By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (21 page)

“I feel as if I know you, but can’t quite remember you,” said Anne to the girl who had introduced herself as Lucy. She paused with some linen in her hand and watched the girl as she emptied one of the travelling coffers, spreading gowns across the bed and smoothing the fabrics with her hands as if she had never felt or seen anything so splendid before.

“I remember you, my lady. I used to come up to the castle with my mother sometimes, but I was always told to stay below in the kitchen. Though Martha would slip me something good to eat whilst I waited.”

Anne studied the girl. She must be about fifteen years old, she thought, which meant she would have been a child of about eight when she last saw her. She had dark eyes and an elfin face and a graceful figure that was just blossoming into womanhood. “You are the wise-woman’s daughter!” said Anne, suddenly seeing the resemblance.

“Yes, my mother is Mistress Payne,” she said.

“I remember your mother very well,” Anne told her. “She brought herbs and potions whenever I was unwell and was very kind to me. Does she still live in Hornby village?”

“Yes, my lady. And she still brews potions for people’s ailments and helps with their childbirth.”

“I wished for her when my children were born, though the midwife who attended me was very kind.”

“You have children, my lady?”

“Yes,” said Anne wistfully, thinking about John and Katherine and longing to know how they were and what they were doing.

“Did they die?” asked the girl, watching her curiously.

“No. They live in their father’s household. I could not bring them here.” She saw the puzzled look on the girl’s face. “It is no matter. Let us get on with putting these gowns away,” she said briskly, picking up the green one that Richard liked so much and wondering if she could ever bear to wear it again.

“You spoke of Martha,” said Anne after a while. “Do you know what has become of her and Cedric?”

“Yes, my lady. They live in the village now.”

“Do you know whereabouts?”

“Yes, my lady. I can show you if you like.”

“Yes,” said Anne, “please do. I would like to see them again.”

It seemed strange to Anne, to be able to put on her cloak and outdoor shoes and simply walk out of Hornby Castle. Her young husband showed little interest in what she did and apart from mealtimes she rarely saw him. He spent all his time in the tower chamber, often working until late into the night, doing what she had no idea but, as she had promised, she did not interfere or question him about his work. She was simply thankful that he had something with which to occupy himself.

She walked with Lucy, through the market place and along a small lane to a stone built hut with a thatched roof. Even if she hadn’t had a guide she thought that the familiar smell of Martha’s baking would have led her there anyway.

“Lady Anne!” Martha came rushing out to greet her. She made a curtsey, then her delight overcame her and she kissed Anne on both cheeks. “I’m sorry!” she apologised for her forwardness. “I’m just so pleased to see you safe and well. That day when you rode off with that terrible man I didn’t know what would become of you! I’ve prayed for you every night, my lady.”

“Then I am grateful for your prayers. And here I am, safe and well,” said Anne, as the elderly woman held onto her hand.

“Will you come into the house, my lady? I’ve baked some of my honey cakes for you.”

“I can smell them, and nothing will make me go away without tasting them,” said Anne, feeling, for the first time since her return, that she had really come home.

“But what of you, and Cedric?” she asked as Martha fussed around her. “Why did you leave the castle?”

Martha paused, with a cloth in her hand, as she piled the cakes onto a platter. “It was not from choice, my lady,” she told her. “Lord Stanley’s men came and told us we must go. They said the castle would be run by Stanley servants now and that we were no longer wanted.”

“And how do you manage?” asked Anne, knowing that Cedric was far from able to work the land.

“We raise a few crops and vegetables and I keep some geese. I sell my baking on market day and we do well enough,” she said, placing the warm cakes and a jug of ale on the small scrubbed table. Anne bit into a cake and a rush of childhood memories flooded her mind – sunny days and winter days in the kitchens, tasting cakes straight from the oven and watching the women work and listening to their gossip when she should have been upstairs in her own chamber with her needlework or her reading.

“If you are in any difficulty you must come to me,” said Anne when she had finished her mouthful. “I will ensure that you do not go cold or hungry when the winter comes. Promise me you will not be proud and that you will ask for what you need.”

“I’m grateful, my lady,” said Martha. “Truly grateful,” she added, as she urged another cake towards Anne.

After the visit, Anne walked back to the castle with Lucy, pausing to watch the river and the rooks in the trees, and breathing deeply of the familiar air. She could have been happy, she thought, if the children had been with her, and Richard; though she could have been happy anywhere with them.

As she approached the hall she heard music coming from the solar. Still wearing her cloak she walked towards the open door, enjoying the melody that floated from the room, and as she listened a voice began to sing. Pausing in the doorway she saw Edward, with the afternoon sun on his hair. He was sitting with his back to her playing on a clavichord. Suddenly, aware of being watched, he stopped and turned to her.

“Please, go on,” she told him. “It was quite beautiful.” And without saying a word his fingers returned to the keys and the music filled the room once more as Anne sat down to listen.

“There is a letter come for you,” he said when the piece was finished. He handed it to her and recognising her sister’s hand Anne excused herself and took it up to her chamber to read. Izzie wrote that she and John were at Melling and asked if it was possible for Anne to come and visit her. Anne wrote back immediately, telling her sister that she would come the next day.

The fortified manor house at Melling lay near the church and not far from the high walls that enclosed the priory. It was surrounded by a dry moat and grasses grew thickly beneath the lowered drawbridge as Anne, accompanied by Lucy, rode across. As a groom held the mare for her to dismount Anne saw Izzie come running out to greet her and she slid down from the saddle and caught her sister in her arms, both of them crying tears of joy.

“I thought this day might never come,” wept Izzie. “I have missed you so much.”

“And I you. Let me look at you!” Anne held her sister at arm’s length. Izzie had grown from a girl into a woman since she had last seen her. Her figure had thickened a little, but her dark brown eyes and her face were just the same. “Where are your children?” she asked.

“Inside. Come and meet them.”

Izzie grasped her hand and led her into the house where Anne saw a nurse holding a baby in one arm and a little girl by the hand. The child looked achingly familiar. She was only a little older than Katherine and Anne longed to pick her up and embrace her. But when she held out her arms the little girl stepped back and hid her face in the fold of her nurse’s skirt.

“Jane, this is your aunt,” said Izzie. “And here is little Anne.”

Anne took the baby, enjoying the feel of a warm, heavy body in her arms as she kissed the small, fair head.

“You must miss your own children so much,” said Izzie, watching her. “I could not bear to be parted from mine.”

“It pains me every hour of the day and of the night,” said Anne as she rocked the whimpering baby in her arms. “I feel that part of me has been torn away and the wound will never heal.”

“Oh, Nan, what a mess you’ve made of everything,” said her sister putting an arm around her. “You could have been happy, like me, if only you’d been patient and waited for Edward.”

Anne pulled away from her sister and gave the baby back to the nurse. “I was happy,” she said, “until the Stanleys came. Do not expect me to think well of them. I never shall!”

“Don’t be cross with me,” pleaded Izzie. “It is not my fault.” She waved the nurse away. “Come to my solar and let us talk and not be angry with one another.”

She led Anne upstairs, to a small room at the back of the house that overlooked a walled garden where lavender and thyme were growing; the scents wafted in through an open window on the summer breeze. Anne was quiet. She felt angry both with herself and her sister. She didn’t want to argue with Izzie, but her continual spoken and unspoken disapproval of Richard hurt her more than she could explain.

“Come and sit down and tell me how things are at Hornby,” said Izzie, patting the cushion on the window seat.

“All the old servants are sent away and replaced with Stanley retainers,” Anne told her. “Cedric and Martha are living in a tiny hut in the village and many of the others have gone to look for work elsewhere.”

“Surely not all the servants are from Lathom?”

“No. I have a maid from the village. Lucy Payne, the wise-woman’s daughter. She has ridden with me today. But the cooks and kitchen maids are all strangers. It seems so odd. I keep expecting to turn a corner or look from a window and see you or Uncle James.”

“And is your husband kind to you?”

“Edward spends his time in the top chamber of the tower conducting experiments. He is a philosopher. He sometimes plays and sings. He is a talented musician too,” she said. “I think in time we may grow to be friends.”

“You will become closer when you give him children,” said Izzie. Anne stared at her sister.

“That will never be. Our marriage is not...” Anne paused, suddenly wondering if she could trust her own sister. Izzie had become so much a part of the Stanley family that she wasn’t sure if she could speak openly to her any more.

“Not consummated?” asked Izzie, her finely shaped eyebrows raised in wonder.

“No. My husband does not seem inclined...” Misunderstanding, Izzie reached out to touch her hand.

“Be patient, Nan. He is still very young. With a little encouragement I’m sure he will come to you.” Anne shook her head and got up to walk across the room and stare at one of the tapestries hanging on the walls. “Don’t waste the rest of your life wishing for things you cannot have,” said her sister. Then she came across to Anne and pushed something into her hand. “Uncle James left this for you. He wasn’t sure if he would be admitted to Hornby.”

Anne recognised Richard’s handwriting at once, but before she read his letter she opened the two small parchments upon which John and Katherine had each written their name. John’s was bold and well-formed and he had added a small drawing of himself on his pony with a hawk on his wrist. Below her faltering letters Kate had drawn some people. Anne recognised her attempts at Richard and John, but there were two other figures there; one must be the duchess and the other the Countess of Warwick, who also lived at Middleham. This was her daughter’s family now. Tearfully, Anne thanked her sister and put the letters away until later when she could look at them privately.

Anne and Edward were summoned to court at Christmas. Anne did not want to go, but the message that came from Lord Stanley made it clear that he would hear no excuses and young Edward bowed to his father’s wishes. The coffers were packed and the horses brought and she reluctantly prepared herself for the long and arduous journey through the coldest of the weather. And when they arrived she knew that she would be expected to share a bedchamber with her husband and that when they went to court Richard would be there, with Anne Neville.

It took almost two weeks of freezing days and even colder nights to reach Stanley House in London. Once there, despite its large and plenteous chambers she and Edward were given only a small one, with no adjoining ante-room.

“I will sleep on the floor,” offered Edward the first night, when the servants had gone. Anne looked at him, pale and shivering in the winter chill.

“We can share the bed. It is roomy enough,” she said, knowing that there would be no temptation to either of them except to seek some mutual warmth. He smiled gratefully.

“Thank you,” he said. “And you won’t mention my work, my investigations, to my father – or my step-mother?”

“We are husband and wife,” she replied. “They have no reason to be privy to our secrets.”

She smiled as a look of relief spread over his young face. “Have you been worrying that I might have forgotten my promise to you?” she asked. He nodded and she was compelled to reach out and caress him briefly on the cheek. “I will not speak of your work,” she reassured him.

“They would not understand,” he said.

“Perhaps not. But I know nothing of what you do anyway, so there’s little I can give away,” she replied, although secretly she yearned to know what it was that kept him confined day after day with the bunches of herbs and roots that Lucy carried from her mother up the stairs to him.

“I am practising alchemy,” he confided. “But I am afraid my step-mother will not approve of such work as she thinks it to be witchcraft, and she has a growing influence over my father.”

“You are seeking to make gold?” asked Anne, wondering if the Stanley family did not have more than enough already.

“No, I am searching for the secret of eternal life,” he confessed. Anne studied his face and saw that he was in earnest. She had heard that such a thing might be possible, but preferred to rely on the power of her prayers for the saving of her own eternal soul.

“Why would anyone want to live this earthly life forever, when there are such blessings awaiting us in heaven?” she asked him, genuinely puzzled.

“Man’s life is only like the winding of a clock,” he told her as he saw her interest and began to speak more freely. “It begins full wound and gradually ticks away until it is gone. Afterwards there is nothing.”

Anne stared at him, not knowing how to respond to such a blasphemy. “But what of God, of heaven, of eternal life?” she whispered at last, scarce believing what she had heard him say.

“I do not believe that any of those things exist,” he said.

She continued to stare at him in silence, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. Then a fear swept over her. “Edward,” she said, reaching for his cold hand, “you must not say such things.” Then she withdrew her hand and twisted the ring that Richard had given her; the ring that contained the fragment of the true cross where Jesus had died for their sins. “You must pray for forgiveness,” she urged him. But as she spoke she saw his face, which had become for a moment open and trusting, close in on itself again as he withdrew from her. She was sorry that her response had been so hasty but she was shocked and feared for his soul. “I will pray for you,” she offered.

“I knew you would not understand,” he muttered as he walked across to the bed and lay down on the very edge with his back to her. Sadly, she blew out the candles and lay down beside him. They both lay still and silent all night, not speaking again and striving not to touch one another.

Lord Stanley had little interest in his son’s affairs. The only topic discussed at the table that Advent was the Duke of Clarence. He was still imprisoned in the Tower and when parliament reconvened in January it was to hear the charges of treason against him and decide on his guilt or innocence.

“The facts speak for themselves,” said Lord Stanley. “He is guilty and I am sure parliament will decide in the king’s favour.”

“What will happen then?” asked George Stanley, his eldest son. “Surely the king will not have his own brother executed?”

“He seems resolved to do so. Though people say that Gloucester sees the king every day to beg for his brother’s life.”

“That surprises me, given the history of their disputes.”

“The Duke of Gloucester is a tolerant man,” remarked the Countess of Richmond. “It will be his undoing.”

Anne stared at the woman as she cut her bread into tiny pieces and placed them one by one into her mouth.

“How can tolerance be a bad thing?” she asked. The countess frowned at her.

“Treason is punishable by death. There can be no exemptions. Not even for a king’s brother. Once you allow the law to be different for one man then law and order will break down entirely. Besides, it is parliament that will decide, not the king, so Gloucester’s pleading is pointless anyway.”

“Well said, my lady,” agreed Lord Stanley. “It is for parliament to decide and they will find him guilty.”

“And what of his punishment?” asked George Stanley. “The death for high treason is by hanging, drawing and quartering.” Anne felt sickened at the thought of such a thing happening to anyone let alone a royal duke.

“Then he had better pray hard for his immortal soul,” commented the countess and Anne’s eyes briefly met those of her husband as she recalled his words of disbelief.

“Ah!” cried Lord Stanley as they heard the sound of horses outside. “Here is my brother at last, come from Chirk!”

The huge bulk of Sir William filled the doorway as he stood in his travelling clothes and looked around at the guests. When he saw her, he smiled in a self-satisfied way then reached up to unfasten his coat as if he had decided that he would stay.

“Wash your hands and then eat before the meal grows cold,” said Lord Stanley, sending servants for fresh basins of hot water. “You can go to your chambers afterwards. Bring your lady forward. See how she shivers from the cold.”

Anne watched as Sir William looked behind him at the small cowering figure who must be his wife, Elizabeth Hopton. “Don’t waver like the wind, woman!” he told her. “Come forward!” Lady Elizabeth came towards the table. Her wide eyes looked huge in a pale face and she constantly glanced at her husband for his approval before she did anything. Anne felt sorry for her.

Sir William settled himself onto the bench next to her and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “I’m pleased to see you made the long journey from the wilds of north Lancashire,” he said. “I was afraid you might not come.”

“I came as commanded by my lord and husband,” she replied. Sir William glanced at his nephew.

“If it pleases you to say so,” he said before attacking his food with the knife that he had drawn from his belt.

She did her best to avoid being alone with Sir William. The house was busy and she usually managed to be in the company of her husband or her sister.

“For goodness sake do not leave me alone with Sir William,” whispered Anne to Izzie as she got up to leave the window seat in the solar that overlooked the river.

“Do not be so foolish. What harm can he do you?” she whispered back. “The nurse wants me to attend to baby Anne. You will be quite safe.”

Sir William looked up from his book as Izzie left and then put it carefully down on the coffer beside him.

“Where is your wife?” she asked him.

“In our bedchamber. She ails in the cold weather. In fact she ails in any weather and coldness is her constant state. Unlike you, dear Anne. You blossom even in the wintertime.”

“What nonsense you speak, sir!” she remarked as she saw, in horror, that he was coming to sit beside her.

“Sir William, you must excuse me,” she said. But his heavy arm dropped around her shoulders and his fingers tightened on her upper arm.

“Don’t go,” he said. “There are things we need to speak of.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Sir William.”

“Oh come, Anne, don’t play games. I know what you desire. A woman like you, deprived of your lover and wasted on a boy for a husband...”

“No!” she told him, trying to slip from his grasp and finding that her voice squeaked in panic as his other hand enclosed her breast.

“How I long to feel you in your nakedness,” he whispered in her ear, his breath warm and moist. “Do not tease me, Anne.”

She felt tears stinging her eyes and she swallowed them back to try to keep some dignity.

“You must let me go!” she said with all the authority she could muster.

“No,” he said, squeezing her until it hurt. “I am determined to have you. You owe me favours!”

She grasped at his hand, digging her nails into his skin to try to make him release her, but the more she struggled the more he tightened his grip and Anne began to think that he would force himself on her there and then.

“Uncle William!” Suddenly she was released and she sprang up from the seat to stand, trembling, by the window. Edward looked from his uncle to her and back again but she couldn’t speak to make any sort of explanation.

“You should take control of your wife. She has been begging me to bed her, like the whore she is,” remarked Sir William before stalking from the room. Anne sat down again, her teeth chattering.

“Anne?” said her husband.

“Please do not believe him,” she managed to say at last. “It is he who attacked me.” She felt a warm hand on her back and glanced up at Edward’s sympathetic face.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I will make sure you are not left alone with him again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, through tears of gratitude, realising that the boy was more astute than she had realised.

Edward was as good as his word and stayed near her as Christmas progressed. He had never been close to his father or brother, he told her, and he missed his mother. Anne recalled how he had always run to Lady Stanley when he came home and how she had felt excluded. But now that she was a mother herself she understood something of that close bond. She missed John and Katherine; Edward missed his mother; and they began to find some comfort in one another.

Anne discovered that the Countess of Richmond had a son as well. She had thought the woman, who lived like a nun, to be childless until she spoke of her dearest, most beloved Henry who was living in exile. Eager to know more Anne learned from Izzie that the countess had been married at the age of twelve to Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, the half-brother of the old king, Henry, and that she believed her son was the true heir to the throne.

“Edmund Tudor wasn’t legitimate, so there is no valid claim,” said Edward as they talked later in their chamber. Anne listened with interest, always surprised at how much her quiet husband had learned by simply listening to those around him. “His mother was Katherine of Valois but his father was Owen Tudor, one of her household – and as you know such children are bastards.”

“Yes,” said Anne, thinking of John and Katherine. “Edward, does it concern you that I can give you no heir?” she asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am happy with my work,” he said, but as she watched him getting ready to go to his side of the bed, Anne wondered for how long that would content him. He had shown much more maturity during this Christmas visit than she had previously thought him capable of and she saw that he was leaving his boyhood behind and becoming a man.

On Twelfth Night Anne bathed in a tub of scented water and dressed in the green gown that Richard liked her to wear. She pinned on the brooch he had given her the Christmas before John was born and she wore the silver ring on her right hand. Then, with her hair brushed and fastened up into golden nets, dainty slippers on her feet despite the frosty air and her fur-lined cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, she joined her husband and the rest of the family to ride in their newly acquired coach to Windsor Castle for the banquet and dancing.

Her stomach fluttered as the houses rushed past under a bright, starlit sky and when they arrived she could hear the music of the minstrels and people talking and laughing as they gathered in the great hall. With her hand on Edward’s arm she joined the throng and gazed around at the fine tapestries and the high walls that were garlanded with greenery of every kind. The tables were covered in pure white linen and elaborate salt cellars marked the rankings of where the guests would sit. Edward was listening to the minstrels with interest.

“They are not as talented as you,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe to bring her mouth close to his ear. He smiled down at her.

“My hands itch to snatch their pipes from them and demonstrate how they should be played,” he admitted. “Let us find our places,” he said as a servant in the king’s livery beckoned them forwards. “And let us hope it won’t be long before the food is served. My stomach growls with hunger.”

“Blame your father for cancelling our dinner time,” said Anne.

“He and the countess might think it worth saving their appetites but Christmas is meant to be a season of feasting not penitence,” Edward grumbled.

They were seated further down the hall than Anne would have liked. The top table was too far away for her to see clearly as the king and his family came in and throughout the courses her eyes strained towards the dais.

“He is there,” said Edward at last, with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Now will you attend to your food?”

At last the platters of small delicacies, marzipan fruits and tiny spiced tarts were carried in and passed around as the servants hurried to clear and stack away the tables. People drifted towards the benches around the edge of the hall or stood talking in small groups with their friends.