceive before we leave.” Her heart was beating as though it would break through her chest.
“I will see you don’t conceive Neville,” Margaret mumbled to herself. The thought of her son’s union with this spawn of Warwick was unbearable. She had planned to use Anne to keep Edward contented here in France when she set sail for England. Somehow she would persuade her son not to go to his bride on his wedding night.
Louis laughed. “Ah, you wish to argue what has been settled. Come, we are all in this venture together. Marriage was promised and must be fulfilled. He put his arm around Edward. “I will loan you the state sword for the occasion, a splendid thing.” Edward smiled back, pleased. He felt as a man of the world.
Louis doffed his cap and headed for the door. “God and Saint Barbara have heard all our prayers. I will give a great taper and six vessels of silver to Notre Dame de la Deliverance, plus my own image in wax. All will arrange itself. One of my merchants in Tours will supply cloth samples from which you may choose a fabric for your wedding gown, Lady Anne. Now Au revoir. Dieu vous garde. Yuletide blessings. Charlotte sends her love....” He was out the door still talking.
Anne’s mother sat down abruptly. “My husband rules London again. God protect him.”
“It is my Henry who rules,” Margaret glared.
“Mother, we all know how things stand.” Prince Edward took her arm. “ There are still battles to be won. We must be united.”
A Plantagenet would speak so, Anne thought sadly. If only he had been raised to want something besides conquests and revenge. If only there was a little balance in him. Soon they would share a marriage bed. That, too, would represent a conquest. She wondered bleakly what he would demand.
Edward, surrounded again by three women, and smothered in his mother’s concern, thought of his sword as a refuge. So bright a blade. Soon it would be stained with the blood of Yorkists. He felt a tingling in anticipation of the Battles to be fought. But first he must conquer the Neville girl.
Louis, prodded by Charlotte, did his best to assure the marriage. Since Edward and Anne were second cousins, he designated a prosperous merchant in Tours, Jean de Beaune, to grease the sluggish wheels of Church machinery in order to facilitate a dispensation. Another merchant, Jean Briconnet, was commissioned to send samples of silks, linen, velvet and cloth of gold from his collection to the bride, as well as to the Countess and Margaret. They could choose whatever they fancied.
Alone in her room, holding her full skirts tightly about her for warmth, her toes curled against the cold, Anne counted those who must die if, in the end, her father was completely victorious: King Edward of York and possibly his newborn son; her dear Richard. She imagined Richard lying in a field of green, his face white from lost blood, a dagger in his heart. A merciful death many would say.
The image haunted her dreams. She willed him to live in her night’s imaginings, and sometimes he did, but always in the past as joyful children at Middleham. She also dreamed of their last moment of declared love at Warwick castle. But the dream of death always returned, and each time Richard’s body was more mutilated, more diminished against the green. She could share her pain with no one. Even her mother would dismiss her dreams as foolish meandering.
News from London came frequently. Parliament accepted Warwick’s government. Edward of York was declared a usurper and he and Richard of Gloucester put under attainder. Other Yorkists were allowed to keep their estates. In sanctuary, former Queen Elizabeth had indeed given birth to a son.
In the second week of December, 1470, the dispensation for marriage arrived, granted by Louis de Harcourt, Patriarch of Jerusalem. The dresses were quickly finished. The chateau was swept and cleaned. Sandalwood candles scented the air. Festive logs, wrapped in flames of orange and green, burned in the main hall.
The evening before the wedding, an elaborate dinner was served. Platters of food steamed out from the kitchen. A juggler jumped about while merrily keeping aloft six silver-gilt balls. Minstrels sang tender love ballads. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves hung heavily in the air. The Counts of Eu and Vendome and the Lord of Chatillon came dressed in rich velvets and furs. They were the Guard of Honor that was to escort Anne and Prince Edward to Paris later in the week. Anne wondered how many of Louis’ gold ecus paid for this winter venture.
Edward, sitting next to his bride-to-be at the high table, whispered in Anne’s ear. “You’re beautiful, mon amoure. Tomorrow you will be mine and I will kiss each part of you, little bird.” Hidden by the table, he caressed her legs. Anne forced a smile and gently pushed his hand aside. She didn’t want to anger him.
Anne stared down the length of the Hall. She’d been in this dismal place since August. Tomorrow she would be married. The day after, they’d leave for Paris, then England. She knew her mother watched her anxiously, and Anne fancied she could see herself reflected in those worried eyes. When she left Amboise, she would be Princess of Wales. She wondered if her mother had prayed for that, or only for salvation again.
At a side table, John Fortescue watched and hoped he had helped the situation. To him, Edward was not cruel. He simply was trained to hate from the cradle by his mother. Sir John knew he had never dented the fixed resolve of the Prince, not even as a lad. He hoped Anne Neville would change him. Show the Prince that life was not just for killing. But he knew it was probably too late. The Prince had been set on his course so long ago.
Margaret looked at no one. She had accepted none of Louis’ fabrics. Tomorrow was a time of mourning as far as she was concerned. Her undisciplined rage burned hotter the hearth fire. Someday she would slay the young wench. It was the only thought, which brought her comfort.
Later that night, long after the last of the candles had been put out and the guests of King Louis retired to newly freshened chambers, Anne knelt at the plain prie-dieu of the solar, which she shared this last night with her mother. She didn’t pray for her own salvation. “I’ll not judge anyone,” she explained to a remote creator. “Everyone says that what my father has done is right. I don’t think so, but he is my father. I will marry, for I promised. Sometimes I’ve wanted to break that pledge. But I can’t. Perhaps, I’m an idealistic fool. Perhaps a fool, too, to think God will listen to my pleas. “I’ll marry,” she whispered again. Anne shifted on her knees. “And I’ll be strong. Perhaps through my marriage to Edward I can protect Richard somehow,” she sighed.
Anne bowed her head against the railing. “Tomorrow a part of me will die.”
CHAPTER 16
A gray December day dawned at Ambois. Rain spattered the courtyard. Low clouds wrapped damp wisps of fog about the chateau. It didn’t matter. The marriage would still take place in the small private chapel. Louis had indeed been as good as his word in suggesting the ceremony be unpretentious. His support of Warwick and the Lancastrians had cost him dearly. He had dispatched a decorative jeweled sword for Edward to wear for the occasion as he promised. It was a loan, of course. Queen Charlotte had sent her favorite lady-in-waiting, Elinore de Millay, to attend the bride, also a loan.
Under Elinore’s guidance, Anne stood in the center of a group of three chattering women who bathed and dressed her. Dames Agnes and Valerie were happy. Their long exile from court would soon be over. Elinore worked as one who knew what had to be done. In silence Anne raised her arms, turned, tilted her head and wondered whether they could hear the strong beating of her heart.
Dame Elinore slipped the linen shift about the girl and deftly arranged the soft wool hose. “You’re going to be a lovely bride, Lady Anne. Such hair, so long and delicate.” Anne thanked her with an indifferent smile.
“
A pity it’s raining.” Dame Valerie lifted the wedding gown down from its perch. “Diable a quartre, I don’t like evil omens.”
“Never mind, ma petite Damoiselle.” Dame Elinore adjusted the high waistline of the dress. “You’re as fair as the fairest skies.”
Dame Agnes shrugged. “Why fret about rain? ‘Tis the tumble in bed afterwards that matters.”
“Aye.” Elinore glanced at the bride-to-be, and then smiled at Agnes and said in honeyed tones, “the Prince won’t be dry as tinder like your old man must be, my Dame.”
Valerie giggled. Even the Countess, sitting and watching, smiled. Elinore was known for her curt tongue toward all except Queen Charlotte.
Staring down at the billowing skirts about her, Anne heard little of the talk. The gown was a rich tone of blue-green known as Angel’s Eye Velvet. Silk and velvet cinctures at the waist were trimmed with ermine. It was a beautiful dress. But to Anne, the gown may as well be a bed sheet.
Elinore gently patted the girl’s cheek. “Mademoiselle, I’m clever with paste and paint. Let me put a bit of color on your cheeks and eyes.” Anne nodded her approval.
“Perhaps you’d like some hot mead and fresh bread? It will give you strength, my dear.” Elinore bit her lips and added slowly, “you’re very thin.”
The Countess rose from the bench. Anne thought her mother looked sad today, but not as stricken as when they’d fled Warwick Castle.
“Anne, dearest child, you should eat. Please, for me.”
“Very well, mama.” I will get through this day, Anne vowed. I will hold back my tears, she said to herself. No one will know my true feelings. Except for my mother, none really care about my plight. Her sister Isabel enjoyed her marriage and even wore perfumes to bed. Anne reminded herself that women seldom married of their own choosing. She was no different.
Her mother took hold of Anne’s hand and held it while food was ordered. The other ladies spoke in whispers, barely audible above the rain. Anne watched the hourglass. When the sand reached the center line it would be noon. Noon. The hour of her doom.
At precisely that time she stood in the doorway of the chapel. The altar’s worn surface was covered by a small snatch of velvet. Squat candles burned unevenly in brass holders, smelling of mutton wax. The mitered and vested Grand Vicar of Bayeux waited. His crosier was blinking with gems, and his chasuble was elegantly draped. A small, twitching acolyte opened a side door and Edward stepped to the altar. Margaret was by his side. The Grand Vicar coughed slightly. Edward turned and looked for his bride.
Margaret of Anjou watched Anne move slowly down the aisle. She recalled herself at fifteen when she rode off to England with the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk to be a bride in a strange land. She remembered, too, her own shabby marriage in Titchfield Abbey. The King, even then, had been more monk than man. Her poor Henry. From the first she thought he needed to be cared for though he was already twenty-four.
Anne blocked out the presence of Margaret and the small group of onlookers from her mind. She stared blankly at the crucifix and the remote plaster Virgin behind it. Somewhere beyond them she pictured Richard in a green field dotted with wild flowers weaving clover for her hair. Her steps dragged and she hesitated. She heard the whispered murmur of consternation. Slowly, Anne turned and faced Edward. The Prince took her hand, pulling her to his side. Her skin was creamy as pearls; the pale gold hair flowed smoothly down her back. She looked like a wood sprite, delicate and ephemeral.
The Grand Vicar began the ceremony quickly. The power of Louis XI lurked behind this moment. It was his duty to see all was done properly. In rapid succession, while the Latin phrases rolled over their heads; the bridal couple knelt, exchanged vows, celebrated the Mass and were blessed. It was over. Edward and Anne were husband and wife.
She felt Edward helping her up. He bent down and kissed her. Anne was numb to his touch. She placed her fingertips lightly on the back of Edward’s hand, in the formal manner, and accepted the congratulations of the guests. The rain was coming down harder. Incense vapor hung thickly in the stifling air.
Later that evening, as was proper, the ladies robed the bride for the wedding night in a simple white dressing gown. Anne’s mother fastened the garment about her daughter, tying the traditional love knot in velvet ribbons.
“You’re all right?” The Countess’ fingers were clumsy with anxiety.
“Yes mama.” Anne paleness had given way to a feverish flush.
Her mother’s embrace was trembling, uncertain. The Countess wiped away tears with her sleeve. For the first time she could not rationalize the dreadful thing she and her husband were doing to Anne. Not with Anne standing there in bridal white, looking beyond hope. It was wrong, wrong from the beginning. She whispered desperately. “Oh child, be happy.”
Anne stared at her mother wondering if she could truly think it possible? “I’ll try, mama.”
In the bridal chamber, a fire filled the room with warmth and light. A bottle of wine and two crystal goblets stood on a small table.
Edward, wrapped in a dressing gown of dark red, inspected the room critically before he turned to his bride. “Well, the sword’s on its way back to Louis,” he jested to ease the moment. He poured a glass of wine, handed it to Anne, then filled his own. “I vow we’ll have a proper coronation someday to make up for this shabby wedding. “And I will buy you robes of gold cloth.” I’ll not be the miser Louis is.” He drank deeply.
“That is thoughtful, Edward. But a future king must also be prudent and wise. Your mother believes it would better to wait to share our wedding bed.” Anne hazarded a faint hope. “She might be right. A child now....”
“Yes”, Edward interrupted with a laugh, “my mother begged me all day not to take you to bed. She wants our marriage unconsummated, as though I were a monk, or like my saintly father. She has forgotten how it is to be young. I dismissed her pleading as folly.”
Anne forced a smile and strove for composure and calmness, remembering Fortescue’s mild and tactful advice to make this union more than simply a joining of flesh. She slowly sipped at the sharp beverage, glowing like blood in her crystal glass. She wanted to delay the inevitable. “We have a lifetime, Edward. Let me tell you about England.” The wine ran hotly through her near empty stomach. The room blurred. The heat from the fire burned feverishly against her cheeks.
“Finish your wine, wife”, Edward insisted. He resented her poise. His own need was strong, eager, ready. Fortescue had told him he must be courteous, and tender. But to Edward this was unmanly and weak. He was impatient and would have none of this. Undeterred by Anne’s attempt to make small talk, Edward stepped toward her and knocked the wine glass form her hand. “Come here, Anne.”
Slowly, while her numbed mind cried in protest, she came to him.
Deftly Edward undid the bridal knot and pulled the gown from her so she stood naked before him. He stepped back and studied all the lines of her young body. No man had a fairer bride. He dropped his own robe and pulled her down next to his own nude body and kissed her roughly. Her lips, warm and moist, tasted of sweetness. “You’re mine,” he said quietly to himself. The words reassured him. He repeated them in his mind. By God, she was finally his. He lifted her face so her hair fell about his arms.
Anne felt the heat of his embrace, the sweat on his body, the sudden, violent thrusts from his loins. She thought of the bulls, their eyes wild, giant bodies heaving, as they covered the cows. Animals didn’t need love. Anne knew this is how he would take her. It didn’t matter. Nothing he did mattered. She would not protest. Edward’s lust seemed insatiable as he ravished her crudely. She was helpless as he fulfilled his sexual fantasies throughout the night.
When the first light of a gray dawn filled the chamber, Edward finally slept. She moved away from him in the large bed and pulled the covers over herself, hiding her anguished body. She felt spent, utterly soiled. She dared not cry for it might waken him. Tears would change nothing. She was totally alone in body and in
soul. Then she slept in restless exhaustion.
When she awoke the sun was fully up and Edward was gazing upon her, smiling broadly. His first conquest was behind him. “Good morning wife. We have a glorious day ahead of us.” he said boastfully, as though the wedding night had been nothing but pleasant outing.
Anne merely nodded. Edward had claimed a part of that which made her Anne. But she was at least gratified that her essential being remained within her violated body. She would persevere.
CHAPTER 17
Warwick continued to re-establish his control of London and rebuild his support among the populous. He resumed his authorities as Captain of Calais, King’s Lieutenant of the Realm, Great Chamberlain of England and Lord High Admiral. The Earl had indeed succeeded in his Great Enterprise by sheer determination, guile and perseverance. He had restored the good name and glory of the Neville House, justifying, in his mind, all the treachery and betrayals that lay behind him.
But Warwick was uneasy about the reports that King Edward had been received by the Duke of Burgundy and, with his help, was preparing, even now, his return with Richard to reclaim his throne. He expressed this concern with deVere, Earl of Oxford, who had been by his side since their landing at Dartmouth. “My agents inform me that the Duke has supplied Edward with funds and is already preparing a fleet and organizing an army at the coastal town of Flushing. Only foul weather is keeping him from sailing.”
Oxford tried to be reassuring. “Do not fear m’Lord. He dare not land on our well-guarded southern shores. The French fleet in the Channel will thwart his every move.”
“Excellent,” Warwick replied. “And East Anglia and Yorkshire, on the eastern coast, will prove hostile to him, if the North Sea does not claim his boats first this time of year. Nevertheless, we must gather our forces and march north to secure the countryside. I will instruct the Duke of Clarence to gather Lancastrian supporters in the south of England and move north as well.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 8
