Virgin Widow (19 page)

My thoughts drifted as they would, as the Prince launched into yet another tale of bravery and daring on his part, and melancholy settled heavily. I might owe my present loyalties to the Prince at my side, but Richard of Gloucester insisted on creeping into the periphery of my consciousness. What was Richard doing?

What could you possibly wish to know that would bring you any comfort?

The voice in my head drowned out the Prince as it lectured me for my foolishness. What would he be doing, but service to King Edward?

He is Constable of England with the security of the realm on his shoulders. He is Lord High Admiral and Chief Justice of the Welsh Marches. He has replaced your father as Chief Steward and Chamberlain of South Wales. He will be sitting in judgement in the Courts, raising troops, riding at Edward’s side to put down the rising in Yorkshire. He will be betrothed by now to Mary of Burgundy. And he has no thoughts for you!

As the Prince rambled into yet another memory, I imagined Richard on the battlefield, determined to preserve the crown for his brother with every skill learned and nurtured at Middleham. The Prince at my side was so immature, so self-obsessed in comparison, but then, I reasoned, trying for fairness, the Prince had never been given the opportunity to show his mettle. Perhaps when he became King he too would wield power with impressive authority.

‘If madam the Queen could risk so much, and all for me, then so must I risk everything to get the throne back for her.’

The Prince’s words caught my wandering concentration and I forced Richard to fade once more, to make a suitable reply. ‘Your father will be King, of course,’ I reminded him gently.

‘My father is not fit to rule. He is a witless idiot, old before his time. With luck he will not survive much longer.’ The sharp retort caught me up. Had Margaret encouraged him to think in this manner? ‘My father will be put away, somewhere in safety where he can mumble and pray and believe that he still rules the land, but
I
shall rule as soon as I am of an age. My mother says that it will be so.’

And then he returned—again—to his former preoccupations.

‘When we sailed from Scotland we were dressed in rags as if we were peasants. You would not believe…’

I sighed silently. He stood looking out over the wall towards a distant and invisible England. I stood beside him with my back to the warm stones, only half-listening. He never asked about me, never encouraged me to talk of my past, my memories. He had no desire to listen to me, never considered my feelings on being exiled and homeless. I thought that perhaps he had no one other to talk to. I felt sorry for him.

‘How old were you when you left England?’ I asked into a little pause, attempting, as any woman might, to turn the direction into a more personal recollection.

‘Ten years.’

‘Did we ever meet?’

He lifted his shoulders in obvious uninterest and began to retrace his steps back along the walk. ‘I have no idea. I doubt I would have noticed you if we had, a baby and of no interest to me.’ He saw no need to flirt a little or flatter me. His indifference hurt. He had no interest in anyone but himself, but I would ask anyway.

‘Will you allow my father to advise you when you are King?’

The reply, both content and clipped tone, left me cold. ‘I doubt it. It was all Warwick’s fault that my father was deposed and I was dispossessed in the first place. I owe him nothing.’

‘Even if he defeats Edward of York and hands you the crown again?’

‘I shall be grateful, of course. But I shall choose my
own counsellors. I doubt Monsieur de Warwick will figure amongst them.’ The Prince came to an abrupt halt and his eyes snapped to my face as if he were suddenly aware of who I was. A smile lit his face, banishing the heavy frown. ‘But enough of that. You are my betrothed, Lady Anne. I have a gift for you.’ He raised his hand to signal to a servant who stood discreetly at the entrance to the garden.

‘A gift?’

The servant approached and at a gesture from the Prince sank to his knees to offer me a little gilded cage. Inside, to my delight, a pair of finches, colourful little birds with jewel-like feathers, hopped from side to side, silent and nervous.

‘There, you see…’ the Prince ran his finger along the bars of the cage, agitating them more ‘…I do think of you. And when these birds sing to you each morning,
you
will think of
me.’

‘They are lovely. Thank you…’

I took the cage, lifting it to examine the little birds. We had no such pets at Middleham, only the hunting dogs and the feral cats that ran wild in the stables. These were so pretty, sleek and black-eyed, and the Prince had the power to surprise me. He had thought of me, was kind enough to give me a gift of beauty. Perhaps he was not as lacking in affection towards me as I had thought.

Back in my room I placed the cage in the window
where the sun was warm, encouraging the little birds to settle on their perch, fluff their feathers and twitter. The intricate struts that enclosed them, finely wrought with leaves and flowers, gleamed softly. I still knelt beside them, marvelling at their exotic plumage when Lady Beatrice came to find me to attend the Queen.

‘So he gave you a gift.’ She stared down her long nose.

‘Yes. Are they not beautiful?’

‘Unquestionably. And do you think the Queen knows?’

Which made me glance up, quizzically. Why would it matter that the Queen knew or not? If the Prince chose to give his betrothed a pair of singing birds, why should she be concerned? But Beatrice shook her head, her mouth quirked sardonically

‘What do you choose not to tell me?’ I demanded.

But she shook her head. ‘You’ll know yourself one day. Now come with me. The Queen does not like to be kept waiting.’

And she turned her back on me. I had no authority here, even less than as a child at Middleham. At least a Neville daughter could command some respect. Here I was as caged as the finches behind their bars of gold.

My life in Margaret’s household could not be called pleasant. What did I need to learn about the demands of Court life that I had not already absorbed from my mother’s formidable teaching? A Neville household
could compare with any. Besides, I knew that this had never been Margaret’s intent. Quite simply, she wanted me close. To bend my will so that I would become a meek and biddable daughter-in-law. But also to show me how little she thought of me and this marriage that had been forced on her. Never cruel, she used cunning little slights and subtle jibes. There was always that edged undercurrent of mockery of all that I did. I was to be put and kept firmly in my place.

‘The Lady Anne will show us how to embroider this panel of the altar-piece. Let us see how well she sets the stitches…The Lady Anne will entertain us. But perhaps we will not ask her to sing, after all…Perhaps the Lady Anne will read to us? Ah—no. I think not. Her accent is not pleasant enough for ease of listening…’

And so it went on and I could not pretend not to see the sly smiles, hear the soft laughs that dripped malice. When loneliness crept up on me, as it sometimes did, in the depths of the night, I would struggle not to shed tears into my pillow. I would never give Margaret the satisfaction, the knowledge, through her efficient spies, that she had caused me any grief. For I was given all the proof I needed that my actions were watched, my words reported back.

‘I forbid you to encourage the Prince my son to appoint your father the Earl as his adviser.’ The Queen rounded on me.

‘But I did not—’

‘It is reported to me that you broached the topic.’ So much for our intimate stroll in the gardens! ‘You will not do so again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘If I hear of anything else to displease me, I shall curtail your walks with the Prince.’

I stitched and prayed, played the lute and waited upon the Queen, keeping my thoughts and resentments to myself. A narrow, austere lifestyle of waiting. Always waiting for the day when I might be wed to the Prince and free of his mother.

The Earl sailed to England with an impressive fleet of sixty ships. The news was good. Queen Margaret’s eyes gleamed although she expressed no overt approval. The Yorkist upstart had sent out his own fleet to foil their landing, but storms scattered it and the Earl put in at Plymouth without hindrance. Clarence was ostensibly still at his side. His flirting with treachery had indeed come to nought.

At Angers, the Prince fretted at being left behind. In his mother’s presence he hid his frustrations beneath a mild and smiling exterior. The perfect courtier, he dined and danced and waited upon her every whim with true filial duty. Occasionally he smiled at me. Away from her side he threw himself into bouts of furious energy and sheer bad temper.
When we heard that the Earl was marching to London, men flocking to his banner, the Prince took himself hunting with hounds and hawks through the autumn woodland beside the Loire.

‘My lady!’ On his return he rode up to me immediately, where I stood with a little knot of Margaret’s ladies taking the air, manoeuvring his horse, pressing forwards towards me, leaning down over its withers to address me, cap in hand. ‘The hunt was splendid, the game excellent. What a run we had!’ His flushed face was vivid, his eyes bright with the extreme exercise. This was the first time he had sought me out in days.

‘You look as if you enjoyed it, my lord.’ I smiled up at him.

‘It was beyond anything. See what we have brought. A fine buck. It almost escaped the hounds, but I would have pursued it to the gates of hell itself.’ He looked back over his shoulder to the bloodied body of the many-tined deer, slung across the horse of one of the huntsmen. ‘We shall dine well. And I shall ensure that you, Lady Anne, shall have the best cuts of the animal on your plate. As my betrothed, my princess, do you not deserve the best?’

‘I shall be honoured, my lord.’ I curtsied graciously as he rode off, my façade nailed firmly in place. It had need to be. I should have been honoured at his singling me out, impressed by his skills, but how could I? The Prince’s horse, pushed close against me, a magnificent
roan stallion, high-blooded and fine-spirited, lathered with mud and sweat, its once glossy coat stained and streaked with the demands of the hunt, had stirred my compassion. Its eyes had rolled white in fear as the Prince had gripped the rein with iron strength, sawing at its mouth as the animal jumped and sidled. There was foam and blood there. Its sides too were liberally coated with blood where the Prince had used his spurs, not carelessly but with deliberate intent. Then I saw him dismount and cast the reins to his groom with not one thought for the health and well-being of the horse.

‘Take the horse and see to it. A clumsy animal, but it served me well enough.’ He struck out at the stallion with his whip.

Richard would not have done that. Richard’s concern over the injury to his horse, his fear that it would not recover as he applied the poultice, leapt into my mind. The Prince gave no heed, even when the horse continued to toss its head, the wildness in its eye, I would have said, from pain. The Prince ignored it.

‘Is he always so inconsiderate of his animals?’ The words were uttered before I could think of the wisdom of it.

‘He enjoys riding, my lady,’ Lady Beatrice replied. ‘The stallion must obey. The Prince breaks their fierceness if they are not obedient. Her Majesty encourages him to be a masterful rider.’

I should not have spoken. Doubtless my tactlessness would be reported to the Queen. Resenting the reprimand, I glowered when I saw the Prince strike out at the groom for his slowness, reminding me of Thomas in the library, and my attempts to vindicate the Prince when I didn’t know him.

Did Margaret know of his uncontrolled manner? She gave no indication and I suspected that she would forgive all but the worst of sins. Even then she would find an excuse. On this occasion the Queen said nothing other than to compliment her son on his success with the hounds. The best cuts of the venison were, of course, presented to Margaret with Prince Edward’s compliments, not to me.

‘You will be the man your father never was,’ the Queen murmured as he bowed low before her, the venison steaming and fragrant on the table. ‘You will wear the crown of England with more authority than your father ever wielded.’

‘I will. I swear it.’

And Margaret took her son’s face between her small hands and kissed him on the cheeks, and on the lips. It seemed to me far more intimate than a kiss of fealty.

The weeks staggered past. No word of my impending marriage, no news of the Earl’s progress. The Prince hunted more frequently. The Queen’s temper
grew sharper. The finches trilled and twittered every morning to my pleasure, but did nothing to lighten the brooding atmosphere.

Until, perforce, we heard.

‘Your Majesty!’ A messenger, one of my father’s own men bearing the Neville livery. Travel-stained and stopping for neither ale nor bread, he flung himself at the knees of the Queen. She could barely wait, but stood to loom over the man, intimidating for all her small stature. ‘Excellent news at last!’ he gasped. ‘My lord of Warwick holds England. London is his. Edward of York is defeated.’

The Queen’s eyes blazed. ‘Is he alive?’

‘He is. He is alive still, but has escaped into exile, to Burgundy.’

‘And my lord King Henry?’

‘Released from the Tower, your Majesty. In my lord of Warwick’s care.’

Margaret clasped her hands together, tight-knuckled rather than in prayer. ‘God be praised! This is good news.’

‘I am to tell you—England is open for Lancaster’s return, Lady. There is nothing to prevent it. My lord of Warwick urges you to travel as soon as the winds permit. As does his Majesty King Louis. It will be arranged that you are met and escorted with all honour to Westminster.’

At last a small smile touched the waxy chill of her
face. But then, when I would have expected her to show some reaction, Margaret sat, suddenly still and thoughtful.

‘When do we leave, madam?’ Prince Edward demanded. He could hardly contain himself with the need to move the whole royal household to the coast immediately.