Virgin Widow (16 page)

Two melancholy thoughts troubled my sleep. Richard could never be mine. And Edward of Lancaster, however attractive he might be, was nothing to me. I was not even sure that I liked him very much, although I could not have explained why.

Relief swept through our apartments, a soothing breath of wind in the heat. When we had all but given up hope, Margaret of Anjou agreed to meet with the Earl. If she would but agree to the alliance, we could be on board ship, sailing for England again by the end of the year. But with what I thought might be habitual spite, the Queen kept us waiting, interminably through the hours, until the late evening of the day. Weary but determined to wring from the occasion as much advantage as we could, we were ushered into her presence, again with Louis present to smooth the way.

The Countess and I led the way, curtsied as we had before. Unsmiling, again enthroned, Margaret gave a curt inclination of her head, the slightest lift of her hand from her lap. We rose, stepped back. So far so good. Next came Isabel and Clarence. Margaret barely looked at them as they showed their respect, but impatiently waved them to stand beyond her line of sight, because there, before her, the object of her undying hatred, was the Earl, standing at Louis’s side, sumptuously but sombrely clad in black velvet and richly draped cap, jewels glinting in the final rays of the sun.

‘Do you think it wise…?’ my mother had asked on seeing his magnificence.

The Earl had been uncompromising. ‘I will beg for forgiveness because I must, but not as a pauper or a commoner. My family is as good as hers.’

‘She’s the daughter of a royal family,’ the Countess chided, although I could see without much hope of success. ‘King Rene is—’

‘King Rene is nought but a penniless client of Louis.’

My mother conceded defeat. ‘Just don’t let her see that you think she is inferior!’

I held my breath. So, I think, did my mother. Louis halted. My father continued to approach. He bowed low, then knelt before the Queen, straight backed, head bent to await the verdict. Silently I exhaled. This was the moment of decision, for all of us. As we waited, a rapid footstep sounded from behind me as a newcomer entered the chamber, an interruption that caused Louis to frown, and on to the dais stepped the young man from the library. As impressively clad as before, he knelt before his mother in quick reverence before standing to take his position at her side. One hand resting on his sword hilt, the other gripping the carved back of the throne, he cast an all-encompassing glance over the scene. Then as Margaret sat immobile, Prince Edward leaned, one glittering hand on the arm of the throne, to whisper in her ear. White-faced, Margaret said not one word, neither to her son nor to my father.

It seemed that the silence would smother us all. It was Louis, of course, who broke it. ‘Your Majesty. As you agreed, my dear cousin the Earl of Warwick is here, at his own request, to beg your forgiveness and offer his services to you to restore your power in England.’

Still Margaret took her time to consider. And then, ‘Warwick! I never thought to see you kneel before me. It is my inclination to damn your soul to the fires of hell for eternity.’

‘I put myself at your mercy, your Majesty.’

Unblinking, she stared at his bent head. ‘You are the source of all my ills. How should you expect mercy?’

‘I stood against you,’ the Earl admitted. ‘I saw you as my enemy, an enemy who would destroy me and those who were my friends. I had not deserved such animosity and so I struck back. I admit my mistakes. All I ask is that I can show my good faith by putting right the wrongs I have done.’

‘And what is best for the future? What is best in the eyes of the Earl of Warwick? How will you right the wrongs?’ The Prince intervened before his mother could answer. There was no anger in his question, rather a calm understanding of our dilemma. He took one step forwards as if to encourage the Earl. ‘What would you ask of her Majesty, as well as her mercy?’

‘An alliance, my lord Prince,’ the Earl replied without hesitation. ‘Lancaster and Neville. That I might lead an invasion in your name. I swear on the
Blood of Christ that I will be as much Edward of York’s foe in future as I have been his friend. And as much
your
friend as I have been your foe.’ All spoken with my father’s eyes never lifting beyond the hem of the Queen’s gown. Margaret pursed her lips.

‘I must consider.’ Which she did. Time crawled, endlessly. ‘You would rescue my lord Henry and place the crown on his head once more?’

‘I would, your Majesty. I swear it.’

Then a longer silence, her eyes flitting between the Earl, to Louis, then back to the Earl whilst she kept my father on his knees. Spine erect, muscles braced, he kept his position without any sign of physical discomfort. Or of the humiliation to the very depths of his soul. How could he ever serve this woman who could reduce him to this role of beggar? How could he put himself—and his family—so completely into her hands?

‘How do I know that I can trust you?’ she demanded at last.

And Louis was there at the Earl’s side to make the reply. ‘I will personally guarantee the Earl’s fidelity, the sincerity of his words. He will not betray you.’

‘Then I have decided.’ Her eyes held the Earl’s, dagger bright. ‘There are conditions, of course. You will publicly withdraw your slanderous remarks about my son’s birth and my own honour. You must take an oath before God to serve me loyally.’

‘I will, your Majesty.’

‘Then…’ With a faint frown she looked up at her son, as if groping for an assurance of the rightness of her decision, and he responded with a smile of such sweetness that it took my breath. He leaned again to place his hand on her wrist, the lightest pressure of fingers on the soft fur of the cuff. And for the briefest of moments I saw Margaret’s face as it softened in maternal love. Could Margaret with her fierce and driven ambitions and hostilities be capable of such a tender emotion? It seemed that she could.

Her face hardening again, as stony as the towers of Angers, she made her response. ‘My lord of Warwick. My son and I are in agreement. I will agree to pardon you. I will agree to enter into an alliance with you.’

It was done. The agreement made as at last—
at last
—the Earl was allowed to rise from his knees. I felt the relief flutter under my rib cage, beginning to grow until I had to struggle against the desire to laugh aloud at the new horizon that had come into view. No longer homeless exiles. My father would return to England with an army and, with France behind him with all its wealth and power, and Edward of Lancaster as a figurehead to draw the nobility to his banner, he would surely defeat Edward of York. Then we could all go home to Warwick or to Middleham and life would be as it had always been. All the security and comfort that I had taken for granted would be mine again—

My thought came to a dramatic halt, as if in collision with the very stone wall that hemmed us in. If Edward of York was defeated, what would be his fate, and that of Richard? If they survived the ensuing battle, it would be to escape into exile. And if in exile, powerless and without hope of restoration, would Richard’s betrothal to Mary of Burgundy be rejected? I knew the answer to that, right enough. The Burgundian marriage would be abandoned—but neither would my father consider him as a candidate for me. Relief turned sour. There no chance for me, for our reconciliation, whichever way it fell out.

My thoughts had wandered, deaf to those who spoke around me, eyes focused on the brilliant gems on the Queen’s right hand. Then I blinked back to my surroundings, my senses alert.

What was that? I looked around me.

Something had happened to spike the tension again. Margaret was angry, red-faced with emotion. Prince Edward governed his features. Isabel was staring directly, furiously, at me. Beside me the Countess inhaled sharply. Whatever it was, I appeared to have become the centre of attention. What had I missed? I looked helplessly towards the Countess whose return gaze slid along the edge of pity. The Earl caught my eye, stern and unsmiling.

What had I done?

‘How dare you suggest so outrageous a step!’ Margaret demanded, surging to her feet.

‘An excellent suggestion,’ Louis disagreed. And there he was beside me, actually taking one of my hands in his. What had he said? And what was it to me? All I could think was that his hand was uncomfortably hot. My inclination was to snatch mine away, but I could not, so stood and endured his sweat-slicked palm sliding over my fingers as he repeated the suggestion that had created such passions.

‘Your Majesty, I know that the Earl of Warwick is more than willing to offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to your son. You should grasp it with both hands. It is an inestimable offer.’

‘For whom? I see nothing of value in it!’

The words circled my head, moths around a dangerous flame, whilst I tried to pluck them from the air and make sense of them. The Earl offering his daughter…? But
I
was his daughter. And to wed Edward of Lancaster, who would one day be crowned King of England?

By the Virgin!
How stupid I must be, how blindly slow to see the new direction here. What my feelings were, I had no idea. I could barely grasp the words, much less their implication. It was not real. Surely I must at any moment awake from a dream—a nightmare—to find it all a mummers’ charade. Heart lurching sickeningly, I turned my head to see what the
Prince might think. I couldn’t tell. Those hazel eyes were quite still, fixed on me, deep in some consideration that I could not read. Then he smiled. Gave a little bow as if it would be the greatest pleasure in the world for him to take me as his wife.

I will be Anne of Lancaster, Queen of England.

‘No! I will
never
consider it.’ Margaret destroyed that thought.

And I breathed out slowly against the constriction in my chest, part-fear, part-excitement. Of course she would never agree. What could Louis have been thinking? Since it had taken a miracle for Margaret to come to speaking terms with my father, she would hardly consent to a closer alliance with the prospect of her future grandchildren, the future rulers of England, carrying Neville blood in their veins. There was nothing for me to worry about. Astonishingly, my first thought, and it came to me as a heartfelt relief, was that I would never have to face Margaret of Anjou as her daughter-in-law.

But another revelation crept in to supersede the first. What if the original proposal had not come from Louis? What if my father had broached it? His oblique observation on board the ship off Honfleur, meaning nothing to me then, now came back to me.
You, my daughter, will be made welcome at all events.
Had he had this marriage alliance in mind all along?

Surrounded as I was by a major battle of wills, I
began that day to learn a lesson in political manoeuvring. Louis might have the nose for duplicity, but when power was at stake, the Earl could be as self-interested as the French King. Perhaps neither could be trusted.

There will be a price to be paid.

Another of the Earl’s now apparently portentous statements that I in my ignorance had misinterpreted. I had presumed the price would be paid by my father’s dignity. Or even by Clarence’s ambitions. Now I saw I had been wrong on both counts.
I
was the one to pay the price. And it had been in the Earl’s mind from the moment we had left the shores of England.

Margaret blazed with fury, her small figure almost shaking with the emotion, hands balled into fists at her side, as if she would strike out at anyone who came close enough to risk her wrath. Certainly she was beyond considering her choice of words as she vented her anger on the King of France.

‘Is this to be what I must do in return for French gold?’ she demanded of Louis. ‘I have made the alliance you wanted with this man. Is that not enough? Do I have to take the daughter as well? Do I have to bind the royal blood of my son to a commoner and a traitor?’

Louis was unperturbed. Taking Margaret’s arm in a hold that could not be resisted, he led her aside to a
window embrasure where he bent his head and proceeded to drop words of heavy persuasion into her ear. If my mind had not been centred on the enormity of the suggestion, I could guess the content of the advice. The marriage would tie Warwick into the scheme, his loyalty ensured for all time. He would never act against the chance of his daughter becoming Queen. Louis’s soft tones, the faintly hissing syllables, continued on and on, drifting across to us. Margaret listened, but with no alteration to her set features. Sometimes she replied shortly, with sharp hand gestures, whilst her son watched her across the distance of the room, with a fine groove between his brows. As for the rest of us, we stood like statues. Eventually Louis straightened, speaking so that we all must hear.

‘Yours is the final decision, your Majesty. But you must weigh the costs to your invasion plans if you reject her.’

‘I know the costs far too well, your Majesty,’ the reply snapped back.

Margaret returned to the dais as if unwilling to give my father the advantage of height, lifting the weight of her skirts to face him. The interlude had at least given her the time to harness her temper.

‘I am told that I must give you an answer. This is my answer. Did you think I would leap at your offer, Monsieur de Warwick? I find it beyond belief that you would offer your daughter as my son’s bride when
you once deliberately challenged the legitimacy of the Prince’s birth. Such hypocrisy is not to be borne. I will not agree.’

‘Consider the strength of our joint attack on England, your Majesty,’ the Earl urged, trying to repair the damage. ‘Consider what your son and I can achieve together for Lancaster.’

‘My audience with you, Monsieur de Warwick, is at an end.’

I was rejected. So much hatred expressed in such controlled sentences.

It was late when we returned to our accommodations. The end of a long day with strange doors opening and closing. I made my curtsy to the Earl and Countess, too tired to think any more. I saw the same exhaustion etched into every face. Clarence followed Isabel, halting briefly by the door to look back to the Earl, face drawn with self-pity after the momentous decisions.