Virgin Widow (12 page)

‘Yes. I will.’

A last kiss. One final embrace. A desperate bruising of my lips as Richard claimed me as his for that last time. No joy, no sweet promise. Just a cruel ending. Until he framed my face in his hands.

‘I must go.’ He kissed my damp cheeks, the soft hollow of my temple, my eyelids. ‘I think it was your eyes I fell in love with. So dark, yet so full of light when you looked at me. I fell the whole way into them and now I think I cannot escape. Yet I must…God keep you, my love. God keep you safe.’

I could not bear it. So he would be honourable and self-sacrificing, would he? He would set me free. I did not want this, I did not want to be sacrificed.

‘Richard…’

But I did not know what more to say when there was nothing to be said. I released him as if his flesh burned my fingers, and clutching at pride I drew myself up to my full height. After all, he was a Prince of the Blood, whilst I was a mere subject, and a disloyal one at that. I sank to the stone paving in formal obeisance.

Catching up his cloak and hat from the bench, Richard would have gone, left me. Pre-empting him,
I pounced and snatched up his embroidered leather gauntlets. He held out his hands for them.

I shook my head, turning the soft kid leather over and over in my grasp. There was the white boar, Richard’s heraldic badge, shimmering in its satin stitching on the cuff, stiff and powerful with gilt tusks, yet so impotent in its rigid embroidery. The creature blurred when tears welled.

He laughed softly, a joyless sound. ‘So you would steal my gloves?’

‘Yes.’ I hid them behind my back.

‘They’re too big for you.’

‘I know.’

He knew why I wanted them. Richard always understood me. ‘Then keep them, if it brings you comfort.’

I saw pity in Richard’s eyes. And despised it. I flattened the gauntlets against my breast, but my mind shrieked.
This is not enough. How can this be all I have of you for the rest of my life? A pair of gloves the only solace for a lifetime of regret.

‘Adieu, your Grace.’ I would not weep again in his presence.

‘Farewell, my lady. My love.’

I closed my eyes to shut out the reality of his leaving me. And Richard was gone. All I could do was to sink to my knees on the altar step where I stayed until I heard the bustle of departure die away, then ran quickly up to the battlements again to watch, remaining
there until I could no longer see his figure for the tears that turned my sight to blindness. If he looked back, I did not see him. If he raised his arm in farewell, I was not aware. There was only one thought that echoed and re-echoed in my head. If I was indeed fated to live out my life in exile, I would never see him again. It seemed to me that there was a strange emptiness in my chest where my heart had been, a vast wilderness that nothing would ever fill it. I pushed my hands into the gloves, hoping to absorb the warmth of his hands there, but the fur linings were already cold. Sobs shook me until I could barely stand.

In her wisdom the Countess allowed me to indulge my misery alone on the windy stretch of the battlement walk, until I was sufficiently chilled and wretched and trailed down to where she waited for me.

‘He has gone.’ I sniffed, hoping my veil would hide the worst of the ravages, as I stuffed the gloves into the bodice of my gown.

‘I know.’

She placed a hand against my cheek. One look at my face and she swept me off to the kitchens, sat me down at the rough table, and poured me a cup of wine whilst the cook placed before me a bowl of broth. I sat in mutinous refusal to be comforted. Ignoring the surprised glances of the kitchen servants and the damage to her skirts, my mother pulled up a stool at my side, grasped my shoulders and forced me to look at her.

‘Drink the wine, Anne. And eat.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘Yes, he has gone. You must accept it. You’ll not feel any better for the food, but you need strength and determination now, as you have never done before.’

Nothing could have persuaded me more of the hopelessness of my love. ‘He has left me…’ I could hear the misery rising again in my voice.

‘Yes, he has.’ There was no sympathy, only an implacable will. ‘Richard has no choice to make, Anne. Loyalty demands that he follow the King.’

‘I need him,’ I stated simply.

‘No, you don’t. You must learn to live without him and you will. But now
I
need you. You will not let this press you into the ground. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes.’ I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve.

The Countess stood, but halted to look down at me. ‘If our lives are to be forfeit for my lord’s actions, I need to rely on you. I cannot have you malingering over Richard.’ Her eyes bore into mine. ‘So eat!’

The Countess’s demands on duty and pride stiffened my courage. Although it was an effort not to choke on the pottage, I ate, and after a moment to see that I would obey, the Countess went about her own affairs. But as she left, and as I mopped up the final dregs of the broth, she leaned close in passing and kissed my hair. She understood. She knew about heartbreak and separation and loss.

‘He has not left you through any lack of love. I saw it in him when he came from the chapel. He is as wounded as you.’

It was some sort of balm to my heart, but not much.

In the end we fled for our lives.

We gathered together what we would need, as well as bags of gold coin and the Neville jewels. Only God would know if we would ever return to our home here and it might be that we would need all the wealth we could carry. Then we sat tight with our banners fluttering bravely on the towers, but the wagons packed and defeat in our hearts as we fretted with short tempers and wakeful nights. I did not even have Isabel to sharpen my tongue against.

‘We march south,’ Warwick ordered when he finally arrived with a surly and glowering Clarence. No time for greetings. ‘Can you be ready within the hour? Edward is on the hunt for us. We are defeated. We sail for Calais.’ He looked beyond weary.

‘Is Edward not disposed to show mercy?’ the Countess asked.

‘No.’ There was no attempt to soften the words. ‘I rejected Edward’s demand that I face him, you see. He has an army of such size that I’m not strong enough to challenge him. Edward denounces us as traitors and will deal with us as such if we fall into his hands. If you raise arms against the King a second time and
fail…’ Now he looked directly at my mother. ‘It must be Calais, for all of us. Who knows when we will return to England again?’

So there were no more words or minutes to waste. How could I ask about Richard’s whereabouts, whether he had survived the battle, when faced with this disaster? We were gone within the day, the start of a long and tragic journey that would lead us to the unexpected rejection in the sullen seas off Calais. To a difficult birth and a dead child and a bitter acceptance of our new lives as traitors to the English Crown.

May 1469

BUT
life must go on and we must find refuge. So here we sat in a lively sea, waiting for the tide off the French port of Honfleur, nothing less than fugitives dependent on the good will or greedy self-interest of King Louis of France, with my anxious query snatched up by the wind.

‘Will we be made welcome?’

And the Earl’s unfathomable reply. ‘You, my daughter, will be made welcome at all events.’

I did not understand. What
was
clear, even to me, was that all would hang on whatever deal the Earl could make with King Louis, whether King Louis was even willing to come to an agreement with a landless and attainted lord.

‘Louis will receive us at Amboise,’ the Earl announced. ‘But there will be a price to pay.’

A price. I considered it, turning it over in my mind. What would the price be? And who would pay it? On reflection it seemed an obvious answer. The first sacrifice to be made would be my father’s pride.

‘Welcome. My inestimable Cousin of Warwick. And his Grace of Clarence, too, of course. It pleases me to see you here. Come, my lord Earl, and introduce your family to me. Then you will eat at my table…’

I had expected the royal fortress of Amboise to be magnificent, in the way of Warwick Castle, with new spacious wings, low-ceilinged and large-windowed, to add a range of comfortable family apartments to the original defensive towers and keep. Throughout all the years of his service to the Yorkist cause, my father had pushed King Edward into joining forces with France, to create the most powerful alliance in Europe. If that was so, then Louis must live in considerable grandeur and wealth.

So Amboise was a shock. Magnificent, yes, in an overpowering way like Middleham. A formidable fortress, true, but little beyond that, reminding me of the dominant bulk of the Tower of London, a place where I would never care to live. The round towers of Amboise, the high walls, the deep moat, were all vast and forbidding, without softness. Was this to be my future home? I prayed it would not.

We were shown to a suite of small, sparsely furnished
rooms in one of the towers, hardly more accommodating than our little border fortress of Penrith, our meagre luggage unloaded and brought after us. We were a particularly joyless party. Isabel still pale and fretful, still mourning the loss of her child and unresponsive towards any who tried to comfort her. Clarence, all his ambitions to take the Crown for himself having died a death unless my father could work some miracle, prowled in a fury of ill temper. The Earl, thin lipped and caustic, waited for the royal summons. Amidst all, the Countess worked to preserve a calm façade.

Almost before we had time to draw breath and consider the state of our travel-worn appearance, a dignified official in severe black fetched us to be presented to his Majesty. I regretted the salt-stained hem of my gown, the dusty folds and grimy veil. My mother, beating at her skirts with the flat of her hand, groaned when she noticed the matted state of one of her sleeves that had trailed in some noxious substance. But then I saw the muscles of her jaw grow taut. Was not our blood and lineage enough to take us into the royal presence? I could not quite follow her example. We might have had all the confidence in the world, all the high blood of an old family, but we were still beggars, homeless, dependent on the magnanimity of this man who summoned us to attend him in the rigid formality of the Chamber of State.

‘Welcome. My Cousin of Warwick…’ The man’s voice, of a clear light timbre, carried effortlessly down the length of the room.

‘Is that the King of France?’ I whispered to my mother, aghast as the same man stepped down from the dais beside the lofty fireplace and advanced to greet the Earl. My only impersonal acquaintance with kingship was the impressive stature and love of display that belonged to King Edward. Did not all kings look like Edward and conduct themselves with such majesty? ‘Can that be King Louis?’ I repeated below my breath, stunned at my first sight of him.

‘Hush.’ The Countess’s lips twitched.

I had heard him described as the Spider. Well, he was ugly enough with a large nose, long and hooked, that dominated his face and took the eye so that it was difficult to look elsewhere. His own eyes were downturned at the corners and heavy lidded, effectively disguising what they might show of his thoughts. At this moment he was smiling benignly at my father but in repose I was soon to see that his mouth also turned down, as if in perpetual disfavour of the world. For certain, he was neither handsome nor impressive. His robe was plain and undecorated. His stature meagre. His hair was hidden under a close felt hat, as any merchant in London might wear. No hint of superior majesty here, with only one servant to attend him.

Yet my future was to be dictated by this man.

‘My lord Warwick. So many months since we last met. So much ill fortune for you to suffer.’ His condolences were gentle, reassuring of his kindness. The King waved us towards the warmth of the fire. ‘I trust your accommodation is to your liking. I will provide anything I can to add to your ease at this unfortunate time.’

And this too took my interest—his closeness to the Earl. He had addressed him as Cousin in spite of everything. This powerful man was receiving us at his Court with such generosity, as if we were his equal in status and influence rather than the truth of it. The Earl completed the introductions. We curtsied to the floor. When we rose I found Louis’s sharp hazel eyes trained on me. Uncomfortable with the fierce scrutiny, I looked down at his extremely large feet.

‘Ah…’ He walked slowly forwards to stand in front of me. ‘Look up, my dear. Lady Anne…Your unmarried daughter, you say, Warwick?’

‘She is as yet unmarried.’

‘But of an age to be wed.’

Obedient to the order, I looked up. For a moment behind the smiling façade, Louis looked like a cat contemplating a meal of a particularly tasty mouse under its claws. His self-satisfaction shone clear as his smile widened.

‘Lady Anne. A charming young woman.’

I swallowed nervously.

‘You are not married, but is there a betrothal?’ he
asked me. ‘Is there some young lord in England who hopes to wed you?’

Richard. I will not think of Richard. If I do I will weep for the loss of him.

‘No, your Majesty, there is no betrothal.’

‘Good. Then we will have to see what we can do.’

I could make nothing of this beyond the possibility of a son of a noble French family as my future husband. It held only a mild interest for me. Far more critical to my mind was what exactly this remarkably ugly but all-powerful man would demand in return for his slippery hand of friendship towards my father. We did not have to wait long to discover. With warm geniality we were invited to sit with him at his banquet as if the Earl were indeed the favoured cousin Louis dubbed him. Louis began to play his hand immediately with a magnificent cunning that even I could read.

‘Sit by me, my lord of Warwick. Take a goblet of wine. And your Countess and fair daughters. Be seated and at ease.’ He signalled to the servants to pour wine and serve the first course. Only then did he sketch a brief gesture towards Clarence, indicating a chair further along the board, as if he were not the brother of the King of England. ‘And you too, your Grace. You’ll have an interest in our debates.’ Louis settled himself in the solid, plainly fashioned chair at the head of the table and rubbed the palms of his thin hands together. ‘We have much to discuss, much to
decide. Where better to have a meeting of minds than over a dish of roast meats?’

In this manner, over a course of frumenty with venison and a side dish of
Vyaund Cyprus,
he opened the delicate negotiation with my father as if they were alone and intimate in a private chamber, driving his own policies forwards to the exclusion of all else. I watched his manner of achieving his own way, astonished that a man who had so little presence could dictate the proceedings so effectively. He wielded power with all the skill of a needle-sharp rapier in a duel.

‘Tell me, cousin…’ Louis drove straight to the heart with that same rapier ‘…how do you see the immediate future for yourself and your family? What are your plans?’

The key question. A brutal question, forcing my father to face the reality of his precariously balanced position from the outset. The Earl considered the wine in his cup, then answered with direct stare and astonishing openness. ‘The immediate future? Uncertain. Edward is well on his way to restoring his grip on England. So my preference—to return to England soon, before he can tighten his hold further. There are enough who will support the Neville banner if I can make an impression of strength.’

‘But how do you see your chances of success, my lord?’ Louis enquired, picking at a stuffed poussin.

I listened, trying to interpret the meanings behind the innocuous exchange of words. So did the Countess, I noticed, who sat to my right, across from the French King, her concentration more on the two men than on the subtle mix of sugar and spices in the
Vyaund. Was
it truly possible that we could go home soon and oust Edward yet again? Before my father could consider his reply, it was Clarence who leapt in with hot words.

‘We have every chance of success, sire! When we return, my presence in England will attract all who are dissatisfied with Edward.’

I might turn to marvel at Clarence’s rude interruption, but Louis barely gave the Duke a passing glance. Louis kept his eyes fixed on my father’s face.

‘Well, my lord Warwick?’ he repeated. ‘What chance of success?’

‘Not good, sire.’

‘So you look to me for help.’ Louis smiled, leaning back in complacent ease, which was shared by no one else in the room.

‘Yes, sire, I do,’ the Earl admitted. ‘I can’t see my way to defeating Edward on the battlefield with only my own resources.’ Despite all his efforts to make a dispassionate assessment, I could feel the blow to his pride as he was forced to admit his failure to bring Edward to heel. Begging for help from a position of weakness was not something my father had ever had to do. I imagined it roiled like poison in his gut.

‘So you would want—what? A fleet. Finance. Troops. You want me to back your invasion.’ Louis compressed his downturned mouth, giving himself an even more jaundiced air. ‘It’s risky, my lord. Such a full-scale attack would not come cheap. I might lose all my considerable investment in such a chancy project. And you could end up dead or in prison.’

‘No!’ The Earl leaned forwards to press his point, pushing aside his platter, arms folded on the table. ‘There’ll be no talk of failure here, sire. I will be successful. Times have changed since the beginning of his reign. Edward is popular no longer. His wife is hated, the country groans under higher and higher taxation. If I can put myself forwards as a viable force able to defeat Edward, the English lords will give me their allegiance. Any investment in men or gold that you make will not be at risk.’

He was so confident! I looked through my lashes at my mother. She sat immobile, but her fingers linked in her lap were white-knuckled. She too had given up on the poussin. Beyond her, Clarence kept silent, his angry eyes darting between the two protagonists.

‘So!’ Louis indicated for the table to be cleared of the debris of the meal, waiting as the servants went about their task, placing sweet jellies, silver bowls of sweetmeats and sugared nuts before us, intricate delicacies that caught my eye despite the strained atmosphere around me. ‘Let us say, then, that you
overthrow King Edward. That you depose him. What then?’ Louis’s stare was astonishingly innocent. ‘Do you seek the crown yourself, Cousin Warwick?’

‘No,’ the Earl replied. ‘I have no designs on the throne, nor ever had.’

‘Yet you might claim that you are a Prince of the Royal Blood. And that you have, without doubt, the power and the aptitude for the position.’

‘No. I will not claim it, sire. It has never been—nor will it be—accepted as a legitimate claim.’

My spoon hovered, then came to a halt between the dish and my lips. My father had a claim in his own right? I had not known this. A close family connection was one thing, but a claim in his own right? Although the Earl had quickly rejected any such pretensions, my interest was truly deflected from the
Crustade Ryal
with its spiced-egg filling.

Louis appeared satisfied. ‘Who, then, will you make King in Edward’s stead?’ The French king knew the answer. I could see it in the tilt of his head, the glint in his eye. But if he knew, why ask the question? Illumination came blindingly as I brought to mind the deliberate lack of acknowledgement of Clarence here at Amboise. Louis did not want Clarence as King of England and so would manoeuvre the Earl to disown him.

He wants my father to make a denial. He wants my father to reject Clarence! But if not Clarence, who will the French
Spider support, and force my father to support, in return for French troops?

‘Who will be King of England, my dear Cousin of Warwick?’

Clarence’s patience broke under the slow but sly probing. Again he forced himself into the debate. ‘Warwick will give the crown to me, of course.
I
am the legitimate heir of the House of York, your Majesty.
I
shall take the crown. This has been understood between my lord Warwick and myself since I wed the Lady Isabel. Who else has the right to rule but myself?’

‘I think you have not that right, your Grace,’ Louis observed, barely attempting to cover his displeasure. In the little silence that followed this impassioned declaration, we all looked to Louis, who turned his head and allowed his sardonic eye to rest on Clarence’s heated countenance. The coldness in that appraisal chilled me. It was my father who took up the strands of the negotiation.

‘True—it was originally in my mind to make Clarence King.’

‘No.’ Louis played a new card from his hand. ‘I am not in favour of this, Warwick,’ he stated simply, unequivocally, as if the furious subject of his disfavour were not present. ‘My agents tell me Clarence would not be acceptable in England. He does not have a strong base of support.’