In the distance, sounds of Isabel singing could be heard. She had a high, sweet voice inclined to go flat.
George held his ground. “I suppose you want to wed Anne for love? You do not fool me my brother. And the lists burned in a fire a few nights ago, unfortunately. Scraps are all I could save. And Isabel knows nothing. She’s as worried as I.”
Richard choked in exasperation. He tasted bile and blamed himself. He’d not protected Anne.“
You might ask Buckingham. He considers Anne a threat to his influence with you,” George continued.
“He wasn’t the one who sent for Anne.” Richard circled closer to George. In the corner of the Hall, a green parrot screeched from his perch. He flapped his wings and emptied his bowels. Richard watched the droppings fall to the polished floor. “That’s what you are George, a pile of bird droppings.”
Richard was losing his self-control. He grabbed his brother and the frightened bird screamed. “Tell me where she is George, or you will not survive this day. And I will not be blamed.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You have no proof I was involved.”
Richard hesitated. True, he didn’t have a shred of evidence except Nan Fitz Hugh’s account about the ladies’ maid. It was more a feeling that this brother would readily abduct Anne and seclude her somewhere with someone in his employ. George had not hidden his desire to prevent their marriage any way he could. Richard pictured Anne tied in some damp hole, among the rats, dying perhaps of lung-fever or some other malady. He had to find her.
Furious, Richard took George by the shoulders and shook his taller brother. He wanted to put him on the rack and tear him limb from limb until he confessed and led him to Anne. With slow deliberation he lifted George up and hurled him across the room.
George pulled out his dagger. “Brother, don’t touch me again.”
Richard was on him in a second. He grabbed George’s wrist, twisted the knife free, bent his arm back, and slammed his head against the wall. George howled in pain. “Where is she? Tell me,” Richard demanded, “or I’ll break your arm.”
George tried to think fast. “I swear ‘fore God, I don’t know.” He thought of the huge inheritance involved if he could hold out. It was worth a few knocks. “Ask the Woodville Queen.” Richard detested the Woodvilles. Perhaps he’d take the bait. “You know the Queen would lie and put the blame on me.”
Suddenly, Isabel entered the room carrying a basket of flower clippings, “George, Richard, my God.” She thought it might be a friendly tussle. Men enjoyed such sport. Yet George was trembling and pale. The parrot was flapping in agitation. “What’s amiss?”
“Do you know where Anne is, Isabel?” Richard still held a moaning George in a firm grip.
“No. I have been quite worried.” Isabel was still perplexed at the scene. “George came to bed very late the night Anne disappeared at Windsor. I asked Ankarette if Anne had mentioned anything about planning to leave the castle, but she knows nothing. Isabel went across the room and settled the parrot on its perch.
“George would help find Anne if he could,” she said naively. George could do no wrong in her world.
Richard relaxed his grip. He couldn’t do further harm to George in front of his wife. “George is the last person I would ask for assistance. Let me know if you hear anything Isabel. I’ll be back.”
You will regret this transgression brother,” Clarence whined. “The King will hear of this.”
Isabel looked from one brother to the other. “It must all be some dreadful misunderstanding.” Her face brightened. “Anne will surely be back if she went away. She didn’t take anything with her. No woman leaves her clothes behind.”
The last remark gave Richard more reason to believe that Anne had not run away on her own, but was forced from her room at Windsor that dreadful night.
II. CHAPTER 16
The kitchen was at the north end of the cook shop. Its cone-shaped roof was topped by a louver for ventilation. The oven was deeply recessed. The spit, turned by the youngest son, had a small stool beside it. A great meat axe was attached to one wall near a pestle resting on a big marble mortar. All the implements were gigantic. Tom smiled proudly. “I think to join the Grocers Company. I be set fine thanks to the Duke.”
Tom was a big man. Anne remembered how he’d towered in the doorway of the wine cellar with the torches behind him. Thick calves, thick arms, thick neck. A fine linked collar glistened on massive shoulders. Pleasure with himself suffused his face. “The Grocers Company is a well regarded company,” she said carefully.
“Cocks bones, girlie,” Tom was amused. “Such fine talk and ya be noticed. No talk.”
“As you say.” She looked around. “And what am I to do?”
“Betty’ll tell you. I’m thinkin’ you know nothin’ of cookin’ or anythin’ else.”
“Nothing.”
Betty appeared in the dawn’s feeble light. “I’ll tend her, Tom.” In her arms was a pile of fish. “Just brought these. Fresh an flappin’.” She gave Anne a shove. “Here be the cuttin’ board. Heads off. We save them there, in that pile. Still have a few back-door customers yer know.” Anne saw a pile of decaying apple peelings, bones, fish and animal parts, eggshells, and rat droppings.
“Yes, Betty.”
The knife was heavy. Anne severed the heads neatly. Then Betty fried what was left of the corpses. A few especially fine fish were first coated with batter. After the fish, she cleaned fowl, stirred rotted meat and vegetables together in a heavily spiced stew, and washed the morning utensils. Dizziness came and went. Once she almost fainted when her foot slipped in blood. But she was determined not to faint. As Anne worked, the brown serge dress she’d been given to wear became spotted with blood and grease. Her hair, bound under a cap as ordered, escaped in tendrils down her back.
When this day of eternity ended, she would take a knife. The thought drove her through the hours and weariness beyond knowing. John and Peter were there. They talked, but not to her. She could hear laughter and loud voices, sometimes singing, from the outer rooms; but she didn’t cross the kitchen doorstep. Her thoughts remained riveted on the knife.
At dark she had it, hidden beneath her skirt, tied to her leg with a piece of thong. It was easy. There were so many knives.
Betty looked at her without suspicion. “Well Annie, at least you’re not lazy. Tomorrow I’ll teach yer to stuff sausage. My specialty.”
“Yes, Betty.”
“Off yer go. Yer look half dead.”
Anne walked slowly up the stairs. The time was down to minutes now. She washed her hands and face in the common bucket. The family brush lay nearby, and for some reason she brushed her skirts, trying to clean them.
Alone, she sat on the straw pallet and waited. In a few moments everyone would be asleep. How still the house was. The streets outside were quiet too. A soft rain had begun to fall. Slowly, Anne untied the knife and ran a finger along its blade. How would Richard react? Would he ever know? A time to live and a time to die. She thought of Isabel’s baby and its tiny, cold hand. There was death. Twisted, blank-eyed faces stared at her again from the meadow of Tewkesbury. And that was death. A sudden elation steadied her hand. To never again know pain or fear or caring. The ultimate escape.
The church taught that suicide meant the loss of one’s soul. Strange she should think of that. She’d not been to confession in over a year. And with a shock, she realized that now she didn’t care about churchly doctrine. If we were the beloved children, and if God was All-powerful and Omnipotent, he would not allow such suffering in a world of His own creation. Despite these feelings, she said softly out of habit, “Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.” She crossed herself. The ritual was served. She’d done what she could do. Now then. The blade was pointed. Anne put it against the hollow of her throat.
Sharp. A little warm blood trickled down. Harder. She could not. The realization of self, her own awareness shook her, gripped he
r, and the knife fell from her hand.
She existed. She would continue to be. The silent words she spoke to herself were a promise. No easy way waited for her. She couldn’t escape. Though she might exist only in her own mind, it was enough. Just now she wasn’t much. But still she was. Restless dreams were a fever in her brain the remainder of the night. In the morning, Anne told Betty she scratched herself while asleep.
The following days were all the same. Anne’s hands grew rough, her akin sallow. Her hair smelled of smoke and hung limp on her shoulders. Tiny cuts festered on fingers and wrists. Beneath the brown dress, her body was stick-like. She tried to eat more, especially the better food, but there was never time. Betty drove her sons hard and, now that Anne was considered well, she didn’t spare her the same stick used on the boys. The welts across Anne’s shoulders and buttocks never healed before they were replaced by new ones. She made mistakes. She was never fast enough. One day, not thinking, she let the family bread over-rise so that it fell flat and tough. Betty slapped Anne until her cheeks swelled. Her jaw felt broken. It was Tom who finally stopped the beating.
As it grew colder, Anne thought of the lung fever she had in France. Another incident now would probably be fatal. She explained this to Tom and pleaded for more food and warm clothing.
Tom was finely dressed these days and went often to the Grocers’ Company Hall, thanks to Clarence’s dole. He often complained about prices, the high-nosed Mercers and Vintners. His role as a prosperous merchant made him softer. “More food? Another blanket? Surely, and I’ll tell Betty to let up on you.” He grew thoughtful. “You be a pretty lass. I wish an’ ya could serve food.”
“I wouldn’t need to talk, if you would let me, Tom.” She said it thoughtfully. She dared not let him see any eagerness.
“Oh aye. Nor do I serve th’ King.” He laughed loudly. “But someone yer know might see you.”
Anne shook her head. “I never lived in London. No one knows me.”
“I saw yer father lying dead and naked in St. Paul’s. Sometimes ya look like him. I can see it. Others will too.”
“No one else would notice.” She pushed back her hair. She dared not force the hope.
The next day Tom made up his mind to keep Anne hidden. He began to worry about her being discovered. He dragged her roughly by the arm to her little closet room. She saw sweat on his fat upper lip, the quivering of his chin.
“You stay here, Lady. I’ll have the boys bring up food and water.”
The simple courtesy jolted her. Something had happened. “But why?” she asked.
“By all the saints, Lady, ya must know the Duke o’ Gloucester is tearin’ London apart lookin’ for ya.”
“But it’s been weeks.”
“Aye. An’ it was kept right quiet. The Duke o’ Clarence swore he had no knowledge of you. So Gloucester sent men with the King’s seal to Ireland an’ all Clarence’s lands. Now he’s scrapin’ London. Any dolt on the Duke’s household list ....”
“And you once served the Duke of Clarence.”
“Aye. My thinkin’ is he do burn those lists ‘fore Gloucester gets to them.”
“Richard of Gloucester is Constable of England. Do you want him finding me here? Think, Tom. Get word to Gloucester. Once safe, I’ll not gainsay you.”
“I dare not. I tell you. Clarence would be on me. God’s nails.” He looked at Anne as if seeing her for the first time. “An’ Betty, the boys. Betty, she’d skin me for bein’ daft.”
Anne didn’t answer. She knew that there was a very high chance Richard wouldn’t find her in the maze of Cheapside.
“Lady, you must eat more. An’ your hair. Christ an’ the saints. I must send ya back to the kitchen or the boys’ tongues will nag. But I’ll tell Betty to ease off. I’ll tell her the Duke o’ Clarence is gettin’ hot for ya.” He was shaking. Circles of perspiration darkened his armpits. If Anne was found, he didn’t want Gloucester to find that he had mistreated her.
“If you’re wise, you’ll tell Gloucester.”
“Lady, you’re dreamin’. The Duke o’ Clarence wod kill me sure.”
She nodded. “The Duke of Gloucester may kill you, too.”
“I know.” With a visible effort, Tom gripped his mounting fears. “I’ll chance it. Stay in the kitchen, Lady.”
It was easier for Anne after that. Richard was looking. The thought set her heart beating excitedly once more. She only had to work at the lightest tasks. Betty fed her the best fish dipped in the choicest batter. She was given a fresh dress, wash water, a sliver of soap and a comb.
Peter, the oldest boy, noticed immediately. “Yer a pretty wench.”
He said it lustfully, with adult understanding.
Anne tried to distract him. “I feel better, Peter. My head must have healed.” Anne pondered whether he might take a message in secret for her and then dismissed the thought. She knew his price. It was in every glance. Not yet. Possibly she would become desperate enough.
II. CHAPTER 17
On a cold day in early November there was a commotion in the alley behind the cook shop. “May ol’ Nick, stew yer in hell, pig!” Someone yelled in pain. A thud and splash followed.
Betty cautiously looked out the upper half of the double door. A tall ruffian in tattered minstrel garb with a battered hat was delivering a second kick to the groin of a fallen man who was doubled up with pain.
Anne saw over Betty’s shoulder that the battered man in the gutter was old and dirty; trying to crawl away from his tormentors. One man with a knife was on top of him. “Goin’ somewhere, Lancastrian? Fond o’ rottin’ Warwick?” He laughed sarcastically.
Betty pulled open the lower half of the kitchen door. “In here quick,” she shouted.
The two ruffians were startled. They dropped their hold on the man and he landed at their feet, half lying across the sill of the door. Betty quickly pulled him in and slammed the door.
“Back-door trade,” she said to Anne. “An’ it be shame yer bring on yourself, Thomas Malory,” she said to the stunned man.
The old man at their feet grinned with blackened gums. “Food, aye. I’ve a penny.”
Betty took the penny. “A fine knight of the dung heap,” she shrugged, and returned to the oven and skillet.
The old man grubbed at the refuse. In one hand he held a decayed fish head. Apple peelings dangled from the other.
Anne bent over him, sickened by his stench. “Are you truly Thomas Malory?”
His eyes were bleary. “He’s dead.”
She understood his meaning. “But were you not Thomas Malory?”
“Aye, a lifetime ago. In Warwickshire. A fine gentleman.” He spat. “Don’t remember much about him. Oh, such a fine gentleman and scholar.”
Anne saw that his feet were wrapped in rags. His clothes, a ruin of rips and stains, covered him loosely. A sack over bones. Dirt was ground into his nails, his hair, and the crevices of his body. Spittle and decayed food crumbs matted his hair.
Anne went casually to the cask of beer and drew off a cup. “He has another penny, Betty,” she said.
The woman nodded. It was the busiest time of day. The spit sizzled, rough voices called from the public rooms.
Anne gave the beer to Malory and, hiding it with her skirt, a piece of white bread. He looked up startled, dim recognition in his eyes.
Anne put a finger to her lips and shook her head. His eye were less dim now. Even as he drank the beer she could see a shadow of the man he once was.
He belched, pinched a flea and scratched. Anne moved about the kitchen, waiting. When Malory was not so hungry and not quite so defeated, Anne thought she must try again to reach him. She saw him watching her even as he continued to pick fleas from his hair and beard.
When Betty was checking the oven, Anne drew closer. “Thomas Malory, please listen.” He was startled, afraid. “I’m Anne Neville of Warwick. You must tell Richard of Gloucester where I am.”
He shrank back against the wall, the remai
ning refuse spilling into his lap. “Warwick’s dead. I saw him at St. Paul’s.”
“Yes. I’m his daughter. You met me once at Middleham.”
“Middleham? Was I in prison there? No, it was Colchester Castle. God’s nails, I don’t remember. Why should I?”
She took a quick glance around. The boys were serving. Betty was too busy to watch. “You told us stories of King Arthur at Middleham.”
Across the stained face a small flicker of knowledge passed. “When Warwick ruled last winter I lodged in this street. I fought for the Lancastrians, for Warwick. If the King’s men find me I’ll go to Newgate Prison for that. So what good is Warwick to me?” His head dropped to his shoulders, his eyes closed. “Go away girl, you’re from a life I once had.”
Anne shook him. “Malory, listen. The stories of King Arthur. Remember? You told those stories to me when I was a child. For the love of God....”
Malory didn’t open his eyes. His mouth sagged. Anne could barely hear him. “I remember.... you were sitting on cushions by a boy with dark hair. No. It can’t be. I died. So long ago.”
Anne turned from him and began to stir some soup. Betty mustn’t suspect. If anything appeared odd, the woman would tell Tom and all would be lost. Malory half lay by the doorway. He snored now. Spittle ran down his beard. She remembered that he once represented Warwickshire in Parliament. It was possible to die and still live. Anne knew that sensation. She’d spent a moment in that lost land. Too much. Life was too much. Yet also knew that she must get through to him. Her life depended on it.
Anne knelt beside him, pretending to provoke him. “The other penny, man.” She said loudly. He came awake, dazed. In that moment his eyes focused on her. He leaned close. “You know, I want to hide behind those stories forever.”
He attempted to straighten up, staggered, and holding to the wall, pulled himself to his feet. “I owe you a penny.”
Betty turned from her pile of fried meats. “An’ yer owe me your life.”
Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen Page 17
