No one even glanced at Anne.
Somerset was reborn that evening. He was eager to re-enter the conflict. “Recruits can be raised in the West Country. When we join the Welsh, we will be unstoppable.”
“My son must not fight in the battles to come.” Margaret knew that Prince Edward’s survival was paramount to her regaining of the Kingdom.
“Of course I must.” Edward’s face flushed with annoyance. “Would you have me deemed a coward? A King-to-be?” His mother’s protectiveness bit into his vitals. She wanted him chaste and craven.
Somerset tried to be reassuring.“ He will be our inspiration, Madame, and we’ll keep him safe even in the press of combat.”
“I can take care of myself,” Edward scowled at the Duke, “and to hell with you all.”
Anne stood slowly and walked toward the fireplace mantle at the end of the dining hall. Moving his bench forward, Sir John Fortescue let her pass as Margaret’s words grated in the air. “What good is she now? She can offer us nothing,” referring to Anne.
Turning at the hearth, Anne looked at them. The oak board from which they had eaten had been cleared and she noticed how white her hands were against the dark wood. She saw John Fortescue smile in understanding, but she couldn’t return his gentle salute.
“Well, wife?” Edward cocked his head toward Anne. “Do you have something to contribute?”
Anne looked from one to the other. Indeed, how could she convince them of anything? Wenlock might have done so, but he’d ridden away that evening to take the tidings to her mother at Portsmouth. “I know the Yorkists,” she began. “They will not give way easily.”
“Aye, we know of the Neville love for York,” Margaret laughed. “You are all the same.”
Anne ignored her. “You didn’t consider George, Duke of Clarence. No doubt he now fights with King Edward and Richard. So the three brothers are together again. I know them. They are unbeatable, as Barnet as proven.”
Edward laughed. “Anne, you’re a fool. Anyone can be beaten.”
“Yes! Possibly even you.”
Edward was startled at the unthinkable suggestion. “You speak with the tongue of a witch.”
Anne continued. “You see the possibilities or you don’t. We may not even reach Wales. It’s a long march. The Yorkists move quickly.” I’ve given you my opinion. Believe what you will. It matters not to me.”
Edward grabbed her arm. “By God, wife, you would put a curse on our cause. Leave us.”
His grasp made her arm twitch with pain. “Edward, I speak thus because you are my husband and I don’t want to live with the knowledge I sent you to your death.”
Anne left in silence. In the tiny chamber allotted to her, solitude brought no sleep. Questions flooded her mind. What did Isabel think of George’s defection? How would her mother react when she learned of her husband’s death? Where would she be when all was over? In exile again? How serious were Richard’s wounds? Her father and uncle were dead at least two days now. Had anyone dreamed of such a moment when the tide of fortune would change so quickly against them? It was only the second night in England but the turmoil raged about her. She was at the center of a storm, unable to control the powerful forces vying for the kingdom. Anne tossed restlessly on the narrow cot. At least, she thought, whatever was to be would be in her beloved England.
II. CHAPTER 3
The Lancastrian army moved slowly north from Cerne Abbey, across the swelling land of Dorset Heights to Somersetshire, the Polden Hills, and the Brue River Valley. Small detachments were sent in the direction of London, pretending to be advance scouts in the hope Yorkist spies would assume that the entire army marched toward London and force King Edward to keep his forces there to defend the city. In reality, Margaret urged her forces to press for Wales.
“We must unite with the Tudors,” she shrilled. Her voice grew hoarse arguing with her captains. “Look at the men who come to our banners. Untrained. No horses. All they want is booty,” she shouted at her captains, Somerset and Devon, “plundering the Episcopal Palace at Wells like a bunch of thieves.”
Lord Devon, who had joined her at Wells with Lord Cornwall, thought Margaret was near hysteria. “Madame, it is difficult to live off the land in early spring. The roads are furrowed. Several supply wagons have overturned. We should get supplies at Bath, however.”
The city of Bath grudgingly gave them some food and supplies. Moving on to Bristol, Margaret went to the mayor and city council. “Gentlemen, Christian gentlemen,” her voice had become a rasping whisper. “We desperately need food. I’ll remember your kindness when I am victorious.” She saw puzzlement on their faces. “Some money and artillery? We’re destitute. A Prince of England, grandson of Henry V begs your help. For the love of God.” They gave her the money and artillery for the promise of future rewards.
Continuing on northward, the army, a long, loosely strung line of semi-armed men, struggled the thirty-four miles to Gloucester. The commander of that city and castle, Lord Richard Beauchamp, slammed tight the gates. Margaret had no time to negotiate. A messenger suddenly appeared on horseback in an excited state. He informed her that King Edward, at the head of a sturdy army, sped westward across England in forced marches, planning to engage the Lancastrians in immediate battle.
Sitting exhausted on her horse after the long day’s march, Anne heard, with amazement, the messenger explain the unfolding events, coughing with dust and obvious alarm. “Edward of York left London and foully denounced your Grace at Abingdon.” Margaret listened, not an eyelid blinked. The Prince kept hitting a tree with his riding whip, its snap interspersing the hurried words of the messenger. “With his brothers, he marches across the country in great haste. It was he who sent the agents ahead to Gloucester with the order to close the gates to your forces,” the messenger continued. “Edward of York intends to engage us in combat ‘fore we can unite with the Welsh,” the messenger finished in a rush.
Somerset gloomily eyed the slovenly ranks of ill-equipped malcontents and peasants who called themselves an army. He thought of his kinsmen who had died for Lancaster at Barnet. How elegant they were compared to these ragtags.
“We must cross the Severn River into Wales, if not here, then at Tewkesbury.” Margaret’s voice was strained with fatigue. “I’ll not risk battle in this condition. You can see the army’s not fit,” she chastised Devon and Somerset. Her hands were clenched, the nails cutting into her skin. Her body ached with weariness and dread.
“The Yorkists must be tired, too.” Prince Edward spoke as he sat astride the finest steed in the army. He alone was exhilarated. “Those renegades at Gloucester will regret they turned us away.”
Anne looked from one to the other in silence. During the entire journey she’d been treated as though she was nonexistent. She rode alone, alone in sorrow, and alone in hope. To make a pretense now, that she cared for Lancaster, would have been hypocritical of her. She tried often not to dwell on matters, but to let the warm spring sun, which had come with May, lull her in hazy forgetfulness.
But past became present when Prince Edward was near. Amboise burned in her memory. He was always part of her uneasy dreams in which his face merged with that of her father’s. Yet he was real enough; Anne could hear his muttered curses about her father even though he was now dead.
If the Lancastrians did not prevail, she could spend the rest of her life exiled in France with Edward, without country, without love. Surely that too was death.
While Margaret and her captains contemplated their next move, Anne turned from the gray walls of Gloucester and viewed the countryside. In the fields, sheep grazed; there was the tinkle of a bell-wether as the largest of the creatures lumbered through the green, spring grass. Wildflowers, yellow celandine, violets, and the vivid blue speedwells bloomed in bright patches along with many daisies. In the far distance she could see farmers shading their eyes as they watched the staggering army pass as though like a funeral procession. How strange, she thought wear
ily, that she should be one of this motley array.
From Gloucester, exhausted and unfed, they dragged on to Tewkesbury, forty-four miles from the respite at Bristol. The weather continued unseasonably hot; the road became even more rocky and dangerous. Carts could hardly move because of the deep ditches and many hedges. Late in the afternoon, the massive Norman Tower of Tewkesbury Abbey became plainly visible in the distance, casting a long shadow at sundown. The army refused to go further. Even the Duke of Somerset, his mercurial personality sifting the possibilities, agreed that they should stay where they were, for it was a good position, and take what God would offer.
Anne wondered, as she had at Angiers, whether God cared ought for the Enterprise of England now that it was in the hands of Margaret of Anjou. She wondered, too, if Richard, despite his wounds, would be part of the rapidly approaching Royal forces?
Standing to one side, Anne watched the sluggish disorder as the army arrived at the outskirts of Tewkesbury. The exhausted men didn’t make camp. Some fell on the ground where they stopped, as though drunk. A few plodded to the high ground known as “The Gastons” with the town of Tewkesbury behind them. Some crawled to where the Swillbrook ran on one side of the small hill. Others dropped with their horses beside the foaming Avon. They were deaf to any commands from their captains, Somerset and John Wenlock, who had rejoined them that day, trying to fashion some sort of defense. Men simply shook their heads and would not move.
A rider approached in the distance. Wenlock had returned. As he neared, Anne could see the hopelessness on his face. He dismounted, kissed her hands. “Your mother sends loving greetings in spite of her sorrow, Princess. She wishes you were with her.”
“And you also, Sir John. Not on a battlefield.”
“I’m needed.” Wenlock looked back at the scraggly, scattered army. “Much needed, in your case.”
She put her hand on his sleeve. “Sir John, don’t run headlong into battle for my sake. Tomorrow, when the Yorkists will surely come upon us, it will be a day of great danger for you. Be not in the forefront.”
“Princess, don’t worry for me. Wiltshire is marching with other forces to join us. And you will be Queen someday after our victory. Remember, the Yorkists must charge up those same foul roads we climbed so painfully today. I have it on good authority we outnumber them by at least three thousand men.”
Anne shook her head and looked beyond Wenlock toward the south where the battle would likely be. So close. It seemed any moment Yorkist banners might appear on the skyline. “Sir John, what was done with the bodies of my father and Uncle John?”
“The bodies, lying in coffins, were shown to the people of London at St. Paul’s.” Wenlock swallowed hard. He did not want to describe their mutilated, naked condition. “King Edward of York must prove them dead, you understand. They were then given honorable burial at Bisham Abbey.”
“My paternal grandparents lie there too, Sir John.” She gazed southward. “So they sleep. Beyond all this, beyond caring.” Anne was silent for a moment. “And King Henry of Lancaster?”
“Back in the Tower.” Wenlock wiped perspiration and road dust from his forehead. “It’s said that your father-in-law understands none of what has passed. His mind still wanders.” Anne nodded. So he too had escaped in his own way. “Where do we spend this night?”
“A small house of religion at Gupshill will be available and, if there is a battle at dawn, riders will easily keep you informed,” Wenlock smiled, “and hopefully bring you news of our victory.”
“It should be safe enough,” she agreed.
Anne took Wenlock’s hand. It was firm and strong, like her father’s. “May God be with you, Sir John.”
“I recall our days as children, Anne.” Wenlock hesitated, went on. “In those days we all trusted one another. Now in you, Princess, rests all the worth of the Lancastrian cause.” He stopped abruptly as Edward rode up. Only for Anne, Warwick’s daughter, would he lift a sword; not for this proud ass and his demon mother.
The Prince’s face was flushed with exertion and excitement. “Wenlock, you’re needed with the men.” He dismissed Sir John with a wave of his riding crop. “Come, wife, you’ll not sleep in camp tonight.”
“Yes, I know. Sir Wenlock told me, at Gupshill. Do we leave now?”
“Aye. I’ll escort you. A sorry bit of horseflesh you have to ride on,” he added, ruefully.
Edward’s annoyance increased as Sir John helped Anne mount the drooping nag. “God be with you, dear friend,” she said to the knight. Their hands separated slowly.
“He’s a dung-heap. I’d think even the flies would follow him.” Edward watched Wenlock ride away. “He supports one side, then the other. A dying fish could flip no more.”
“He’s a good friend to our family.” Anne glanced indignantly at Edward. The Prince hadn’t come to her since her sickness. The ride to Gupshill was but a short distance. At the gate by the low, uneven stone wall that encircled the squat house and dusty yard, Anne turned to him.
“Edward, listen to me.” It was difficult to speak above the scratching and cheeping of the chickens roaming in the dirt. A mangy hound watched from the gate. She had to reach out to him. She had to live with herself. “The Yorkists are fierce fighters. Edward of York like ten men in battle. And his brother, Richard of Gloucester, will never retreat. He will die for his brother first. George of Clarence is ripe with hate and revenge. They lead a disciplined army. They understand war.”
Edward grinned down at Anne, sitting tall on his horse. “A Queen-to-be should have a more fighting attitude.” He dismounted and lifted her down. “Think of an apple filled with worms, rotten and brown at the core. So is York. Tomorrow we will crack skulls and brains will spatter. By mid-day you can visit their bodies in Bloody Meadow.” His gruesome descriptions caused Anne to shudder. “Do you fear for your cousins, wife?”
Her throat was dry. “I fear for all. Tomorrow will be a day of dying.” Anne replied. Do you really long for tomorrow’s dawn, Edward?”
“Of course! Do you not wonder that I do?” Edward then vented feelings held back for too long. “The Yorkists have kept me from my homeland for nine long years. My mother coddled me incessantly, almost to insanity. Tomorrow I ride toward my own destiny. I will avenge my banishment, and that of my mother, with the blood of Yorkists. Your father used us for his so-called ‘Enterprise of England’ to further his own purposes, pretending that his influence with the King of France would be in the interest of Lancaster. Well he is dead, curse his soul. Now we will use you to whatever advantage the Neville name will avail us to our own cause. When I return with the crown on the tip of my sword, henceforth the name of Lancaster will be revered throughout the land.”
His rage spent, the Prince mounted his horse and rode off into the darkness. Anne was starting to raise her hand in a gesture of farewell, but Edward was not looking back. She felt pity for him and sorry for his inability to know compassion, forgiveness or love, instead of revenge and hate. So now, thought Anne, she would be a pawn again in a different game with a different family obsessed with desire to rule the Kingdom. And tonight she must live with the Prince’s mother who fostered the hate in her son and embodied the dark side of life itself.
Slowly she walked toward the low, dark doorway of the religious house in Gupshill. Two monks bowed nervously and made room for her to pass. She reflected on their bare feet and smelled the damp decaying rushes of the small parlor mingled with the sharper stench of rancid meat.
God be merciful, she thought miserably. Richard must be so near. Oh, be careful, my love, her heart pleaded. Tomorrow when the whirlwind pulled them all into the vortex perhaps she would see him again.
Later in the evening, Margaret joined her. Anne had been given the same room as her mother-in-law, while the Countess of Devonshire and Lady Katherine Vaux were in a smaller, adjacent chamber. Anne was relieved that there would be others close by.
Long after the supper of half-spoiled, spiced meat, Marg
aret knelt at the hard, wooden altar in the room, her beads falling in clicking rhythm from her fingers. She’d sent her ladies away, ignoring Anne. The corded veins in her neck and hands bulged. Her red-rimmed eyes were tightly closed. She continued her prayers even when the candle burned low and sputtered out. Watching from among the blankets on a square box bed, Anne wondered if the woman would stay up all night. Scouts had brought word the Yorkists were closing in. The battle would surely begin in the early morning while the world hovered between night and day.
Anne clasped her own hands in tense anguish. God forgive her for the questions that filled her mind. If Prince Edward lived in defeat, she would accompany him back to France in exile where he would detest her as the symbol and cause of his failure. The faint pity was gone, vanquished by memories of the past year. If the Prince lived in victory, it surely meant death to Richard. If Richard lived, he might no longer care for her. How strong was love?
Regularly, Anne turned the hourglass. At midnight she said, “Madame, you should try and sleep. You’ll be better able to face what will come this day.”
Margaret stirred and shifted, seemingly surprised that someone else was there. Her face hardened into its accustomed lines. “What care you? You probably pray for the death of my son.”
“Madame, I’ve never prayed for the death of anyone.”
Margaret shifted again upon the prie-dieu, and though her eyes were fixed upon the wooden crucifix above it, her words were addressed to Anne. Margaret, too, released pent-up anger. “Your father has put my son and our cause in grave danger. Warwick was to secure England before our return. Instead he failed, and my Henry is once again in the Tower. King Louis abandoned Warwick, and his own son-in-law, the Duke of Clarence, deserted him to fight with the Royal forces. Tomorrow’s battle should not have been necessary. I have led many battles in my day, daughter of Warwick. The day will be bloody. I know how terribly men die when swords cut them down.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 11
