Anne of Warwick The Last Plantagenet Queen

by Paula Simonds Zabka

  With John Elingwald presiding, they gathered in the Chapel of St. Nicholas. A new window had already been installed, and the Sun in Splendor, emblazoned in stained glass, turned the chapel to golden flame. Masses were arranged for Ned, not only this month, but every year on the second of May.

  Master stonemasons from York were ready to begin work on the design of the effigy made by Richard. There was no more to be done. Yet Anne lingered in the chapel and gazed upon the small casket. She looked up at the golden sun which would shine above it each day. “Ned,” her heart whispered. She listened in the stillness. She felt Ned’s nearness, and suddenly felt an inner peace.

  Later she joined Richard. “It’s all right, my Love. I can leave him now.”

  Richard nodded. “I know, Anne. This is the journey’s end for the Love of our life.”

  IV. CHAPTER 11

  The first week of May, Nan and Francis Lovell paid a visit to Anne. She was sitting in the tapestry-bright solar of their manor at Sheriff Hutton. Phillippa was with her, busily carding wool. Outside in the garden Isabel’s children, Margaret and Edward, were having music lessons.

  Anne motioned for them to sit down. Both looked tired and worried. Francis made polite inquires, then finally said, “You must help us to persuade the King to go forth. To York, or better still, to London. England needs him.”

  “Francis, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  Francis shook his head. “I tried. I start to talk with him but when I perceive his tortured face, I hesitate to engage him. He seems like a wounded animal.”

  “The Scots raid the border,” Nan added gently. “The French attack our ships. So do the Bretons. Speculation is on the rise concerning Henry Tudor and the probability that he will invade England.”

  “Please, m’Lady, talk with him.” Francis pleaded with her, his brown eyes dim with fatigue and concern.

  “I’ll talk with him, Francis. Though he is still dwelling on the idea that he is being punished for taking the crown.”

  The same day, she went to Richard who was working in his paneled study. Sitting by him, she asked if they might give the presents they’d brought for Ned to Isabel’s son, Edward.

  Richard agreed. A sheet of parchment on his desk was blank; a pile of documents remained unopened.

  She said quietly, “Shouldn’t you be going south, my love? Everyone strongly feels you are needed at Court.”

  “I couldn’t leave you, Anne. I sense that, though you don’t say so, you are not as well as you lead me to believe.”

  “Richard, it’s all right. Nothing can be changed. You’re the King, my Love. England is your realm. Your reason to live.”

  “You are my only reason to live now, Anne. How empty is all this talk of Kingship. Yet, I know there are needs in the Kingdom and my Ned would want me to be kingly. Anne, it would help if you come south with me.”

  “You will be very busy, Richard. I will stay the summer at Sheriff Hutton and see to the work on Ned’s tomb. Then I’ll come to you.”

  The question she knew he asked himself every moment burst forth again.

  “My God, Anne. Was it a sin to take the crown? Is God punishing me?”

  “Of course not, Richard. You must not question God’s will. Life will always have its mysteries.” She bent over him. “We are in the valley of the shadow of death. We must find our way among the shadows.”

  Richard rose, and going to the window, looked down the hill to where he could see the Chapel of St. Nicholas where Ned lay in state. He knew now what he had to do. “Then I will go to London, Anne--first to Nottingham and then to York. Our path is ordained by God. A King cannot always choose his own way.”

  Anne stood beside him. The sun was bright against the bay windows of the chapel. He was right. From this time on, as King and Queen, they must travel with grace, dignity, and courage. And the hurt must never show.

  After Richard departed for the journey south, Anne decided to ease her despair by arranging Malory’s manuscript which had been sent, at her request, from Middleham. In sunlight hours, and by candlelight, she reread the legends of Arthur. Her thoughts lingered on Sir Galahad, pure of heart, who found both the Grail and death at the end of his quest, and on Arthur who, dying, begged to be taken to the blessed Avalon where wounds were healed. Timidly, not sure of herself, yet in remembrance of Malory, she arranged the stories as they seemed meaningful to her, putting last the death of Guinevere and the dream-haunted Lancelot. Then she wrapped the manuscript in a bulky package to take to William Caxton in London.

  The last day in August, Nan Lovell, anxious to see her husband and children, asked bluntly if it wasn’t time to leave for London. Anne nodded in assent. “Very soon now, Nan. I received a letter yesterday from Richard. We will leave when John de la Pole returns to take charge here. He has been appointed Lieutenant of Ireland.”

  Nan Lovell was startled. “That means that the King has selected him as Heir Designate.”

  “Yes. All thought it would be Clarence’s son, Edward, the Earl of Warwick.”

  “Cock’s bones! The heir.” Phillippa dropped her threads in a tangle. “I saw his mother, Elizabeth, at the coronation. She’s homely as mud. Is he worthy to be heir to the Kingdom?”

  Nan laughed. “Aye, Phillippa, though his father, the Duke of Suffolk, is much like an overripe pickle. He seldom comes to Court.”

  The Queen walked across to the oriel window, which was curved out to light the whole room. “Elizabeth of Suffolk is Richard’s sister. I can’t imagine why her Duke is so dour, not at all like most of the de la Poles. De la Pole holds the rank of Earl of Lincoln. He carried the Orb in the coronation, Phillippa. Perhaps you recall him?”

  “Vaguely.” Phillippa dumped the handwork in a basket. “I suppose it was necessary for His Grace to appoint a successor.”

  “Yes.” Anne slumped down on the window seat her head bent, heavy. “John de la Pole is a loyal supporter of the King. He proved to be a staunch ally during the Buckingham revolt.” She regarded her two friends and her mother. “And, after all, he is a Plantagenet. He’ll wear a crown well.” A crown that Ned would have worn, thought Anne.

  Before they left Sheriff Hutton, she went once more to Ned’s tomb. The stonemasons had done well. Just so had his cheeks been curved; the hands as delicate as Richard had drawn them. The figure of the King in the center of the side was complete, the crucifix he held in his hands in its final stages. She watched the masons work. Such precision. Tiny splinters of stone; a wisp of grinding.

  She held a bouquet of betony mixed with daisies and a few musk mallow, all wildflowers. She’d gathered them from the fields and hedgerows, and shaped them into a delicate bouquet to place on the window beside Ned’s tomb. Even in the jug of water, they wouldn’t stay fresh long. But time was of no consequence now. Very carefully, Anne put the flowers on the window sill and, while the workmen stood respectfully aside, touched the face and hands of alabaster. She looked down, once, at the Calvary the figure held. It reminded her of Richard. He needed her. She turned and left the chapel, putting one foot carefully ahead of the other. Richard must be her focus of attention now.

  His cap at a jaunty angle, his sleeves daggered to show cloth of gold, John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln and Heir Apparent, came to escort them from Sheriff Hutton. He rode his handsome stallion with authority. When common folks along the road called his name, he waved in pleasure. Departing Sheriff Hutton, Anne rode a gentle palfrey, with her mother and Nan Lovell on either side. She looked back many times, until the tower of St. Helen and the Holy Cross faded behind the horizon. They stopped first at York, then Ripon, and finally crossed the dales toward Middleham. It was unchanged, a far gleaming castle, silver in the western sun. Suddenly Anne pulled in on the reins, stopping the horse. She raised her head, the hood fell back and she turned to her mother. “There is the path to Middleham I rode as a child.”

  “Don’t dwell on memories, my daughter.” Her mother’s voice was tender.

&nbs
p; “Middleham is like a stone chalice holding my most precious memories. I must gaze upon it once more to seal it forever in my mind.” Unsaid was the inner feeling that she would not see Middleham again.

  “Anne, don’t torment yourself.” She frowned with concern.

  “This isn’t the time to reminisce. You must look ahead, to London, to Richard.”

  “This will not take long, mother.” Anne dismounted and walked a little way up the path, still gazing at the massive castle. The sun at her back sent her shadow reaching toward the curtain wall. The Round Tower, now often called the Prince’s Tower, was alight from the sun’s red setting; the aged battlements dominated the sweep of the dales. This she had loved. This mass of stone and wood and glass, guarded by stone sentinels.

  Now she must lay to rest the joys and sorrows encompassed in Middleham. She knew she would not return. This was her journey of farewells. She would fill every chamber of her being with the memories of what had been here, so she could travel the last stretch of road in peace. She’d never again enter that gate or stand in the courtyard, or climb the worn steps to the Great Hall. Never again.

  “Dear Lady,” Nan Lovell was beside her. “You shouldn’t mourn so. When spring comes ‘round again and your blood cries out for the North, we will hasten back to Middleham.” Anne knew better.

  “We best not linger, Your Grace.” De la Pole peered uneasily at the Queen. “I must keep you safe you know, and it will soon be dark.”

  “It will soon be dark.” Anne repeated the phrase as though it were her own, then turned toward her mother and kissed her. “I’ll say God’s speed here.”

  “God keep you, Anne.” Tears ran down the Countess’ cheeks. In silence, she signed the cross over her daughter. “God and the Saints be with you, my daughter.”

  The Queen remounted and turned to the impatient de la Pole. “I will ride south with my ladies. I think we’ll go no further than Jervaulx tonight, and cross the Nidd and West Riding tomorrow.”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  Anne waved once as she turned her horse about. The others of her company followed. None approached her as she rode with her hood once more shadowing her face. She did not look back, nor did she need to. The vision of Middleham was etched forever in her mind.

  MIDDLEHAM CASTLE

  IV. CHAPTER 12

  The autumn of 1484 was the season of rough jests in London. Duke Francis of Brittany had crossed the line from slack ruler to madman and London laughed. A dwarf, a monkey and a squawking bird were the Duke’s favorite companions. He’d permitted Henry Tudor to slip into France.

  Londoners also repeated a bit of doggerel, a play on the names of Will Catesby and Richard Ratcliffe, Royal councilors, as well as Francis Lovell and the White Boar insignia of Richard.

  “The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell our dog

  Rule all England under a Hog.”

  It had been written by William Colyngbourne, an agent for Henry Tudor.

  At Crosby Hall, where Anne often went to escape the commotion of Westminster, she asked Richard, “Is it the same one who was brother to Tom, Clarence’s man?”

  “Yes, Anne. He will have to be tried and executed if guilty,” Richard said it without emotion. “Not for the verse, of course, but for his collusion with Henry Tudor.”

  Anne thought of her imprisonment in the cookshop. Of herself at fifteen then, waiting to die but fighting on to live. “Where is Tom Colyngbourne now?”

  “Dead of the plague. His wife too. The boys, most likely, are in France.”

  “Do you think this man became a Tudor spy because you fined his brother Tom for his part in my kidnapping? He served York faithfully so many years.”

  “Probably, Anne. It was no light fine.” Richard shook his head. “They willingly did Clarence’s bidding when they kidnapped you.”

  Clarence. Anne wondered if they would ever escape his shadow. She leaned against Richard affectionately. She sensed in him a deep anxiety. “Richard, something else is bothering you.”

  “You are most perceptive, Sweeting.” His words were dry as dust. “John de Vere, the Lancastrian Duke of Oxford, has escaped from Hammes Castle. He’ll join Henry Tudor in France. There’s strong evidence they plan to invade England. I have had a proclamation sent out against the Tudor, commanding that all necessary preparations be made to repel the invaders. With Ned gone, they know I’m weakened.” He was silent a moment. “Nor do I trust the Stanleys. The rumor grows, too, that I killed my nephews. How can I prove them false? It’s also said that I plan to murder you and marry Edward’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth. I would strike down these rumors but there’s nowhere to strike. I’m damned by voices without forms.”

  “Richard, your greatness will not diminish because small men speak ill of you.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Anne.” His voice was sharp. “But I am pricked on all sides by such rumors. A king should be above such petty talk. I try to rule as I did in the North, and, Sweet Christ, somehow it eludes me. I provide the people with justice, grants, appointments, a maze of helpful deeds and all I ask for in exchange is their loyalty. What would England rather have? A tyrant who offers stability but allows no one to dare whisper his name in a slanderous way?”

  Anne was honest in her reply. “I think there are some who would settle for so little. They crave calmness at any price. They see you as a soldier, a judge, a politician, a Northerner. Yet added together, these do not equate to the caring person you are.” She stopped, knowing that, as it had been with Edward before him, it was the man in the King who was tormented. A man who couldn’t forget, since Ned had died, that all his attempts to give justice to the people was built on a possible injustice. And so he hardened and grew old, a little more each day.

  Then she tried again. “My Love, your way, your form of justice takes time. Never did a man strive harder for the good of the realm than you do. The people will eventually come to know it.”

  “I hope so, Anne.” Richard’s eyes were clouded with fatigue. “I do not want to be remembered simply as the King who took the throne from his nephew.”

  She didn’t know she had the strength to answer so firmly. “Richard, you must have faith in yourself and in your subjects.”

  The agony in his eyes lessened a little. “Anne, where I see the darkness, you always see the light. You keep me on the path from which I would stray.”

  They stood together there in the quiet and shared a moment of peace and then Anne took her leave to see the Royal Printer William Caxton.

  William Caxton was hard at work. He and his assistant, Wynkyn de Worde, had spent the past months completely redesigning the typefaces for greater grace and legibility. Anne saw him blink with surprise when a squire announced, “Her Grace, the Queen of England.”

  Grabbing a cloth, he wiped his ink-stained hands and straightened his shoulders; then bowed with a jerk.

  She smiled at him “Early Yuletide greetings, Master Caxton.”

  “Your Grace, I must apologize, the shop....” He waved an arm at the discarded copy, which littered the floor. I would have swept if I’d known you were honoring me today.”

  “It looks like it should. A workshop.”

  She saw that he was watching her like a quizzical child, head cocked.

  “Your Grace is keeping well this winter?”

  She nodded, knowing all the draping velvet; bulky fur and skillfully applied paint couldn’t fool his sharp eyes. “I’m well thank you. What are you printing?”

  “I just finished On the Order of Chivalry and Knighthood which I’ll dedicate to His Grace, the King. I’m considering a translation of Cicero’s De Semestite.”

  Anne leaned against Margery Howard who’d come with her. “Would you still like to print Malory’s manuscript?”

  “Madam, I would make it my finest work. The tales are part of England’s heritage. I’ll make them immortal.”

  The Queen motioned a squire forward to place a bulky package on the worktable. “I tried arrange t
he legends in a special order. They are mystical legends Malory called Le Morte d’Arthur. The death of a King by betrayal.” She knew her voice was wistful. Coughing slightly, she took a step closer. “Will you be able to publish them during the reign of Richard the Third?”

  “Of course, Madame.” Caxton looked steadily at her. “The King will reign many years, but I’ll publish these tales no later than next July.”

  Anne smiled, satisfied. “Yes, the coming summer will be fine. These legends will be forever associated with this time.” She gathered her cloak even more closely about her. Margery’s arm was firm under her elbow. “I thank you. Good day then, Master Caxton.”

  “God’s blessing on Your Grace.” The printer followed Anne and her ladies to the door, and watched the Queen as she was helped into the emblazoned Royal horse litter. A few snowflakes drifted down. The bells on the horses jingled. The herald called. “Make way for the Queen of England.”

  It was a short distance from Caxton’s shop to the chambers at Westminster, and Margery Howard hurried her there. For the first time since coming to London, Anne let the frailness of her body have its way. The bed was a haven. The warm wine soothed her. She didn’t attempt more activity for several weeks. With the approach of Christmas she arranged to attend the festivities. She hoped she would not cough blood in public. Uncaring of what people thought, she ordered a dress for Elizabeth, the eldest Woodville girl, very similar to her own. The girl would no doubt marry soon.

  Christmas came. A splendid season. Anne told Phillippa to make her look especially regal and festive, as was Richard so dressed.

  As they were preparing for yet another celebration, Phillippa frowned at the King. “Your Grace, this Yuletide season takes all your lady’s strength.”

  “You’re right. I’ll have dinner sent up to her.”

  “No, I would be with you, Richard.” Anne stood abruptly, startling them. “You’re both such worriers.” She steadied herself. I’ll miss none of the festivities until Epiphany be over.”