Virgin Widow (14 page)

‘Yes. You could. Your birth is certainly better!’ It seemed for a moment that a shadow crossed my mother’s face. But then she chuckled at my disrespectful mimicry and I decided it was just a trick of the light.

‘T
HE
Angevin woman will never agree to put her trust in the Earl. I know she won’t.’ There was an edged satisfaction here as Isabel stitched immaculately at the furred cuff of her new gown. ‘She’ll refuse to have anything to do with this invasion, and Louis will be forced to support Father with Clarence as King. Besides,’ she added in her misplaced loyalty, ‘it’s only right that it should be so.’

‘Isabel!’ How difficult it was to keep patience with this blinkered obstinacy. Even I could see what was and was not possible. ‘Of course she’ll give way if she’s serious about returning to England. She won’t get there without Louis. Or without the Earl.’

‘What do you know?’ The corners of Isabel’s mouth dragged down.

‘I know that Louis will not give her what she wants unless she takes on the Earl.
You
know it too! And what’s more, you must stop calling her
the Angevin
woman.
If we are to be true Lancastrians, we must address her as Queen Margaret.’

‘I won’t.’

‘You must.’ She was beyond my bearing. ‘Can’t you see—’

‘But then there’ll be no hope for Clarence. And I can do nothing to help him.’ It came out as a wail of despair, with a splash of tears on to the sable fur.

‘Perhaps not. But weeping will not help. And it’s not your fault, Isabel.’

‘But disappointment makes him so ill tempered. And I lost the child…’

Which explained her fraught mood. I cursed with silent venom the vain, self-indulgent man he was. Isabel was destined for a life of complaint and dissatisfaction and sour criticism at his hands. His failures would always be the fault of anyone but himself. So I sat with her, hugged her. Little lines of strain and disappointment had appeared around her mouth in recent weeks. She leaned her head on my shoulder for a time, as if she enjoyed the comfort, but then shrugged me off in a quick return to her previous sulk.

‘I can’t believe that Clarence will never be King. I will
not
believe it.’

I sighed.
I
can! I said nothing, simply squeezed her hand. Even I could see that Clarence, with his claims and demands, had become an embarrassment. I stirred myself to entertain her, involving her in a game of
cards, as I buried my own misery, delivered thoughtlessly that morning by a Neville courier.

‘Tell me of his Grace of Gloucester. Have you news of him?’

The courier had brought a warning to the Earl from his brother Montague:
Don’t even consider an invasion of England at this time.
Edward, suspecting that we might take up the Lancastrian cause, was raising a vast army and fitting out a fleet to prevent our return. The Queen was carrying a child again, Edward ordering masses that he might at last have a son. No mention was made of Richard. There was no reason why there should, but I followed the messenger as he departed, caught him in one of the antechambers, plucked at his sleeve and demanded to know.

He looked down at me. Opened his mouth to brush me off, but obviously saw my status. ‘What would you know, lady?’

Everything!
‘Where is he? What is he doing? Is he in the King’s good grace?’

He indulged me. ‘The Duke is constantly at Edward’s side, lady, with the King’s entire confidence. His authority grows daily as his experience grows.’

All well and good, but I wanted more. ‘Is he well?’

‘As far as I’m aware. He travels the length and breadth of the country often enough without ill effect, so he must be.’ Impatient now, he made for
the door. ‘King Edward plans to reward him for his loyalty.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘It’s the highest reward.’

‘Is it a new office?’ I felt my heart swell with pride for him.

‘No, lady. The King is negotiating a marriage for him.’

‘Oh!’ Everything stilled around me. A hand clenched around my belly. I repeated the words silently in my head.
The King is negotiating a marriage for him.

‘A major coup, so they say,’ the courier continued as he pulled on his gloves, unaware of the ice that had frozen my blood. ‘With the daughter of Duke Charles of Burgundy. The lady is an heiress in her own right. She will be Duchess of Burgundy on her father’s death.’

‘Mary of Burgundy.’ I heard my voice confirm the name, yet it did not seem to be mine. ‘She is of my age, I think.’

‘Yes, lady. And a beauty by reputation. Such a marriage is much desired by the King and by the Duke of Gloucester also. It’s promoted by the King’s own sister who is the lady’s stepmother. Now, your pardon, lady. I must go.’

I was left to stand alone in the empty room as I considered the news. Mary of Burgundy for Richard. Encouraged by Richard’s own sister Margaret who had married Duke Charles. Of course she would see the advantage of such a marriage. When Mary became
Duchess in the fullness of time, Richard would become Duke of that wealthy and powerful little duchy. And she was beautiful, so rumour said. Fair and auburn-haired with neat features and an inborn elegance. What a catch for Richard. Jealousy swam strong and bitter through every inch of my body until it choked me so that I could barely swallow. If I could not have him, what right had she? I might have been brought up to understand that people of our rank had no choice in whom they wed, but at that moment I was as blind to reality as Isabel was to Clarence’s future. Richard was mine. He was not free to wed another.

Then the opening and closing of a distant door woke me to my present situation, an uncomfortable guest of the French King with no home, no wealth, no status. My separation from Richard was permanent. Any fool must know it and accept it. Of course he would wed a lady of consequence and power, a lady of reputable beauty. And besides, the Devil whispered in my ear, taking advantage of my distress, how fickle is a man’s heart. Richard is free to give his heart where he wills since it cannot be yours.

Dismay overwhelmed me.

‘What is it?’ Isabel asked, laying down her cards, seeing the desolation in my face that I had failed to hide.

‘Nothing!’ Then, ‘Richard! He is to marry.’

‘What did you expect? You knew he must.’

Of course I did. It did not make the pain any the
less. Later, in a moment of abject weakness, I contemplated writing to him as I once had when I was a child and lonely. By what means I would have the letter delivered, I had no idea, but I set to with pen and parchment and a heart of stone.

My dearest Richard,

I am here at Amboise. My father negotiates to betray York and lead a Lancastrian invasion to England in the name of Margaret of Anjou. You will probably meet with him on the battlefield. I cannot bear the thought. I hear that you are to wed Mary of Burgundy.

My heart is broken.

Anne Neville

I could think of nothing more to write, either that he would want to know or that I could express. Any words of love were dried up, or perhaps drowned in my wretched misery. I could have spoken them, if he had appeared at that moment in the doorway and I could have stepped into his arms. But to write them, when I knew that his promises and loyalty, his kisses and the intimacy of his body would be given to another? I think that at that moment as jealousy once again poisoned my thoughts I hated him. I wept helplessly over that letter, blurring the words until they was illegible, before smearing them even further with an
impatient hand. What use mourning the past that was dead and buried?

So I burnt the sorry letter in the hearth. I watched the edges curl and collapse into ash, exactly as my dreams of finding Richard again, before deliberately seeking out Isabel to suggest that we ride out. Her surly acceptance exactly matched my mood and I would pretend not to think of Richard Plantagenet.

‘Your Majesty!’ His long-suffering impatience superbly disguised, Louis addressed the small woman who sat in formal state on the dais, her ladies-in-waiting flanking her as if she were in fact still Queen of England. ‘I would present to you the Countess of Warwick. Also her younger daughter, Lady Anne Neville.’ He extended his arm in an expansive gesture, beckoning us forwards.

The initial stage of the contest of will between King Louis on our behalf and
Queen Margaret
—see what a loyal Lancastrian I was becoming—was played out at the chateau of Angers without our presence. I heard of the vitriolic exchanges third hand. She was shocked, horrified and furious in equal measure. And speechless. A miracle worthy of Thomas of Canterbury. When she had recovered sufficiently to find suitable words, she stamped herself into a furious tirade of argument against
that thrice-damned Neville, this worm of Satan.
Yet however much Queen Margaret
might detest him, worse than a poisoned chalice, still she had lived up to her reputation of being as changeable as a weathercock in a gale. We had been summoned to Angers.

I was rigid with fear.

We approached and curtsied, kneeling, since Louis advised us that such a show of deference might be no bad thing in the circumstances. But only the Countess and myself. The Queen still held all the Court cards in the pack as far as I could see. At the last she had refused to see my father. Or Clarence and Isabel. But she had graciously consented to allow the presentation of myself and my mother. It was a burden on our shoulders to make a good impression and persuade her to change her mind again and allow the Earl to approach.

The heat of summer pressed down upon us, on the heavy velvet of our new gowns. Beneath my veil I could feel perspiration prickle uncomfortably along my hairline. In the silence that followed Louis’s words, we remained on our knees, our eyes on the floor. The seconds passed as I studied the pattern in the tiles. How long would she keep us like this? And what would she say when she had humiliated us to her satisfaction? What would she find to say that would give this meeting any value?

Consign them to a dungeon. Confiscate their possessions. Lock them away as my husband Henry is incarcerated and robbed of his rightful inheritance.

‘You may stand.’

Her voice was low, carefully neutral, pleasant on the ear. She spoke English with a smooth fluency, having made a deliberate effort to learn it on the occasion of her marriage, but her accent lingered despite her years in England. Perhaps, I decided, knowing the lady’s reputation for stubborn self-will, she had never tried to modify it.

‘I do remember you of course, my lady of Warwick, but not your daughter.’

I risked a glance. Cold. Frigidly hostile, she stared down at us. Margaret of Anjou was no friend to us, nor ever would be. Standing at last, I could remedy my curiosity about this woman whom I had been taught to regard as the enemy, evil incarnate, the French Whore—any number of such appellations to be found within Yorkist circles. I suppose I expected some old hag, harsh featured, face riven with deep lines, much as witches and imps of ill intent in folk tales. I could not have been more wrong. Seated on a gilded throne, her small jewelled hands curled round the carved arms, was a formidably handsome woman.

An air of intelligent vitality, of enormous energy, impressed most. Small in stature, she might be dwarfed by the magnificent chair with its swagged canopy, but there was no repressing her air of unbending authority. At present it was all directed in a gaze of pure hatred towards the two of us. Her hair was covered
by a swathe of turbaned damask, but I knew that she would be fair. Her skin was soft, light with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her straight nose. Her lips were small and firm as was her chin, now raised against us in contempt. And her eyes, sharp and brightly hazel in hue, betrayed nothing of her thoughts other than sharp detestation of this whole episode. I had seen such an expression before on the face of our steward at Middleham, Master Hampton, when our store rooms had been overrun one autumn with a plague of rats. In a vicious campaign he had set loose the dogs to catch and kill with a fierce shake and a bite to the neck. This was Margaret, appraising the wife and daughter of her enemy, resenting every moment that she must consort with vermin such as us. And, under Louis’s watchful eye, she could not dispatch us as easily as Master Hampton had the rats.

‘What have you to say to me?’

The Countess, reluctant but resigned, had been well briefed. She folded her hands at her waist and spoke with an impressive display of deep sincerity. ‘I would advise you of my lord Warwick’s sincere intent towards you and your son, your Majesty.’

‘You would, of course.’ Margaret turned her flat gaze from my mother and stared at me with no lessening in her disfavour. ‘And you. What have you to say, as daughter to the arch-traitor? Your father robbed my son of his inheritance. Now you know what it is
to be stripped of your lands and your birthright.
Mon Dieu!
It gives me great satisfaction to know it. What do
you
have to say about your noble father’s honour?’ Her teeth showed in a quick feral smile. ‘Does such a thing exist?’

I was speechless, overcome with nerves. I had not expected this. I had not expected her to address even a single word to me, much less ask my opinion. I did not even understand why she should ask to see me. ‘Your Majesty…’ I swallowed the nerves. ‘My father has seen the error of his ways. He would unite with the cause of Lancaster. He would restore King Henry to the throne.’

I watched as the small mouth twisted. ‘Well taught indeed.’

‘I hear what my father says,’ I replied, keeping my wits to defend the Earl. ‘I have never known him willingly break his word or to act without honour.’

‘He married your sister to the Clarence without Edward’s consent, did he not?’ she snapped back immediately. ‘Is that honour? Is that not a betrayal of trust?’

‘It is true. He did arrange the marriage.’ My mind sought for something—anything—to explain away that obvious show of rebellion. ‘Perhaps it was a betrayal because King Edward spoke heatedly against it. But his Grace of Clarence was old enough to give his own consent and did not need his brother’s permission.’ I repeated the opinions I had heard. ‘A papal
dispensation was sought. My sister too was of an age to give her consent.’ It was the best I could do.