Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

“I’ll thank you in my grave.” Malory turned and with a swaggering motion, he was out the door.

  Anne stood there shattered. He hadn’t really remembered. Would he come back?

  She looked uneasily at Betty. “Odd,” she began.“ I didn’t understand half of what he said,” she said innocently.

  Betty wiped her hands on a large apron and, handing Anne a knife, began slicing at the meat. “Cut small pieces, Anni.”

  Anne hesitated to ask. “Betty, why did you take in that old man?”

  “Oh, we be Lancastrians too, once. Never cared much one-way or other. But Tom there, he’s got to be in fine with his Duke o’ Clarence. Then the Duke up and changes to York. We changed mighty fast.” She laughed,

  “And he did you a favor or something?”

  Betty squinted through smoke-filled eyes. “I guess yer could say so. He had some plate. Good stuff. Stole it, like as not. Gave it to Tom for food. Addled thing to do. Real plate mind ya.”

  “Silver?”

  “Aye, a dish an’ a chalice, right pretty. We sold it for a grand price. Never know what th’ beggar might come up with next. He can be quite the proper fellow when he fancies.”

  Anne nodded and chopped the meat. It had been a chance. She’d failed. How bloody the meat was. Still, Malory might come back. Tomorrow or the day after. Sometime. Her hands were sticky with blood. Many times before in this kitchen she’d simply wiped them dry. Tonight it was as if the blood wouldn’t rub off. It was a troubling omen.

  II. CHAPTER 18

  At Baynard’s Castle, the family home in London, Richard cursed himself. He’d handled George like an oaf. No longer could he shake secrets from his brother as he had when they were children. He’d been a fool to try. He should have gotten George very drunk and gently pried knowledge out of him, like taking bones from a fish, carefully, one at a time. Now George hid from him. He sent word he was sick, feverish, and totally unable to talk.

  Richard thought with agonized alarm how cold the weather was getting. At Baynard’s, surrounded by richness and the waving ostrich feathers left over from his mother’s last visit, he tried to plan. Where else could he search? The houses of London, one by one? He might still miss her. And London’s citizens were an independent populous, always quick to assert their rights. Not that he gave a damn now. He’d failed Anne, promised to keep her safe. What if he never found her? How could he go through the years not knowing what had happened to her? His wretchedness was compounded with self-hate. If she came to doubt his love, it was his fault. She’d already been through so much. He prayed each night for another chance and felt that God wouldn’t listen when he’d already been given his Love once and lost her.

  Richard began to organize his men for a house-by-house search. He knew they were disgruntled. They had already investigated every likely place she could possibly be. He didn’t care. He paid them well. He was afraid they’d miss Anne even if they saw her, and she might not be able to let them know if she saw them. He would continue searching if it meant burrowing through the dregs of Newgate Prison. Suddenly, he heard a commotion in the courtyard of the castle and, looking out the castle window, he observed his men escorting a disheveled man from the grounds. Curious, he went to investigate.

  Back in Cheapside, Tom came to the cook shop after Evensong when the streets had grown quiet. Sweat stains spread in splotches on his new velvet suit. His eyes were furtive. He sat down heavily and watched Betty cleaning up. “There’s a great pother ‘bout a Anne o’ Warwick,” he said.

  Betty slopped water over the floor and began to mop it down. “Why now? I hear she’s been missin’ for months. Nobles. Got to be frettin’ over some local trouble. ‘Tis not enough we have no peace. Now the King’s brothers are at each other.”

  Tom regarded her gloomily. “Clarence ain’t no match for Gloucester.” His thick lips quivered. “Gloucester be Constable.”

  “What matter?” Betty slopped the water. “Yer Clarence’s man and well paid for it. Let ‘em snap at each other. It be nothin’ to us.”

  Tom nodded slowly. His hands, clenched on his lap, shook nervously. “Gossip.” He picked up a beer mug and gulped down the beer. “A pox on them all.”

  Anne continued to hope. There was a constant sense of Richard’s nearness. Yet, how could he know her whereabouts? She asked herself this question a thousand times. Malory was a confused, drunken man when he left here. As a previous Warwick supporter, he wouldn’t dare go to Richard. Even if he tried, Richard’s men wouldn’t take him seriously. Yet her cheeks flushed hot with anticipation. Calling herself a fool, she tried to clean her hair, scrape the dirt form her nails, and remove the stains from her dress. She cursed the hope even as it grew stronger.

  In late November, it was still dark when Betty woke her on St. Clement’s Day. Already bells had begun to ring.

  “Annie, get to th’ kitchen. Tom wants you.” The woman’s voice came from the shadowed darkness.

  “Yes, Betty.” Holy Virgin, something was happening.

  In the kitchen, Tom paced about. His jowels bounced against his hunched shoulders. Stubble stood black on gray skin.

  “There be men out there. No livery. No faces I’ve ever seen.”

  Betty looked from Anne to her husband. “Cock’s bones! What’s this business?”

  “She be Anne o’ Warwick,” Tom told Betty for the first time. He turned so abruptly he bumped the wall, rattling the pans. “Gloucester must know. By all the bleedin’ bastards in hell, how did he find out?”

  Betty gasped. She swung on her husband. “So this be the great business. Puttin’ yourself ‘tween the two Dukes.”

  “Gloucester can’t be sure she’s here. He needn’t find out.” Tom was suddenly close. “I’ll kill her. A small body. No proof.”

  “They’ll tear you to pieces on the rack.” Anne said each word slowly, “before they hang you. The Duke of Gloucester is in charge of executions.”

  “He can’t know.” Tom’s voice was a despondent groan.

  Betty was white with shock. “Anne o’ Warwick,” she repeated it half in dread, half in disbelief. “We got t’ kill her.” The woman grabbed a cleaver. “She’ll die easy, Tom.”

  “And you will die hard.” Anne stood with her back to the cold hearth. “Malory knows me. He told Gloucester as I asked.”

  “Malory?” Betty went limp.

  “You know. Th’ old Lancastrian, from Warwickshire, silver plate, back door, scrap heap,” she mocked.

  Tom slumped across the cutting board. “Clarence will kill me iffn’ I let yer go. I swear on the grave o’ me mother, I never meant no harm Lady.”

  Betty came toward Anne. “We’ll tie her up. Hide her. She’s guessin’ ‘bout Malory. Nothing but a sot.” Suddenly her face brightened. “He’d not go to Gloucester. He’d be Newgate bait. She’s fakin’, Tom.”

  Tom straightened up. “Aye, hide ‘er in the wine cellar. She’ll git Lung Fever an’ be dead in a few days, natural as can be.”

  Anne stood very still. She mustn’t show fear. “Let me go and nothing will happen. I’ll persuade Richard to let you alone.” She used his first name with a deliberate soft inflection.

  They both stared at her. Light was coming in the small window now. She raised her face toward it. “Free me. I promise, as Anne of Warwick, you’ll not be harmed.”

  “An’ if Clarence finds out?”

  “Tell him Gloucester found me. As he surely will. Clarence will not cross his brother further.”

  Betty still held the cleaver. “Aye, th’ Dukes will fair well. ‘Tis us who get th’ noose. I should have let ya die.” Her eyes were wild with hate.

  Anne watched the blade. So sharp. “Betty, don’t be a fool.” She knew Betty was near to breaking. “Think of your sons. Think of their fate.” The situation was critical. It was a matter of life or death for her and she had no choice in what was about to happen.

  II. CHAPTER 19

  At that moment, the door exploded inward. Men were everywhere.
Horses whinnied. Pots and pans crashed and clanged like all the bells of London. Richard pushed through the tumult, searching.

  “Anne!” he called.

  She reached to him, and he folded her trembling body in his arms. “Richard. Thank God.” She began to cry. She saw, as if on some stage, Tom and Betty being bound with ropes and chains. Betty screamed for mercy. Anne remembered the woman dripping water into her parched mouth. “Richard, they were only tools. The wife saved my life and didn’t know who I was until this morning.”

  Richard glanced at them, and she saw how hard his expression had become. “Well paid tools, Anne.” He nodded to his men. “Take them to Newgate.”

  “Was it Malory who told you, Richard?”

  “Yes. He’d never have gotten past my men, but two fellows I brought from Middleham recognized him.” He embraced Anne and kissed her repeatedly. “God, Anne, to lose you twice.” He picked her up and carried her outside to his horse. “By every saint, I’ll not lose you again.”

  Richard took Anne to the Collegiate Church of St. Martin le Grand, near St. Paul’s, and the chief sanctuary in London. As such, it was crowded with political refugees as well as criminals, debtors, and the confused. She saw none of that. Richard arranged for a chamber to be set-aside for her. It was a monk’s cell, but comfortable. A bed had replaced the monastic cot, tapestries hung on the walls, and a brazier warmed the small room.

  Richard’s mother was already there. Cicely stared at her niece. “Holy Virgin, we need soap and water. And food.” She glanced at Richard. “I’ll tend her.”

  “Not yet.” Anne held firm to Richard. “In a while, please, just let us be alone for a while.”

  “Come back in an hour or two, mother.” Richard kept his arm tightly around Anne.

  Cicely nodded in understanding and swept out. Two guards stepped into place as the door thudded.

  Richard held her, stroking her hair. “It’s really over, my Love. You don’t need to be afraid, ever again.” All the tears of the last months filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  She held on to him and cried as a child, shaking with relief and joy. She knew she was filthy. Her hair was thick with kitchen grease. Yet he held her close and caressed the tears from her cheeks.

  They sat quietly on the edge of the bed. Cicely had returned twice, and each time Richard sent her away. Now he took Anne’s cut and dirty hands in his. “Sweeting, can you forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You have rescued me from the depths of hell once again.”

  He shook his head. “But all those weeks of suffering. The two bastards I fathered. You must have heard of them.”

  Anne hesitated. “Yes, the children. Clarence told me. That hurt. But what is done is done.”

  “Anne, it meant nothing. I was very lonely. And when I learned of your marriage to the Prince, I was devastated.” He looked at her scarred hands and the still-visible bruise on her cheek. “It pained me not to tell you sooner, but you were so vulnerable and had already suffered so much. I was waiting for the right moment.”

  “I think, perhaps, pain is part of our fate.” She remembered her night of total despair in the cook shop. “When we find joy we must hold it close, Richard, cherish every moment together.”

  Richard kissed her hands. “Anne, you’re the only purity I’ve ever known. After all that has been, you look at me with trust and love.”

  “You are with me now, Richard. That is enough.”

  He took from his hand the large emerald seal ring, set in heavy gold, which the King had given him when he bestowed the Dukedom upon him. “Anne, with this you will always have a part of me with you. He slipped the ring on her middle finger where the stone caught the light and glowed with green fire.

  “The stone of consistency, Richard.”

  “Yes, Anne, I’ve loved you all my life and will care for you always.”

  She traced her fingertips across his face, touched his eyes, the tight line of his mouth. “Richard, you are my strength, my truth. Let us live every day in love.”

  In the afternoon, Aunt Cicely and her two maids bathed Anne, combed her hair with perfumes, and washed her hands again and again. To what she had already brought, Cicely added a puffy satin quilt, flagons of wine and a great basket of food, a hand mirror and cosmetics.

  Anne thanked her, feeling better but very tired.

  “This is a foul place, niece,” she said. “Rift-raft. Scum.” She yanked a hearth rug into smoothness. “But safe. Even at Baynard’s, where I stay, you couldn’t be more protected.”

  Anne nodded. “That is comforting.”

  “Richard was sure he’d find you after Malory reached him. The old scamp’s at Baynard’s now eating everything in sight.” Cicely’s heavily ringed hand reached over and touched Richard’s emerald. “You’re betrothed?”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “As is right. Sweet saints, what a bloodline. I cursed George ‘til he turned pale as a fish when he wanted to marry your sister, Isabel. I saw trouble with Warwick brewing, even then. You carry Beauchamp blood, too. Neville, Beauchamp, Plantagenet. Your line is rich in history and pageantry. You are destined for greatness, my dear.”

  Anne tried to listen. The words spun in her head.

  Cicely stood up. “Richard is waiting. He wants to join you for supper.” She patted her niece’s arm. “You’re looking much stronger now.” She was gone with a swishing of skirts.

  They ate in contented silence. Anne was too tired for much talk. Richard asked the burning question. “Was it Clarence who abducted you? Nan Fitz Hugh swears it to be so.”

  The wine was making her very sleepy. “Yes, Clarence.”

  “Damn him. I’d send him to the Tower to rot forever if the King would allow it. Edward can be galled, and he coddles George lately, for some reason. Clarence hints of a great secret about the King, and Edward forgives him anything.”

  “Perhaps his secret threatens Edward. George would dare.” She didn’t want to think of Clarence. “Will Malory have to go to prison?”

  “Edward will insist. But I will make sure that the old fellow has warm accommodations, good food. He’ll not be put in the common cells.”

  “I’ve heard it is brutal there. Many go insane.”

  “Anyone without money will soon die.” Richard spoke flatly.

  “What about Betty and Tom? I never knew their proper name.”

  “Colynbourne. Tom has a brother, William, who was an officer in my mother’s household.”

  Richard shrugged. “They were tools, Anne, as you said. They’ll spend the same number of days in Newgate Prison as they kept you prisoner, and pay a fine.”

  Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion. She forced down a little more food and then gave up trying to eat.

  Richard carried her back to her room. “I’ll get some maids to attend you, Anne.”

  “Wait.” She couldn’t let him go. She felt lonely when he was not with her. “Richard, when can we return to Middleham?”

  “Soon. When I have convinced the King’s Council on a fair division of the inheritance. Clarence and I are summoned before the King on the morrow.” His face was bleak. “By God and his saints, to return to Yorkshire with you is all I’ve ever wanted. My patience wanes.”

  “A simple dream.” Anne had closed her eyes. His hand was warm to hold.

  “We can’t seem to catch it.”

  “We will. At Middleham.”

  Richard kissed her on the lips with hard urgency, and then tenderly on the bruised cheek.

  “Rest now, Anne. In only one day you’ve given inner peace and great joy back to me.”

  “And you have given me back my life. In my dreams I see us walking through cool forests, stretches of meadow and the dales at Middleham.”

  During the night the brazier was kept lit. When Anne would awake from the turmoil of a dream, she could see Richard’s emerald in the dim light, and be reassured.

  II. CHAPTER 20

  In Newgate Pr
ison, Malory heard the screams of a whip fight. He dragged himself to the window slit to watch. Breathing was hard. A constant pain burned in his stomach. The December cold stabbed him. Two naked, desperate prisoners fought to kill. He leaned from his cell, the best one on the upper level. The courtyard swarmed with prisoners. Their skins were blackened with dirt and disease, splotched with running sores. Some had been brought up from the lower levels to witness the fight. They blinked in the sun, slapped their bare hides, and stayed close for warmth. Long whips cracked. He was startled by a movement behind him.

  “Well, Sir Thomas, I trust you are comfortable?”

  Malory swung around. Richard was at his side. “Aye, m’Lord. I eat and sleep better than in many years.” He shaded his eyes. Richard of Gloucester stood out in the dimness of the cell. Everything in Newgate was colorless and dull except Richard, who was wearing brilliant green and gold garments. “And I thank you, Your Grace. I don’t know how I’d fare without you.”

  “I’ve asked the King to release you. He says he will in a little while.”

  “There’s not a little while for me, my Duke.” Malory thought with indifference of the death signs stalking near. He would go quietly, not by whip or club. He went to his one possession, a thick manuscript. “I give this to your care, Your Grace.”

  “The legends of Arthur?” Richard remembered hearing them as a boy at Middleham.

  Malory smiled. “At night I dream of those adventures and soon I will enter one of my own, never to return.” He hoped it would be this night. Life was over. He was ready.

  “I’ll not forget you saved my lady, Sir Thomas.” Richard picked up the faded and ragged manuscript. “I’ll share this with her and see to your care until you’re free.”

  Malory could feel the strong beating of his heart, each thump an effort. “Tell Lady Anne, I am happy to have been able to help her. It gave meaning to....” he sank down on the floor; the racing pain in his chest was too great to bear standing. “Ask Lady Anne....” his voice faltered, “.... pray for me.” He slumped forward.

  Richard bent over him. Malory’s pulse beat was suddenly barely detectable. The old man smiled as though in contentment. “Take the manuscript. I want to be remembered for these stories forever in the eyes of man and God.”